LETTERS FROM HOME: YOU'RE NO MARTHA STEWART, I'M NO BOB VILLA

March 13, 1997

Dear Pat,

House guests arrived Sunday, so DC and I spent Saturday cleaning the house. It's the American way.

This event is always a hyperbolized ordeal for us. For me because I am a slob who loves tidiness, Oscar Madison and Felix Unger in the same body. For DC because she can't bear to part with anything and can't find enough places to put all her collectibles, be they Fiestaware dishes or rubber bands or seed packages.

With Hank and Lucy contributing their own special bone fragments and pieces of rope retrieved from the back yard, our house at times resembles a rummage sale without the price tags. Cleaning and straightening took all day Saturday and we were still hustling about Sunday when our friend Rick phoned to say he and his daughter Maeve would arrive soon.

It was about then that I uttered words that may live in personal infamy. "You're no Martha Stewart," I said.

Maybe there are worse things I could have accused DC of, but not at that moment.

I'm no Martha Stewart either. In fact, I suspect Martha Stewart is no Martha Stewart, but rather much like a beautiful model who sells clothes to people who can't really wear them. Martha Stewart sells a lifestyle to people who wish theirs were less like Al Bundy's.

I don't even like Martha Stewart, but what can I say now that will make those words forgivable? I was stressed out, tired, need a vacation in Siberia.

DC just looked at me, wounded, and sputtered, "I could be Martha Stewart if I had more time." Long silence. "I could too be Martha Stewart."

OK, I thought I was marrying Martha Stewart and thank God a genteel Lucille Ball showed up. DC's building a rock garden by making dawn raids on likely caches of good stones and trundling them off on a dolly. Her life is a whirlwind of work and historic preservation meetings and band rehearsals and continuing education, so homemade raspberry muffins and handmade Christmas presents are just a fantasy.

That's what this thing about Martha Stewart is, my fantasy. A woman who can perfect my imperfections, in this case slovenliness.

How disappointing to be reminded that nobody else -- not your spouse, your parents, your children, your teacher, your friends, the government -- can take responsibility for your failings.

Our friend Rick has ended a longtime relationship and on the eve of his 50th birthday has decided to move back to his hometown in New Jersey to live with his father. Rick is an extraordinarily talented carpenter who built our fence and rebuilt our bedroom windows, who has been to war, has been penniless and has belonged to the country club.

Some have suggested he could put his intelligence and abilities to better use than carpentry, as if the color of your collar has anything to do with fulfillment.

I can think of no finer service to the world than to make a thing that shelters others. But then, I'm no Bob Vila.

Rick has been away awhile and is trying to build on his relationship with Maeve, who lives hereabouts with her mother and is a 14-year-old beauty torn between braces and black nail polish.

One morning this week, Rick awoke us at 4:30 to see the Hale-Bopp comet. Maeve awoke too, asking if she could see the comet from her bed. There it was, looking not like a star or the moon or any other celestial body but more like a beacon with an invisible source. An ancient cloud of fire streaking through the universe, like ourselves appearing briefly and then gone elsewhere.

We stood on the front porch in the dark, kindred spirits seeking the light, and the strength to be exactly who we are.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.