Aristotle in a Hoodie

It has one of those chimneys that starts at the ground and runs all the way up the side of the house. The red brick, from the 1980s, looked like it might have been there since the 1880s, chipped and mossy. I’d power wash it, hoping for a fresher look. Now it’s painted black, all the way to the top. The house flippers are mid-flip, getting the place ready to make a bundle of cash. Such is the case for the 4-bedroom, 2.5-bathroom house that I used to own.

I would have done it myself…only if I knew

I dreamt big. When I first got the keys, I imagined knocking down walls, installing central air, shaving the hardwood floors…getting them all shiny. Maybe even turning the basement into legit office space. Then, in the first couple of weeks, my leg went straight through a rotten board on the back deck. It hurt. The plan shifted – a new deck for starters.

The man who owned the house before me was a smoker. When I ripped up the funeral-home carpeting, the smell of three decades of ashtray came out and lingered like it was renting space.  I could actually taste the cancer that killed the guy. I scrubbed. I primed. I opened every window.  I didn’t care that it was winter. Progress was slow, and the to-do list grew as things kept breaking.

Scratch and sniff wallpaper, I could have done without

When I learned the pool would cost a cool $60K to fix the right way, I taught myself to fix it the wrong way. Then came the estimate to take down a couple of dozen overgrown tree-things – another $15K. Instead of hiring a crew with a backhoe and excavator, I bought a chainsaw. Then I nearly killed myself again and again until those trees were gone. I rented a stump grinder, too. Whatever stumps were there – they’re not there now. Neither is the lawn. 

A few days ago the flippers let my son and me walk through the place. They gutted it. A bunch of small rooms have become a few big ones. The ceiling is higher. Central air is halfway in. The yard is unrecognizable in the best possible way. All the things I’d hoped to do are now being done – just not for me and my son, but for the highest bidder. It’s a strange feeling to see your old dream wearing someone else’s shoes.

As we pulled out of our former driveway, I apologized to my boy. I told him I wanted the house to look for us like it would when the builders were done. As those words left my mouth, the sum total of my decisions ran through my head like a highlight reel and a blooper reel at the same time. Then my son – Aristotle in a hoodie said, “Dad, we are where we are because of everything. Did you ever think it’s the butterfly effect?”

He's a smart kid.  He says great stuff all the time. But this one shocked me, hit me, and made me think enough that I had to get on my laptop and type this post. I asked him a little about it, and then explained a butterfly flapping its wings – how tiny changes ripple into bigger matters. Somehow, he and I… we wound up together. Happy in our town. Happy in our new place. Happy with his school. We could have better countertops, sure.  But he was right.

The very next day, on my way home from work, a truck crossed the double yellow and drifted into my lane. Seconds away from a head-on collision, I eased off the road into a giant parking lot. Smooth.  Not abrupt.  The truck flew past. I took a breath and kept going. Randomly…no, precisely…I was seconds away from death. So was the other driver. Seeing it coming was one good flap of the butterfly’s wings.

And there it was – the reminder that life turns on inches and seconds. A wobble of the steering wheel. A breath before a word. A leg through a rotten deck that forces you to spend money you didn’t plan to spend, you learn to use a chainsaw, which becomes a Dad and his son watching the NFL season opener with chicken wings and friends in a cozy little apartment. 

My old chimney? It’s wearing a black tie for someone else’s prom now. Good for it. I hope the new family dances hard. I hope on the holidays the house smells like I wanted it to, that their dog chews shoes, and they argue over paint swatches and then laugh about it – because that’s what homes are for. I don’t need to own the place to be grateful for what it gave me: grit, stories, and a kid who knows sweat is a kind of love.

Shortly into our drive, I stopped apologizing to my son and thanked him. He is so articulate. So smart.  And empathetic too.  He could have told me that he missed the pool.  Or maybe the fireplace.  But he didn’t.  At only 14 years old, it seems to me that he missed nothing and was grateful for what we have, where we are, and who we are now. 

I really have to follow his lead. 

The builders will finish that house, rake it in, and move on. Us? Different address, same mission. Perspective flipping rather than house flipping and choosing to invest in what lasts: grit, grace, and the relationship between a father and a son.  We don’t need granite countertops to really enjoy our lives. 

I got nothing against the flippers. If I knew what I was doing, I’d be one of them too.

I thought this was a couple that’d last…sigh

The best upgrades aren’t in the realtor’s description. Caldwell Banker won’t put into the description of the house, “Owner learned patience, resilience, and how to laugh at plan B.” Thay ain’t snapping a photo of the moment I chose to be kinder than necessary, or the quiet Tuesday I kept a promise.  The most valuable renovations that ever took place in my old house added no equity that would increase its price.

When the butterfly flaps its wings, sometimes a storm starts far away. Sometimes a father and son end up exactly where they’re supposed to be. The trick, I think, is to notice the breeze when it brushes past your face and say thanks to the near misses, the wrong turns, the boards that give way and force you to start with a new deck. And to the second chances hidden inside the mess.