The Little Black Book

What did I think I was doing when I bought a house with "good bones" just because there were rumors that it had a fascinating history? I am beginning to think that this house needs more renovation than a single senior citizen can do.

I had visions of fixing it up myself, taking a sledgehammer and knocking down those walls that took a 2,000 square foot house and walled it up into tiny disgusting little rooms. What I envisioned was a romantic task filled with love and anticipation, if only for myself and what I would create. I would tackle the job in my overalls and dust mask and look like Demi Moore in Ghost.

I must admit I passed the Demi Moore version of myself about 40 years ago. Instead, I look like an aging, hot mess and the romantic task instead looks daunting, dirty, and overwhelming.

I don't have the money to retire or to renovate, but here I am doing both. Seventy-years old, having never planned nor married very well. One day, I just put my head down and said, "Screw it, I am not working here anymore. I am buying a fixer-upper, and I am going to raise pigmy goats!" Yes, "raise pigmy goats" is what I said on my way out the door of a job I had held for 26 years and was sick of beyond belief. I am thankful that I have not purchased those poor little goats that I would not have the money to feed even if I had the money to buy them in the first place.

Well, I used to encourage my staff to never look at a job too long before starting, so here goes.

The first swing of my sledgehammer makes a solid thud sound and bounces off the wall. It was not as productive as I had hoped. I dented the wood a little and almost dropped the hammer on my foot. If you know me, you know that I have never been one to give up on anything in my life; after all, I gave a job I hated 26 years, didn't I? That thought evoked the pent-up anger I had not even realized I had been suppressing. Using my rage to my advantage, I took one more swing, and the wall gives and comes crashing down in little pieces scattering debris all around me. Now covered with dust, I still don't look like Demi Moore, but I do look like I am accomplishing something, at least.

The wall is hollow, and I start to pull out the old wood and sheetrock. I grab a piece of decayed wood, and it gives way, and out of the wall tumbles an old dusty wooden box. As the box lands at my feet, it jars open, and nestled snug inside is a little black book with a gold musical note on the cover. I carefully lift the box from the floor and pry the book out very carefully. I open the front cover, and inside is written," To My Son, from your Satnin." It was an appointment book. The first appointment printed in pencil was "July 18, 1953, Sun Records…Record a song for Momma's Birthday".

Is it possible that this house's unbelievable history was not just a fabrication by the realtor to promote the sale of this dilapidated pile of wood? My legs would not hold me. I plopped down on the dusty floor in disbelief. Forgetting about my task at hand, I spent the rest of the afternoon carefully turning pages and reading the accounts of an 18-year-old future legend.

Those pigmy goats may be in my future yet.