Snow falls outside the Ohio Theatre as downtown Columbus turns into a winter wonderland.
Our home is not as old as Dick Van Dyke, but does share a birth year with Chuck Norris (1940), which means it will probably last forever by sheer determination, stalwart character and a heaping measure of foundational grit.
It's not without problems (neither, I would imagine, is Chuck, but who am I to question that); there are pieces of the upstairs closet falling off the wall, and just last week I was Googling "Can you put drywall over lathe" (evidently this is not recommended). There's a chimney but no fireplace, and all we know is that because the chimney lacks a cap, birds will sit at the top and treat it as the tallest latrine you ever saw.
Don't worry, it's on the list.
We've had things replaced and repaired, and any homeowner can tell you that this is a thing we never actually get done with until the day we hammer the "Sold" sign into the front yard, at which point we move on and inherit someone else's house problems.
Truly? I wouldn't have it any other way.
This time of year -- ideally before now, but we were being optimistic -- is when we look at the weather forecast, realize that winter is, indeed, actually coming, and then jet off to the nearest home improvement store to stock up on window insulation kits.
Yes, we shrink-wrap our windows.
I hate it and I love it, and isn't that the most beautifully juxtaposed truth about so many facets of home ownership?
I hate that at this moment, while it's dark outside, I can look at the French doors that lead to the back deck and see all the wrinkles in the plastic that covers them -- awkwardly, because of the doorknob -- which the light from the Christmas tree seems to accentuate in a way that is less than flattering.
It's like aging -- wrinkles are just a part of the process, and the sooner we become okay with that, the better.
But I love that I can, for the next few months, stand in front of those doors and not feel the leak of cold air into the dining room that we are bleeding dollars to try to keep warm in subfreezing temperatures.
I hate the commitment that it requires to shrink-wrap a window -- that once they're done, that's that, and it's not changing until March, and you'd better just get used to the fact that your view will be ever-so-slightly obscured.
But I love that sweet, sweet day in early spring when we can zealously rip the plastic down and toss it in the garbage, then throw open the windows to let in the 53-degree air and take in the aroma of new earth and spring rain.
I hate peeling back the double-sided tape in the window insulation kit, trying to keep the plastic from prematurely sticking, using my non-existent fingernails to separate the paper backing from the sticky parts, trying to unroll it in a straight line so that it will stick to the windowsill. I cringe to think of the residue it might leave behind, or the damage it might be causing to the finish, or the fact that I'm putting tape on my walls and that feels counterintuitive to everything Young Abbey learned about taking good care of homes.
I hate the way the plastic gets tangled and crooked when you're trying to situate it on the window, and the way that sometimes you've bought the wrong size so you're basically up a creek, and the way you have to stretch it across the floor by the doors and that looks so awkward and ugly.
But I love, when it's all taped up, the way the hair dryer moving slowly over the plastic causes all the wrinkles to gradually smooth out: "Satisfying," the girls call it.
I love that we're probably saving on our heating bill -- at least that's what the electric company says, and the packaging on the window kit. I don't care if it's a measurable amount or not; my motto is "anything you do is anything better than you don't do," applicable to window plastic and life. Generally.
I love that the process of hanging window plastic is just one more reminder that our house may not be perfect, but with all of its quirks and flaws, we love it so dearly. It suits our needs and then some, and I'm pretty confident it will be around long after we've decided to downsize.
I will never love the look of window plastic, but it's a good reminder that we have a place to be safe and warm all winter long, and I am deeply thankful for that.
Abbey Roy is a mom of three girls who make every day an adventure. She writes to maintain her sanity. You can probably reach her at amroy@nncogannett.com, but responses are structured around bedtimes and weekends.