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Einstein is Building My House


It’s only taken 49 years, but I think I now have a firm grasp of Einstein’s theory of relativity. As firm as someone who has never in her life taken a physics class, anyway.
Up to this point, I really haven’t given the idea of the passage of time much thought beyond the fact that it speeds up as you get older. But that, I figured, was merely a matter of perception or the short attention span of children.
Now, though, I realize that there is most definitely a curve in my spacetime continuum. Well, more like a corrugation . . . like a Ruffles Potato Chip. . . speed bumps . . . in my spacetime continuum.
This weekend is high school graduation here in Shenandoah County and some of the Heirs’ friends will be receiving their diplomas. This is mind boggling to me since I was under the impression that most of these kids, the ones I haven’t seen on a regular basis since Heir 1 was in first grade, are only seven years old. Heir 1 informed me that the lanky 6-foot man who loaded the mulch in the back of my car was skinny little Luke who always wanted to sit next to me when I read to their kindergarten class.
This morning Luke was just a little boy. Now look at him, treating me like I’m about to fall off the edge of the curb because I’m too addled to step down (when actually I fall off the edge of the curb because I’m still incredible uncoordinated). Somehow in a matter of hours I worm-holed past over ten years.
On the other hand, it’s the bumps that are the killers. Like the fact that I’ve been building a house now for, by my count, 357 years. I can’t even remember deciding to take this project on, the memory being lost in the mists of time. In fact, I don’t think I was the one who conceived of buying land and allowing my husband to act as contractor. It must have been decided by my persona in a past life who was married to a handy, connected carpenter she could rely on to complete the project within her lifetime until she was suddenly hit by a chariot.
Thanks a lot, Phoenicia, for that and the obvious lack of karma you were willing to pass on through the veil of rebirth or reincarnation or whatever it is that would have enabled me to at least find a reliable plumber.
I’m probably going to die karmaless and houseless because, while building a house is a bump, the aging process worms its way straight to the cemetery. I approach the mirror in the morning expecting to see myself all perky and wide-eyed when all of a sudden it looks like my mother is staring back at me. My mother on a bad day. (My pores, however, have not found the hole, so to speak, and still require a douse of Clearsil now and again.)
None of this is the case for others building a new house, though. There is a subdivision that was under construction during the time I was taking my Australian Shepherd Zsa Zsa for AKC Rally classes in Loudoun County. During the six-week course, those houses were constructed, sold, resold and are currently pending applications to be designated historic sites. Meanwhile, Zsa Zsa learned to a tight about-turn.
So, Al, I finally get what you were talking about. When was that? Fifty, 75 years ago? Or was it this morning?

Share  Posted by Jeanne Jackson at 4:54 PM | Permalink

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