The Houses of Women, part 2a: Tresa

A delay bars me from the story I want to share. No, that’s not sufficient. I don’t need to tell lies yet. It may in fact be forever, read never, and not just a matter of juridical deferral. Yes, something happened. I’ve been horribly thwarted. I’ve been enthralled, shocked, pissed and even pathetically grieving. But it won’t go away. Infection or obsession, “R” understands this and not just because she is Eastern European. (Is Lithuania Baltic or Eastern European or both?) We share this gorgeous consumption, but at this point, it is really pretty hopeless. And the truth be told, it is painful to discuss it together now.

I hate that am going to have to make it all up. Yes, there are bits and pieces of evidence and record-keeping that I found online in ten sleepless nights in March, and lord knows, there are many neighborhood witnesses, the best of whom is Gretchen, whose German accent and German Shepherd Dogs, Leopold and Fraulein, reinforce the emphatic tenor of her account.

But for now, all testimonials will be set aside. Here is an inferential account based on my own research.

F in Stone

Tresa must’ve lost her mind, but not like Gwen or Jane did. And it cannot be blamed on the vicissitudes of age or those faced by an old woman living alone. No, Tresa must’ve lost her mind when she was young and living with family. The question remains, which family? Did it begin with her own mother and father? Or did it happen upon the crossing of the nuptial bower?

The latter might intimate that on Christmas Eve of 1992, Tresa regained herself, but there is no evidence that her husband’s death occasioned a return of her mind. What was Christmas day like? Her first day solo after at least 42 years with John. Did she call him John? Johnny? J.W.? Did she call him other names? Did she call him at all?

It must’ve been more than 42 years. This arbitrary number comes from a public record that began with one bureaucrat’s love for the number 5: the record keeping began on 5/5/1950. John’s death in 1992 minus the date of 5′s gives us the 42 year span. But it was definitely longer than that. Another record shows John living in the #ghostedhouse all the way back to 1930, when he was 14 years old. Given his age, we might safely assume that he lived in this 8 bedroom house with his first family. The #ghostedhouse was built only 5 years before John was born. And while it is not clear whether John’s family built this beautiful house in the Hampton Place Plan in 1911 or not, it is definitely another three-generations-old house, like Tillie’s house, built 5 years before the #ghostedhouse. John’s mother and father, like Tillie’s, died in the homes in which they lived their lives.

Tresa died in John’s family house. OK, this is not a strictly true statement. Records show that Tresa lived somewhere in Pittsburgh before she married John. Of course she did. She did not grow up in her husband’s family home and then marry him. The social rule of exogamy is supposed to prohibit such behavior in Pennsylvania. No, strictly speaking Tresa had an address for birth, for life, and for death. I am not sure whether she lost her mind at her birth address or her life address.

There is so much I would love to ask Tresa about, particularly regarding her daughter. But I really like her anyway. She perfected a sense of beauty and elegance. Gwen might’ve been rather awed by Tresa in this regard, but despite their similarity in age, I don’t think they would’ve understood one another or respected each other’s sense of the beautiful.

The Beauty of Hair (thanks to Dr. Feel on Flickr)

Tresa’s command over the translation of conceptual beauty to a fully lived aesthetic produced an exquisite and taste-filled house. Gwen’s creativity with a weekly hair-do would not have registered for Tresa. Gwen’s work put her in the world. She touched people’s bodies: heads and faces and shoulders. She washed, combed, colored, set, curled and sprayed while chatting and listening, laughing and tsk-tsking, gossiping and commiserating. Gwen’s pursuit of beauty was affective and social labor. Gwen’s artistry was meant to be worn and seen by others in public.

Tresa’s work was intensely private. She did not leave the house as the house was her work. Tresa filled the rooms of her house with rugs, couches, pianos, art, appointments. The placement of a delicately carved side table next to a heavy, handmade couch with lush but correct upholstery must’ve required weeks of thought and adjustment. Color, texture, line, flow, shape, coherence, style, light, architecture and that undefinable kineasthetic sensation and affect of moving perfectly through a room, of sitting undisturbed to read a book, and of taking tea alone in such untrammeled peace: these things do not happen without vigilant planning, consideration, execution, and care.

Tresa did not work to make her house a home nor did she meticulously attend her rooms in order to throw open the front doors of a show palace. Tresa masterfully directed the sets of her tragi-comic life to allow for an otherwise banal series of life’s moments to aggregate and to ascend to scenes of living that would harmonize in perfect minor-key complement with the Edwardian architecture.

And this would be no small task, for the house in itself is powerful, almost overbearing in its demand for appreciation and care, calling to those who hear its voice,

“I am a dream.

Live (in) me.”

IAMADREAM