By David Giffels
With the lyrics of a Replacements music operating via his head ("Look me within the eye, then inform me that i am satisfied"), David Giffels—with his spouse and baby son in tow—combs the environs of Akron, Ohio, looking for the right residence for his burgeoning kin. the search ends on the entrance door of an attractive yet decaying Gilded Age mansion, the once-grand former place of abode of a rubber-industry government. It lacks useful plumbing and electrical energy, leaks rain like a comic strip shack, and is infested with all demeanour of natural world. yet for a tender father at a coming-of-age crossroads, the problem is strictly the attract. all of the means house is Giffels's humorous, poignant, and confounding trip in the course of the nice event of restoring a crumbling condo in order to getting to know what the phrases "grown up" and "home" relatively suggest.
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Additional resources for All the Way Home: Building a Family in a Falling-Down House
She either couldn’t or didn’t want to look up. She was wearing a dark shapeless jacket and had a cat in her lap. The real estate lady didn’t exactly introduce us, but rather she rhetorically presented a pair of facts: that we were visitors and that this was the owner. “Hello,” the hunched woman said, not unpleasantly, but she seemed to be speaking more to the cat than to us. “Hello,” I answered blankly. I couldn’t see her face. ” I glanced at Gina. Via eyebrows and forehead crinkles, we exchanged the sort of telepathic visual conversation that is the privilege of married couples.
And this guy talking about the house was a blowhard whom I never had liked, who wore pressed-and-pleated khakis and pristine suede bucks and had a prep school name that had always annoyed the crap out of me. Oh, yeah? I thought. A ll t h e Wa y H o m e [ 29 The next day I drove back by and since the for sale sign was lying in the weeds, I pulled into the driveway apron to avoid the busy traffic. I stepped out of the car, got the number off the sign, and wrote it down. I looked through the trees again.
Danger was everywhere: danger in the stove; danger in the stained bucket under the spigot; danger in the cat-pee smell and the linoleum worn clean through to floorboards; in the olive, faux-antiqued cupboards, which, I deduced, no amount of primer could block. I reached for the faucet handle and turned it. It trickled feebly into the bucket. Almost no pressure. “Please,” the real estate woman said. ” Tucked into a corner, against a filthy wall, was a small metal utility shelf, holding a can of instant coffee and powdered creamer, paper cups and plates, a bowl of brown bananas .