Ammi Midstokke: Shared happiness is an antidote

My friends accidentally bought a mansion on Maui. They didn’t mean to, but you know how these things happen. First, you’re looking for a charming fixer-upper bungalow for two and suddenly your real estate agent is handing you a bottle of cheap champagne in front of one of your three new fireplaces and you’re wondering if you’ll keep the groundskeeper or trade him in for a butler.

Which is why I’m here, though not to be a butler. Months ago, sensing an opportunity for flip-flop weather in March, I’d offered to come “support the move” or merely “support,” which sounds a lot like “supper.” I figured I’d arrive for the latter and blame the confusion on their hearing. Then they said they could use help with a wood floor and sanding, but they actually meant it and I actually packed my overalls.

For a while, they’ve been rather concerned about all the faults of the place. Oh, the carpets need torn up and the property hasn’t been maintained, the olive trees are just a mess, and there’s sun damage here or there, and those blasted power lines in the view. It sounded rather like an unkept dump, but one makes concessions if they have their hearts set on retirement on the slopes of a volcano in a tropical archipelago.

When I arrived this week, two huge wooden doors swung open into a grand entrance with a curved staircase winding toward the second floor and vast 20-or-so-foot ceilings. I waited for Scarlett O’Hara to come swooshing down in a rustle of silk and taffeta but all we said was, “Man, it’s gonna be hard to get the cobwebs out of those corners up there.”

There’s something in our culture that disallows celebration like there’s a social contract of humility when grand dreams have come true. It is a diminishing of joy, lest others decide you have too much of it or they do not have enough. We steal words from the Germans (schadenfreude) but never make use of the good ones (freudenfreude) – the latter meaning joy at someone else’s joy or success. I know it’s hard to imagine the Prussians birthing such benevolence, but they did.

My sweet friends have worked hard their entire lives, have chosen paths that contribute to community and the betterment of society, to art and the environment. They’ve raised artists and doctors and kind souls. They built their last home themselves. They have given much to the world in many ways. They don’t even really eat meat, which is basically sainthood. They probably wear vegan shoes and recycle, but before you judge too harshly, I did notice some paper towels in the kitchen.

Now they are squatting in their last hurrah home, staring out at the ocean and exotic birds and orchards and a little flock of sheep across the street and there is this hint of unworthiness tucked into their usual humility and reserve. Like someone might judge them for being happy.

When did it become passé to share our joy or revel in our successes? (OK, if the answer is: When Europeans descended upon and claimed lands that don’t belong to them, I concede your point.)

Not everyone suffers this kind of embarrassment about their good fortune. As a middle child, I’ll brag about everything from a lost toenail to a thorough toothbrushing, and I have been known to refer to my three-person tent as a mansion, because I like the feeling of abundance and it turns out you can pretend your way to it with gratitude pretty easily. There can be, should be, happiness in the most benign things and I don’t see why we can’t sing camp songs about it.

In the morning, I made coffee and tried to run up the volcano. I was mostly happy about this, too. I discovered Hawaii makes steep and relatively large volcanoes with a 20-mile approach, so I turned around after about two. This made me even happier. I hadn’t really noticed the miles, though, because I was so busy looking at the flowers in all their wild iterations. They are like martian plants, come here to take over the flora of a place with their spikes and tendrils and heavy perfumes. I breathed in orange tree blossoms and waved at every car. I wanted to show them the flowers so they could be equally amazed.

I am exuberant for my friends and this adventure they are on. I want them to smell the weird plants and spend their afternoons looking at turtles. I want them to have childlike wonder at how the clouds shift from an ashen rose to a billowing white in the morning, and gasp at every sun that sets behind those power lines. I want them to spend their days listening to birdsong and plucking papayas from their trees. I know they will take this abundance and offer it to others freely, gladly.

The world is a tough place and I have yet to meet someone who got a free ride through life without hardship. If we can commiserate about that, then we ought to also celebrate the small (or several thousand square feet) joys in our lives.

To make them feel a little better about their new home, I noted it’s a bit shy of actual mansion criteria. It’s just a house, after all. Also, I think real mansions are furnished, where as empty, neglected ones like this are probably haunted. I left that part out.

Then we tore up the carpet and I felt grateful to be included in their hard work and their happiness.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com