What We Built in the Rubble

Some foundations crack. Ours grew wildflowers.

I didn’t care for the musty smell lingering in the air, almost as if someone’s grandma was haunting the place. What I fell in love with was the old knotted and stained hardwood floors groaning beneath the soles of my sneakers. The dust shimmering in the glow of a wall devoted to windows and the sunlight streaking through them. It had farmhouse charm long before that look became chic.

Have you ever seen something and thought to yourself, will there ever be anything as beautiful as this? The porch was perfect, not in a hugged-by-good-bones kinda way, more along the lines of being kissed by hints of floral in your lemonade. Big enough for two chairs, a little porch table, and some china for my morning tea. Perfect for spooky Halloween pumpkins on the steps and autumn leaf drapery woven through the black spindles on the balcony. And sure, the project was an undertaking, yet sometimes love makes the young do irrational things.

Our family arrived with stacks of cardboard boxes filled with childhood memories. Rob’s mom unpacked some drama and tried to dress our only bathroom in full Scooby-Doo attire, like she was sending us off to cartoon kindergarten. Every time I opened the door, I’d remove a bobblehead soap dispenser and that creepy shower curtain I hated. Then, later, I'd walk back in and feel like I’d stumbled into a Scooby-Doo meets Psycho crossover episode. I dedicated time to outwit her, snatching the items and smugly dropping them into the dumpster. Only to find her later, rummaging through it like she was filming a trash-to-treasure documentary, reigniting a war that always ended in petty revenge.

Meanwhile, my Papa would clap me on the back and wander the rooms, saying, “You’ve done good for yourself, little redhead. Real good.” I’d smile because with his words, the stress of the day melted, and all was set right again.

The orange shag carpet looked like a disco fever dream from the ’70s. Faux wood paneling ran halfway up the walls within the dining room, severely outdated but secretly awaiting a comeback. The fireplace mantel was perfect for hanging stockings, and I already knew where the tree would go long before Christmas came.

It was while sitting in hard plastic chairs surrounded by financial advisors and realtors that I knew the memories we would make from that moment on would change us. Cold metallic keys were slipped into our hands, where a world of warmth awaited us. All the doorknobs inside were painted over by a rushed seller. The windows wouldn’t open because they were sealed shut. But hope stretched on forever like a ribbon of asphalt and threaded yellow lines. Leading a winding road towards love and adventure. It wasn't our first dance on a kitchen floor made of linoleum, but it was the first stage we called ours.

Most of our meals consisted of microwavable noodles and whatever we could find in the clearance section of the produce aisle. My soldier was in a low-ranking, bottom-of-the-food-chain phase, making the pay minimal. Physical training exercises were an excuse we made to hold hands in the car during the early hours of the morning, all to steal a little alone time back from the Army. Sweaty field-issued boots were dramatically unlaced and thrown against the wall by the door. Camouflage after-work attire made a pathway from entrance to shower like a cringe-worthy gym locker room.

I would help my husband wash and pack his rucksack before weather training missions. Or stand in the shadows cheering him on during paintball tournaments. Scrubbing past blue and yellow splattered paint stains, fetching the frozen peas to calm the welts that meant to teach far more about war than losing a game ever would.

When I wasn’t dealing with hospital or doctor visits, we were racing downtown with my heels on his motorcycle's foot pegs and his hand reaching to grasp my knee to help us forget for a while. A rule was enforced (mostly by me) where date nights became mandatory. Relying on an oversized change jar for coffee and tea beverages or hurling sofa cushions trying to find a spare quarter for dinner. If we remembered where we put our pennies, we could catch a movie. If not, we ended up sharing the kiddie swings at the park with our home-made picnic lunchables. Both usually ended in a fit of laughter, and the two of us dodging some shifty-looking character on a park bench.

The house saw a fair share of arguments, too. Brutal tongue lashings. Late nights of restlessness and worried thoughts. Concerned moments if we’d even survive the marriage we built. Hurled picture frames and shattered hearts. Suitcases, packed in silence. Vows made in a flurry of anger to never return.

The house became a silent witness to near-death experiences. Watching a soldier as he carefully washed the vomit out of his wife's hair. Battling an illness together that they couldn't identify, while he wondered if he could save her life.

I stood inside a flight hanger surrounded by thousands of other women. Tears, pouring like a busted pipe. Afghanistan—clearly labeled on the map but not wanting to surrender my husband to the aircraft. Wondering how I could fight through what came next, how I could be brave for him, and how I could hold the pieces together for both of us. I feared I’d never feel the strength of his love again.

For a time, the house sat empty. Quiet. Vacant. Overcome with grief as we sorted through PTSD, piles of health problems, and military paperwork. The stoic oak in the front yard that was my favorite was overgrown with weeds from the landscaper's neglect. Pouring funds into our fixer-upper meant struggling with a bank account that was already in the negative from life events. One mess leading to the next while trying to tether ourselves to one another. For a while, we were wrapped up like a bow. Maybe dilapidated but we felt whole and we were working on it.

I was sitting with my legs twisted underneath me on the sofa in the living room. Staring at the fireplace and the painting of us hanging above the mantel. Dinner was simmering on the stove, the scent drifting down the hall, when Rob strode through the door holding a bouquet of wildflowers. I knew in my heart we couldn't afford them.

"I discovered a field of daisies while I was out training with the guys the other day. I made a mental note to find my way back to them so I could bring some to you."

The image of him in my head, standing on the side of a road somewhere in his uniform with cars passing by, picking armloads of blossoms by hand because we couldn’t afford to buy a single stem. A tidal wave of floral softness meets his strength and endurance. It became our marriage’s code of survival: to burn the white flag of surrender, meet each other on our own level, and to keep fighting like our love couldn’t survive unless we did it together.

We couldn’t keep our house. Five rounds of layoffs after Rob became a contractor conflicted with our desperate need for financial security. Served with a side of panic and a main course named health insurance. We bought the house before the market crashed. We couldn't sell it. We tried renting it, but fixing things was nearly impossible. We lived in Germany for a while and moved back to the States. Yet we couldn't live at home where the work didn't exist and it left us drowning beneath two mortgages.

Seven years in the house we loved. Game nights, church events, marriage counseling, and learning what it takes to fight for what we have. Yelling over how to fold the towels correctly and which way the toilet paper roll faces. All for the ribbon of asphalt to bring us down a red clay dead-end. To the farm that isn't being held by a bank note.

Bankruptcy and foreclosure took our house but memories and travel let us visit. Pointing from a foggy car window to tell our son about the life that existed before him. "See there? That's where we sat on and watched the storms roll in." The beautiful haven where we had a room designated as maybe for maternity. While we waited to see if we could survive one more ER exam room or another battle with mental health. Meanwhile, life took us to unforgettable places but everything changes when you leave.

The beautiful house on the hill was overtaken by someone who seemed to need more help than they ever received. My heart ached, but the house was old—and it had probably survived worse. The next time we came for a visit, the woods had been plowed and mulched. Where deer once felt safe enough to leap over our backyard fence was now a sprawling view of smog-infested highways and shopping centers you could’ve thrown a rock at.

Visit three had put on a display of devastation, gripped by a tornado touchdown. Many streets and structures had been leveled, but our gorgeous white house showed impeccable condition. The storm left the coffee shop standing, which led to a sip of something hot to comfort our spirits. We waved at the theater, drove by the park, and sat in our favorite booth for dinner from all those nights ago when we were able to pull enough money together.

While sprawled out on a hotel bed, waiting for Rob to return, he called me to explain he'd be late getting back. His company sent him to pick up a helicopter part, hours from where we were staying, but only three miles from where we once lived. I asked him to send a picture of our past in the present. He hesitated. The sound of a ping came through my phone's speaker. The mailbox stood as proud and erect as it had ever been. The tree I loved still shading the places where Rob tucked me into the grass to plant a thousand tiny kisses into the crevice of my neck. But our beautiful house—leveled to nothing more than an empty lot.

Our house was being replaced by apartment complexes and heartbreak. To somebody else, it was unused potential. For us, it had been the foundation where we strengthened the bones of our marriage. I sobbed, feeling robbed and gutted. Rob was lost for words, the phone dangling in his hands as he apologized as if it was his fault.

He tried to bring me our mailbox, yet it was rooted and bolted in place. Only a couple of bricks found discarded as he searched for what remained, then he tucked them into the front seat of the sedan. A bouquet of memories. There is nothing left to visit. Our life from Tennessee is now scattered between the stepping stones of our farm in Georgia. The ones that lead to our front porch. The ones that guide us home. Where the land far outweighs the square footage. Where blooms fill the landscape, and the mountains and the woodlands embrace us. Our lives—transplanted.