Hindsight

It’s Summer

June 22, 2025June 23, 2025 Susan Greco

If I were running I would have missed these beauties

I set the alarm. A Saturday but I’ve got to run. First feed the cats, grab a water and AirPods and I’m off. There are no Cliffs Notes you can buy to prepare for a 10k; you simply must get in your runs, and this year I’m woefully behind. My cold is mostly over but fatigue is hanging around. I can’t say I will get it done but I’m putting uncharacteristic little pressure on myself. On this morning, I’m slow and tired but steady, and I press on for two miles after which my brain convinces my body it’s had enough. Walking is right for now and a slower pace helps me notice people have been planting–daisies, mint, lavender, deep green and chartreuse hedges, all beautiful.

My own plants I set out yesterday to get a drink in the rain, choir children on risers belting out beautiful music as their proud mama approaches. The magnolias, hydrangeas and gardenias–summertime’s trifecta–came with the yard so I get zero credit for their blooms year after year. It’s got to feel good to be the star of a summer show, pumping your pretty colors and sweet fragrance into this broken world, appearing regardless of conditions– sickeningly hot, raining for days, or a perfectly simple summer day. I’ve wanted a magnolia bloom I could reach to bring inside but hadn’t found any, but a day later there were two. Nature, what can’t you do?

The quiet house has been expecting my return. There is coffee to make and a deck to enjoy it on, but first the old wicker chair on the front porch (one of two I found at Goodwill years ago for $20) is calling me to sit and finish my podcast. Mel Robbins is interviewing James Patterson who is fascinating and has a new book. Minutes in, I pass out then wake to Mel’s loud voice and my mouth agape. I sit up and try and finish but head off again, mouth open, deliciously in and out of sleep. As I nap, I worry people can see me from the street but remind myself no one cares if I’m a mouth breather.

Of course I’m tired. Friday I could think of no other way to snap out of my funk. Is it my own or the world’s or the toxic combination that hangs so heavy? Moving is reliable, so I walked several hours returning home to dig a garden. It’s been five years since I’ve planted anything other than plastic pots of flowers you bring home to slide inside your planters, which isn’t planting per se. There’s been more to tend to what with chemo and Covid and construction and getting my younger son off to college. Always excuses except today, despite a never-ending punch list, I will hack through Georgia red clay and make something out of nothing. Zinnia and sunflower seeds are going in and with any luck, colorful blooms will come up.

I bought a few plants too, herbs I love the best: basil, chives, mint, Italian parsley, and catnip which I pinched and brought inside, much to Bo’s delight and my own pain. Every one of his claws came out of nowhere to secure my hand which dangled a leaf above him. A different animal than the dried stuff, fresh catnip is I think for cats what crack is for its addicts. Sam isn’t having it, barely smelling it and walking away, smug and prudish, her wide innocent eyes insisting, “I don’t do drugs.”

L-r: My mom’s twin Uncle Pete, Gammy holding me and my cousin Anne & my mom in front of the Fish House in CT.

Today I’m still at it. It’s June 21^st, my grandmother Gammy’s birthday, and in her honor, I’m going to spend the bulk of it outside. The longest day of the year was technically Friday, but for me it’s always the 21^st. Go start things and if there’s still daylight, finish some too. The summer bugs’ song mixes with the birds’ and the soundtrack takes me back to Vero Beach and Sandfly Lane under the live oaks in Gammy’s driveway. We are loaded up with the blue and brown beach towels neatly rolled into her worn straw beach basket. We’ve eaten our Indian River grapefruits cut in half and perfectly sectioned and toasted English muffins with orange marmalade, and now it’s time to head to the beach. Ahhh, if only. Maybe she and my mom are somewhere together continuing the tradition.

But today, I’m on dry land in my plastic Adirondack chair on my deck, and on this morning the coffee is particularly good. I added a little sugar like my sister Anne does every day and like I do sometimes on weekends, using up the Dancing Goats bag. Early bird gets the best coffee and though we’ve got several other kinds, to me these grounds smell divine. Today I’ve started Ann Patchett’s Tom Lake, which I scored on sale in a Target end cap months ago, and as I sip on coffee in the thick silence magnificently cut by bugs and birds, I dive into Ann’s brilliant words.

By the time Joe got up, the sun was heating things up and the deck no longer held its sparkle. I made myself a second cup from an old hotel packet of instant I found because there’s lots to do and another boost might propel me further. A day full of projects means a trip to the hardware store. Joe had steel angles for a screen door on his list, and I stepped back into the heat to shop plants. A few sunflower plants on sale then it’s back inside for more zinnia seeds, a nozzle for my new garden hose, bird seed, and a Minute Minder to replace ours that dropped.

The new timer takes me to my childhood kitchen where a square glass Pyrex pan filled with brownie batter cooks in our 350-degree oven. When the timer buzzes and a toothpick comes out clean, we cut the brownies into squares and plate them with a scoop of Breyer’s vanilla on their warm backs. With dessert spoons in hand, we move quickly as the ice cream trails down the squares to lap up this sweet warm/cold slice of heaven.

Today our fridge at home offers nothing inspiring to eat, but the eight-day old strawberries could use a plan. The recipe yields 18 muffins topped with sugar and pecans, and I nibbled on extra nuts as they baked. Strawberries, zinnia seeds, magnolias blossoms, garden hose nozzles, even the annoying mosquito bites on the back of my legs, all of it, this is summer.

On Friday’s Ace Hardware run, I bought a magnet with a long wand. Not a metal detector, but a long stick with a round magnet on its end. The driveway is dotted with remnants from years of construction, and now that the carport is cleaned out, we need a safe path for cars to come in. After five years without cover, the cars won’t know what hit them, and I’m making sure at least it’s not piercing metal. I hover the wand close to the gravel and click! I scored something. Click click click! More still. It’s a well-stocked pond and the fish are biting like crazy. As I hunch over the driveway like an old lady stooped at the shore inspecting shells and marveling with every click, my sister calls. We agree I’ll take a video for her to see the powerful wand and treasures it can catch and she’ll call me back. Click, click, click! There’s more and I quickly text her this proof. With all the excitement, I’d forgotten she was in her car running errands.

Nearly an hour went by, and I’d convinced myself something was wrong. I left Anne a voicemail and sent a text and nothing. Another half hour passed and now I imagined her car must have wrapped around a tree. You see, she’d been tempted to watch my video while driving and that did it. I scanned my life and all I could see were holes void of Anne. I wanted more time with her. I wanted more memories. Then minutes later by some miracle there was her text marveling at the volume and variety of metal. I began ugly crying like I sometimes do when my clean scan results pop up in MyChart like they did again in May. Emory reported my MRI showed “no evidence of cancer.” Cancer? What are you even talking about? Music to my ears and I’ve got Anne back.

I wake up naturally caffeinated so one coffee is plenty to set me on my course for the day. Add in another and you never know what you’ll get. I think I’ve been anxious for some time. I also think that second cup put me over the edge. After the hysteria and retelling the blubbering drama to poor Joe, I dried my tears and felt grateful for it all. Grateful for June 21, the longest day and my beloved grandmother’s birthday often spent at the beach, the scent of summer now firmly planted, and possibilities galore.

The day is still young, and I’ve got more planting to do and driveway metal to attract. When the mosquitoes find a way into my long sleeves and begin snacking on my ankles, I’ll move the day indoors. The coffee’s still fueling my get up and go, and I might tackle puttying or painting projects inside or relax with a glass of wine. Thankfully there is daylight and there is time. If I can stay awake, we might even watch another episode of The Righteous Gemstones. Hilarious, silly, stupid TV I’ve discovered. Happy Summer Solstice, y’all. ☀️

Leaving you with this gem of a sign I just saw near my neighborhood. The world is awfully unsettled, but right now there is this, which I think might be everything.

2024, Home Renovation

Live Your Life

November 21, 2024November 21, 2024 Susan Greco

Joe and I are the same age yet often joke about which one of us is older. Even though my birthday falls thirteen days before his, I was a preemie and showed up an uncharacteristic six weeks ahead of schedule. I argue his parents had sex first, so he was already a bundle of cells well on his way before my parents shared that fateful bottle of champagne, rendering my mom so woozy that theirs was a diaphragm-less affair. What a lightweight! But at least that got me here.

It seems we’re all trying to be younger all the time, slow down time and feel in control, aren’t we? Wanting to skew things, line them up in the most positive light so we can feel better about our lot in life. So much we can’t control, but we do get to decide which dates we want to designate as milestones to celebrate when they come back around again.

No one told me when I got cancer which event is used to count how far out I was, how far away from that first flurry of worry. Was it when I found the lump? Or maybe it was when my surgeon removed it? Or the first chemo treatment or last round of radiation? When do I start counting so all that time I lost can start piling up in the rearview and my life ahead can be the focus? A while back I asked my doctor about this, and he sort of shrugged his shoulders, but said I could use my surgery as the counting point. Makes sense for it to be when that scalpel slid through my tissue and the little stinkers had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

It’s been a crazy five years, a herky-jerky crash course in collision. We’ve had home construction (which is still going on), we’ve had Covid (there’s now a vaccine for that), and we’ve had cancer (there’s a whole host of treatments for that). It’s the three Cs but we’re not talking sparkly diamonds, though there were cuts, inclusions and the clarity was far from flawless.

There have been glimmers though. Even though we’ve been kitchen-less since May, now there are cabinets in place and counters are coming. Covid has folded into our lives now as something we can manage with regular vaccines and occasional masks. My radiation department began sending me marketing materials which made me feel normal, like a regular person they got off a list.

My oncologist was rather blah every time I’d see him, yet I wanted some of this blank calmness for myself. I remember the very first appointment when he asked a female PA to join our meeting. Maybe we’d need a witness in the room should I started picking up things and hurling them against the wall in a tantrum one might throw if they’d, too, been branded a cancer patient. At subsequent appointments, each time he’d just look at me, tranquilly, and like an anxious child impatient for news some adult is taking forever to release, I’d ask, “Whadaya got? What else can I do to be sure I’m doing everything I can?” Surely he knows a perfect shift we can make in my repertoire so we can all finally be done here and begin to relax. I waited and I watched, and he calmly looked up like some milquetoast and uttered softly, “Live your life,” which would be his response again each time he got a whiff of my existential dread.

His manner was not terribly warm, which I found weird given the scary prognoses he has to daily dole out and treat. I have a friend who I recently learned had cancer who also went to him, and she dropped him to find another doctor. She said she didn’t like his style—maybe it was his low energy vibe, or that deer in headlights gaze I feel each time. But I don’t go there for the warm hugs, of which there are none. I go there because he’s experienced and smart and nothing like the alarmist, I wish I was not. It’s not the perfect doctor I’m after; I just want to be a typical case that follows a typical trajectory. But there is no typical, silly!

Today marks F I V E years since my surgery. I intentionally made space between these letters to let them breathe beautifully like I should do too. I’m halfway. Five more to go to get to T E N before he will stamp C U R E D in my chart (they don’t really have a stamp I don’t think, but it would be cool if there was one, and it made that sound when your passport gets stamped, and you excitedly press on toward the fun holiday ahead). There’s no recipe, no airtight prognosis. There’s no, “Here’s exactly what’s going to happen to you.” There’s no, “Sometimes it stays away in the short-term, sometime in the long-term, or it will come back.” No one knows, but time passing is a good thing.

It was reassuring when I noticed a limp my doctor had a few appointments ago. I certainly don’t wish that for him, but he’d had an injury and needed surgery. I was reminded that it’s not just me who’s the patient, and I’m not alone in getting older, and we’re all dealing with limps and lumps in the road. This, I find comforting, that I’m not so separate. He’s not who he was five years ago, any more than I’m who I was. But he’s much improved and his limp has disappeared. My oncology appointments are less frequent and my eye stopped twitching years ago. I’m still getting those marketing mailers asking for money, and finding them in my mailbox is as reassuring as the first time.

So, I suppose we can now simply circle back to the instruction: Live Your Life, and enjoy it right now together.

2024, Blog Writing

I’ve Always Wanted to Get to 100

December 30, 2023January 1, 2024 Susan Greco

It’s that sweet spot between Christmas and New Year’s and a lazy vibe lingers. Ben and Evan (who my sister has cleverly coined “Bevan” – borrowing the “Bennifer” moniker from Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck) came home and in the first hours they were here, something shifted. It was as if the house were a giant Ziploc bag that in recent years had placed Joe and me in the middle and the corners had deflated and flattened. With the Christmas swirl flying about, the corners now were puffed up, and big breezes flew through nudging awake ideas and movement. The din of noise—my mom’s old Singer sewing machine hummed as Ben mended his brother’s robe, the PlayStation games, loud and until all hours of the night, the chatter, the morning ritual of pouring boiling water into not one but two French presses, and our little cat Samantha darting in closets to hide from it all–has cut through the thick stubborn silence and shifted the bag’s contents. I hope the corners stay inflated.

After our Christmas Eve dinner, which no one lingered over, the lure of the living room TV took hold and football announcers’ voices filled the room. I stayed in the kitchen because I neither understand nor follow football, probably the reason I don’t like it. Our dishwasher has been broken for months and the dishes aren’t going to clean themselves. I remembered Christmas Eves growing up, which felt quiet and clean and dreamy, and we’d stare at the tree mesmerized, like you do when looking at a fire or the ocean. The football this year readily consumed on this most magical of nights interrupted the promise of sweet silence. Does anyone really want to sit and stare at the tree? My hand is raised. I do. Does anyone want to see who sent us a Christmas card and read what they wrote? Oh, half time is about to end? Ok, then, some other time. <sigh>

Everyone has now gone. Ben’s back home in New York and Joe and Evan are off on a golf trip, so it’s just me here. The dishwasher still doesn’t work yet I keep right on cooking and finding new ways to balance the ever-growing vertical sculpture of clean dishes drying on a rack. One glass couldn’t take any more of the crowding and there was a stunning explosion that projected flashes of chunks and shards an impressively long way. The party is over and the mantels’ garlands have crisped, but these days gave the Ziploc a good shake and its insides now are stirred. Passing Evan’s room, I can see the energy in the Christmas gifts left on the floor and bed covers strewn about. Something indeed has shifted.

Yesterday was sunny and not too cold. I had every reason to get out into it and feel it, but I’m tired and spent from these last few weeks, and with an empty house, I can hide out and rest without explanation. I did too much gearing up for this holiday.

Mel Robbins suggests we answer six questions to jar loose thoughts for the next year and ones about the one we’re nearly finished. I think I need more sleep before I will begin this thoughtful exercise which I’m excited about. When I am low on sleep, I get sad and lonely and that has happened a good bit. Even the Energizer Bunny needs new batteries sometimes, and I realize I need more quiet times.

It’s been four years of renovation and since Covid and cancer appeared, and they’re each exhausting on their own, but their combination even more so. Sometimes I feel like an inexperienced child looking for a parent who can answer the question, did all this really happen?

We are on the edge of a kitchen demo and it’s killing me that I don’t know when it’ll happen. Constant back and forth from the General Contractor and cabinet guy. Always the promise that it’ll be summer, or December, and now, after the new year. As if I can effectively brace for the lack of a kitchen? It’s where we all go. Where I go mostly. I can’t picture microwaving in the dining room or figuring out how the air fryer in my new toaster oven is going to simplify mealtime. All the food prep will get reduced to opening the fridge and moving something into a microwave, toaster oven or crock pot. Surely doing dishes in a bathroom sink (the only one we will have) can’t go well. We need Draino at the ready as it is. I imagine it will all feel fast. Will we become airport diners? Leaning against a counter and popping in food quickly in a just get it done approach. Get in, get out. Sustenance complete. Check. This could last three months, or it could go on for six. Either way I know I’ll need to find a cozy nook in this dining room food court I’m about to fashion. That I’ve chosen to worry about this as often as I have tells me I’ve got work to do. Quiet down and let it unfold as it will.

How lucky to even be renovating a kitchen. And that it will come with a working dishwasher (ours has been out for nearly half the year). And a large working oven will be nice as well (ours breathed its last months ago). A level cooktop is coming and with more burners, too, a step up from our two back burners, the only ones that ignite. The sweet little kitchen has cranked out beautiful foods and moments and soon it will be reduced to a pile of rubble. An Emory writing teacher I had years ago once came here for a visit and her jaw dropped when she went in the kitchen. The wall tile is the same as her grandmother had and seeing it flooded her back to treasured times. I hope to remove several tiles and surprise her all these many years later. I will miss the room. I know its strengths and sounds and weaknesses like a dear old friend’s, and I’ve swept up a confetti of dog hair and catnip and crumbs and carrot shavings from its uneven ugly linoleum floor. I once made eye contact with a sweet mouse in here who peered at me from behind the stove. I’m hoping that the new year brings with it a kitchen, and a forward focus and quieter, calmer me.

My mother always told me, “Susie, you talk just to hear yourself talk.” If only she were alive, I could offer up a smart retort, something to the tune of, “Well, where do you think I got this chattiness? Could it be YOU?” You should have heard her. Always with a clever story, on the phone with friends, or entertaining people at our house, but she is right. I love to talk—to myself, the cats, anyone who will listen. I need it to work through things. Seems my sister gets the brunt of it, the stuff I tell no one else, and she is the smartest, calmest, warmest sounding board I know. I’m not sure she’s exactly pinching herself over her lucky lot, but I am.

I started this Hindsight blog in 2017. Friends who liked various Facebook posts I’d write often suggested I start a blog, and their support propped me up and nudged me to actually do it. What a boost to write something that speaks to someone, because other than talking to hear myself talk, that really is the point. Connection. To know your take on things is like someone else’s, or that you aren’t the only one wrestling with something difficult or experiencing something particularly awe-inspiring, or that your strain of humor can make a person laugh is everything. It’s addictive, this fuel like no other. With the blog came a few setbacks. Initially someone remarked that my blog was not a real blog, and immediately there was that feeling like no one got my Halloween costume. I was exposed, inexperienced, an imposter. Is this any good, even a blog, what’s the point? It’s a personal blog and it doesn’t fit in a neat little box. It’s all over the place. Like me. But those details! Then there was WordPress to wrestle with, but I found a basic template that worked. Doubts would reappear if my posts went unread and unnoticed, but simply writing them fired me up, and so I kept going. Then cancer struck and the posts practically wrote themselves, stories people particularly wanted to read. The election and travels and house construction, and tales of pets and people, too, found their way into more essays.

During a recent memoir class, after reading one of my cancer blogs, one woman noticed something. While she learned all about the details of chemo and radiation, she said she was left wondering how I felt having gone through it all, and in the middle of a global pandemic no less. She thought I seemed a bit detached, disassociated even, in my writing. More like a reporter than a cancer survivor. I think I preferred telling myself things were fine maybe so I could avoid admitting I feared otherwise. You know, fake it ‘til you make it? There were times I felt alone, separate and hopeless, and for my own protection and reputation, blocked access—my own and yours–to these struggles. There’s a strange shame in fully letting you in. I kept weaving hope into it all because there is always hope, but also because the loose ends needed tying up so I could contain and tamp down the worry that kept coming around. I’m also a big fan of bows, so tying a big one around it all felt like I’d finished another story. The irony is I’ve probably only just begun.

Going forward, I want to mine deeper for the gold, that stuff that is locked up but that can open if you notice how your insides are responding to what is going on outside. There is down deep a craving for more connection, closeness, and what we have in common. More stillness too. Breathing, letting a single thought appear versus opening the door to the dozens that want to take over–that tangled string of flashing Christmas lights that begs you to unravel them and put them up, but you know now is not the time for that. Now is for you. Not everything is an emergency. Every thought doesn’t need to get expressed. Sit with it all. Maybe something bubbles up or maybe it doesn’t. The real time moments are all you’ve got, and only you can take them in. There are no Cliffs Notes for catching up later. The lessons are coming in and will keep coming, but the gate must be unlocked and stay open.

This essay marks 100. One hundred times I had the wherewithal, the excitement, the courage, and the intention to post a story, and every time I did, my own container, my Ziploc, puffed up and the air blew around. There is more to write about, and I might try a longer form project, but I don’t yet know. I am honored and grateful that you signed up to get these posts and that so many of you read them. I would love hearing if you have a favorite post or topic and why it spoke to you. I’ve loved speaking to you and with you, and this conversation has been the whole point all along.

The new year is a blank slate, a reset, a clean canvas to fill. As 2023 fades into the background, Hindsight and its 100 stories is taking a seat. This isn’t paint by numbers; there is no path our pencil must follow to see the picture unfold. Just as a blog can be whatever you make it, so can the chapters you create going forward. There is much more ahead to see and to share, and I can’t wait to see you there. Lots of love.

2023, Inspiration, personal growth

Portals

December 20, 2023December 20, 2023 Susan Greco

It’s Christmastime and all the year’s months have led up to now. Like a long simmering stew, December’s broth is rich and layered. Folded in it are bits, some evolved, broken down and now part of the stock, and others float on the surface bobbing around getting noticed when you think to stir the pot.

Like many that came before it, this year has been full of the usual hamster wheel activities, as my friend Sherron calls them, the endless repetition of house and yard work, self-care and grooming, and all the other details you attend to to effectively maintain a body, a home, and connect with family and friends. There is a reliably comfortable cadence to it all, but this buzzy busyness pulls you away from you–the core you, not the one always in the company of others.

When the dust settles or else when you decide to ignore it, there is a whole other world to explore, but it requires you hop off the hamster wheel even while it’s still turning–because it’s always turning, isn’t it? There are doors you can open that you didn’t realize were even there. Others do it all the time, but like a fringe of bangs you let cover part of your eye, I’ve leaned into a routine that isn’t exactly fostering any growth, and you could argue it’s a place to hide. I’m all for simply staying alive and thank God I am, but adding fertilizer, you can grow new shoots that branch off your trunk and climb every which way to reach the light.

This fall I joined a meditation study conducted by the University of Arizona nursing school. Participants were breast cancer survivors and their partners who have experienced the anxiety such a diagnosis brings. For eight consecutive Saturdays we hopped on Zoom for two hours and learned a boatload about the fascinating science behind meditation and its proven benefits, particularly for breast cancer patients’ outlook and outcomes. These guided meditations transported me to that yummy dizzy place you find yourself after you get a massage, take a deliciously warm bath, or sleep especially well after a day you’ve exercised your body hard. At first it was weird to stare into a screen at everybody and then shut your eyes and try to settle without peeking, but soon the instructor’s voice became a salve I looked forward to each Saturday, and the other couples we connected with in breakout sessions seemed similarly struck. The guided meditation homework was simple enough, and I found it easy to pause my day and zone for ten minutes. The meetings are now over but over several months we will continue to collect saliva samples at various intervals to test our cortisol. I haven’t stayed consistent with my meditation—I know I am taking the least creative route and blaming the holidays—but I feel like now at least I know how to do it, how good it feels, and how little it takes. It all adds up to something in the positive column, so when you feel like pausing your busyness, it is reliably there and waiting like a good friend I plan to stay in touch with.

I also enrolled in a Zoom memoir writing class with five other writers who each week shared stories after which we’d each thoughtfully respond. Class often would run long, well into the dinner hour, but who cares when you’re doing something that lights you up? No longer locked in a vacuum, my words echoed in the grand volume of my dining room before settling onto the group’s hands, leaving them each with unique thoughtful impressions they shared. I’ve never indulged myself in this way and soaked in so much feedback or been able to formulate real time impressions of others’ work, but I now know I want more. These meetings gave me the best parts of my college English classes—reading interesting material and analyzing it to death—but it offered a far more intimate experience (just 6 of us plus the teacher) and with no grades, the challenge was simply to show up as yourself and share. Think it’s easy? Think again. These people were each brilliant in a million different ways and interpreting each other’s work brought an indispensable perspective. A few of us have since met for coffee and maybe we will keep up here and there. Even if we don’t, just to know these kinds of people exist is enough for me to know there’s more out there if I want it.

A few weeks ago when describing this writing class to someone, I said it’s been like a portal for me, a way in to something fascinating that dials up a light inside me. I think these portals are everywhere, that is, if you decide to hunt for them, and the resulting light is blinding in the best of ways.

Finally, I discovered a book that’s now new, but new to me. Mark Nepo’s Book of Awakening struck chord after chord, so I will leave you with a few bits of his wisdom:

1. No amount of thinking can stop thinking.

2. In release, we begin.

3. The flower doesn’t dream of the bee, it blossoms and the bee comes.

4. Live your worries through, and your spirit will wake from its fever, and you will want others like soup.

5. Keep the colors wet.

6. We are so unused to emotion that we mistake any depth of feeling for sadness, any sense of the unknown for fear, and any sense of peace for boredom.

7. Repetition is not failure. Ask the waves, ask the leaves, ask the wind.

8. If you try to comprehend air before breathing it, you will die.

9. The pain was necessary to know the truth, but we don’t have to keep the pain alive to keep the truth alive.

10. No matter where we dig or climb, we come upon the fire we left untended.

Home Renovation, Hopefulness, Uncategorized, Victorian Home

This Old Sink

October 31, 2023October 31, 2023 Susan Greco

There’s been an old sink in an outbuilding on this property for years, and my cursory research suggests it dates to the 1880s. It’s a wide marble sink with a circle bowl, and the stone and metal faucets are worn. The marble has that yummy dull patina marble gets over time. Veiny and milky grey, and its honed matte finish and etchings tell generations of stories. This old house predates plumbing, so I can only imagine what a luxury a sink must have been with hot and cold water running out of separate faucets–like little magical rivers!

The marble has several rust spots and after trying several rust cleaners, I found it’s even better to create a DIY mixture called a poultice from hydrogen peroxide and baking soda, with enough water to give it the consistency of peanut butter. You apply it only to the rust-colored area and seal it with plastic wrap you’ve taped down. Leave it at least 72 hours and then clean it off and wipe it vigorously with a soft cloth. This worked for me, and the rust seemed to fade slightly. If you are super careful, you can also lightly run sandpaper over it which will eat into the rust layer and lighten it further. It also can scratch the marble, however, so you must take great care to not etch it further. At some point, you realize a slight amount of rust is okay since you’ve been at this for weeks, making various potions and poultices, and perhaps it’s time to move on to the next challenge before you: the faucets.

Cold faucet on left where hot should be–maybe a brain boost?

The faucets looked dullish green and oxidized, and they weren’t responding to various methods I’d used to clean them. After more research I learned the green corrosion isn’t necessarily a bad thing and found this explanation:

Although it makes sense to think of the green patina on the exterior of the bronze as a disease or a flaw, it’s a corrosion that protects the material inside. The greenish corrosive layer that coats the surface of a bronze faucet after repeated exposure to air and moisture is a protective shell that prevents the metal alloy from sustaining further damage and rotting or becoming porous. The coating can be seen as a good thing, indicative of this material’s ability to withstand temperature fluctuations and dampness.

Still, I wanted to get under the charming patina and see what came before. Wandering the hardware store yesterday I came upon a product called Brasso, which is designed for cleaning and polishing seven different metals, including bronze. I found a reputable marble cleaner as well, and maybe the most perfect pumpkin I’ve ever seen (and at 30% off!). I felt as if I’d scored big and came away with a renewed energy to roll up my sleeves and get to work, now with a satisfying pride that only comes with commitment and tenacity–and hopefully the right products.

The cat has her own project and is certain she can climb into the kitchen ceiling and maybe even on into the outdoors. For now I’ve nailed up an old sheet, but she remains terribly entertained at the possibilities and the new windows on the world she can now look through.

For my project, I had to liberally tape off these faucets so the surrounding marble wouldn’t be further traumatized by chemicals, and then I set to work. I started with a microfiber cloth and alternated between that and paper towels. After some effort, I saw a little green come off on the towel, but not enough to convince me it was working. I kept at it though because where there’s a little green, surely there is more. For the better part of an hour, I applied copious amounts of Brasso to my cloth and rubbed. And rubbed. And rubbed some more. I began to see light, hope and the loveliest shiny metal coming out. A number of distracting dark specks wouldn’t lift, so I employed my sandpaper trick I’d used on the rust, and they faded into the metal. What I’m left with is gracious and stunning and shiny. I think it must be bronze, but it resembles copper. Shiny like a penny.

How long have these faucets been waiting in the wings for their rebirth? If this house could talk! All along, the green corrosion coating has been protecting them, saving their luster and shine from the elements until someone is curious enough to lure it out of hiding.

I can’t help but think of our own coatings and hardened shells we wear to protect us from the hardness of the world, yet how much beauty there is within all of us and always has been.