The Understory by M. E. Schuman

Author:M. E. Schuman [Schuman, M. E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781737920618
Publisher: BeFreeBeWild
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

Mountain Highs

and Lows

Ten-foot snow berms hid the turn onto the narrow road off the Glenn Highway. At least the mile of mountain road was plowed; although the Subaru had front-wheel drive, we chained up.

The winding road or “trail,” as some people called it, is notched into the side of a 1,000-foot-prominent ridge, the remnants of a glacial moraine. Once you make the sharp left turn onto the road at the base of the ridge, there is no turning back!

The three-story, 1500-square-foot cedar house with a chocolate-brown metal roof stood among the lingering snow. A narrow tunnel of snow led to the stairs of the front deck and to the entrance. Without an arctic entry, we walked into the dining area of the house with our snow-covered boots on. I stood, shocked at what I saw, as I quickly took my boots off. Justin grabbed an armful of wood stacked on the back deck, and soon a fire in the large wood stove was warming the cool air. I focused on finding food.

“I know. The house is a mess,” he said. That was an understatement.

Not surprisingly, the parquet flooring that covered the dining area, especially in front of the door, had molded and peeled. Wood pieces of the parquet, from being wet for long periods of time, had swollen and broken.

In need of the bathroom, I walked through the living room and entered the bathroom at the base of the stairs to the top floor. I turned the light on and gasped. Justin’s sister, when she lived in the house with her three kids and husband, had painted the walls a dark brownish-red—it was as if I had walked into a small cave. Large brownish-red blobs splattered the beige linoleum on the floor. The color made the brown bathtub look like an enormous sarcophagus, while the toilet and marble-like sink, in shades of white and beige, were like beacons, guiding me to my goal.

When finished, I walked into the living area. The redwood wainscoting that lined the lower half of the walls of the small living area had been “carved” by a very sharp object in several places. Petroglyphs of multi-colors from crayons and permanent sharpie ink stamped every beige wall above the redwood. I noticed burn marks in various locations on the brand-new carpet that, a year earlier, I’d spent three days helping to install.

I asked Justin what had happened. He shrugged his shoulders and said the youngest of the three kids had a fire fetish. Wow! Okay, I thought as I shook my head in disbelief.

Justin agreed that everything would need painting. I said, “Yes” and that I could help. He looked at me and said, “Well, I thought you could paint because I have to work.”

I bought paint, ladders, brushes, rollers, sandpaper, and ten gallons of polyurethane for the floor. Male privilege had always been part of my life—as a small child, as an athlete, and as a female in my profession. And I continue to allow it, a flaw I recognize in myself.

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