14. Residential Rehab
The birdshot holes in our ceiling were a mystery. Why anyone would blast a round of pellet shotgun ammunition in the master bedroom was beyond us. Ironically, weeks later, a guy from our church knew the answer. As a former Valley Center police officer, he had been dispatched to our home years before.
Without going into too much detail, he told us there were plenty of reasons that the Betty Crocker Estate sold swiftly per order of the court. For years, it had been a house of pain, and now we had it in residential rehab.
“For years, it had been a house of pain, and now we had it in residential rehab.”
Heads down, Benjamin and I carried on through the endless toil, knowing at some point, one of us would snap. My parents warned us that our pace would eventually take us to a breaking point.
We were so deep in our spinning world, that we didn’t know what it felt like to stop. Chaos had become normal and exhaustion was all we knew. In the midst of it all were irritable moods and inner frustration that we couldn’t control.
Enter Brick n Bend. This impromptu yoga workshop was my attempt to pour good vibes into the barn. Although we had only been on the property for three months, I was determined to offer the community more than antiques. So, we called the couple who sold us commodious, our beloved outhouse. Ever since the toilet transaction, we had stayed in touch with this darling couple who made a living from his construction projects and her yoga classes.
My idea was to push back the furniture in the barn to leave the center open as a pop-up yoga studio. Easier said than done. It took the better part of a day for me to shove armoires and tables to the perimeter, using sliders and hip power to get the job done. Then, I swept and vacuumed the barn, before laying yoga mats across the cement floor. I covered one entire wall with antique mirrors, and used votive candles as the only source of light.
Nearly a week before, I had promoted Brick n Bend the only way I could at the time: on Next Door and through an email blast to our subscribers. My marketing included details of a “health bar” with a social hour as part of the two-hour event. My plan was to conclude the yoga session with green tea, kombucha, veggie platters, crackers, and humus. The cost to attend was a suggested donation of $20.
To my surprise, six students confirmed they would attend.
But then, only two showed up. My heart sank. I so badly wanted the barn to be an energy-filled beacon of joy, one that would outshine dusty things of the past.
“I so badly wanted the barn to be an energy-filled beacon of joy, one that would outshine dusty things of the past. ”
Despite the low attendance, we moved forward with Brick n Bend. Just a handful of us posed in Brave Warrior facing the wall of gold-framed mirrors. There was something magical that happened that night, almost foreign. . . .I breathed. . . . and inhaled . . .and exhaled. . . and relaxed. For a brief moment in time, I was a brave warrior, letting go of the tension and stress that longed to be set free.
Small but mighty, our empowered circle of barn yogis were at peace, even if it was just for two hours. Benjamin and I got so much out of that session, that we ended up giving all the donations, plus a “sorry we wasted your time” bonus to our instructor friend. We also secretly made a vow to not force growth. Only once we found our footing would we branch out to special events.
But our footing found us faster than we expected. Just days after Brick n Bend, I received a call from the head of Escondido’s Tourism Department. She had heard about Brick n Barn through the grapevine and wanted to meet in person.
Back to the kitchen I went, baking up a loaf of banana bread to pair with Italian pressed coffee for our guest. At that stage in our ownership, the place was still somewhat of a disaster. We had dump piles ready for pick up and an antique “graveyard” on the brink of repair or bust.
Mid-completion was a small landscaping project framing the massive oak tree centering our property. Ready to be planted were over 20 plants still in pots, ranging from lavender to sage. In the midst of it all was my dad and his team ripping ivy from our brick house. Despite my battle to save the verdant creeper, Benjamin discovered it to be a “bridge” for rodents to access entry points on our roof — yet another patching project on the to do list. Until we could tackle the roof, we would rip down the ivy and replace it with a rose garden and moss-framed flagstone.
Unfortunately, the woman from the Tourism Board caught us in dirt-mode. During her property tour, I did a lot of pointing and arm waving from afar, hoping her eyesight was as poor as mine.
“This place is absolutely incredible,” she said.
My eyes widened in disbelief.
“I can see you have a vision,” she continued. “Here’s what I’d like to do. How do you feel about being a featured tourist destination for North County? We will include you as one of the main attractions near Escondido, and of course we’ll profile all your show dates, special events, and your contact info. You do have a website, right?”
“Yes,” I lied. “I mean, the website is scheduled to be up by the end of the week. I’ll get all that info to you right away. No problem at all.”
Back to Benjamin I went, my I.T. extraordinaire who hates computers but has mastered them in my little non-tech world.
“Sweet love . . . ?” I said, in my favor-pleading voice. “Can you build us a website by the end of the week?”
“We were both hanging by a thread, clinging to the fringe of our tattered existence.”
We were both hanging by a thread, clinging to the fringe of our tattered existence. “No,” he said. “There’s no way. We don’t even have decent photos of this place.”
“Come on,” I begged. “We’ll snap a few quick shots. You’re great with Photoshop, and I’ll create all the copy for the landing pages. We can do this. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
He eventually caved, staying up night-after-night to create a Brick n Barn website for our imaginary clientele.
“Someday, someone will visit this website,” I said, kissing him on the forehead. “I promise it will be worth the $98 annual hosting fee.”
He shook his head in half frustration, half amusement. “I won’t hold my breath. . . .Let’s hope this is all worth it. Honestly, I can’t handle one more thing.”
The next morning we had a knock on our door. It was one of our vendors who had turned up at 7 AM to decorate her section.
“Sorry to bother you guys,” she said, “but I just went to use the new toilets and they’re flooded.”
Next story on "Channeling Betty" coming soon.
