I learn they gutted
My 1893 house.
I feel gutted too.
It was 101 years old when I bought it. The style was "Rural Vernacular," which I gather means a farmhouse that's been added to and surrounded by a neighborhood. That, at least, was its history. I once looked it up in the old City Directories. In the 1890s, houses were not indexed by address, but by owner. My old home's address was "2 blocks n. of Section Line Rd," and the residents were a family with a Dutch-sounding name (Vanderhoven?). One was a seamstress, which used to be code for prostitute, but in this case was the real deal. Her brothers seemed to swap ownership, and most of the family worked at the same place, a plumber outfitter, a few miles away near the river, I believe.
All this research is in a folder in a Portland basement, and my memory is clearly at fault, but I remember when my elderly next-door neighbor came inside and told me what it used to be. My downstairs office was her aunt's sewing room. The central room/dining area/entry was the living room: they sat on a bench to the side of the fireplace. The fireplace was now bricked up, and one of my antique wardrobes filled the space that used to hold the warm bench. The large opening to the living room used to hold a door, and the living room was the special sitting room for guests. The downstairs bath was the back porch, off the kitchen pantry. The back deck off the kitchen covered the sidewalk from her house next door: she came up that walk every day to visit her aunt and uncles. Upstairs, the large open skylighted room was the main bedroom, and the alcove with the washing machine used to hold a dresser. There was a hallway to the front room, which used to be divided into her uncle's bedroom and a storage room. The stairway was just as steep, but it was enclosed, with a curtain of beads at the bottom that they used to swing on.
100 years later, the house was pictured in a book of historic houses. Because of various remodels, it was not on any historic register: the value was that it added to the historic character of the neighborhood. Now that neighborhood is barely recognizable. When I visited 2 summers ago, 3 years after I moved to Albuquerque, funky old Division Street was lined with steel and glass high rises, and one of the new storefronts housed a specialty ice cream store with trendsters lined up for half a block to get weird ice cream. (It actually was pretty good, but no ice cream is worth a 30 minute wait.) I was comforted by the fact that the street was also full of nude bike riders: at least some of Portland's weirdness was still going strong.
I acquired the house from friends: it used to be C's party house, but he rented it out to some younger friends when he moved in with AB. It became a Reed house, and I spent many happy Sundays enjoying brunch and crosswords and companionship. It became my house through a series of friendship-based events. AB was driving me and my seriously ill cat home from a homeopathic vet. The vet had done a psychic hair test and informed me that Yo-cat had leukemia and I was sobbing while I stroked my cat. As her stress-loosened fur swirled around my hand, AB searched for a conversational distraction...."I don't know what C is going to do with that house, now that R is moving out (she was the principal renter)." I gulped through my tears, "He should sell it to me." I wasn't serious: I was happy in my converted milk barn, and I didn't want the responsibility of home-ownership.
One hour later, I received a call from R: "C says you could have the house for $100K." Huh? "Oh, and he says there's no way Yo-cat has leukemia." That call was followed by another, this time from C: "I called my vet friend in St. Louis, and YO-CAT DOES NOT HAVE LEUKEMIA! And I'd love to sell my house to you."
My loan was $74K, and I pulled another $6K from savings, for the deal of the century. C put down vapor barrier in the area under the house, AB painted the trim, and I received dispensation regarding the cedar shake siding: they didn't make me paint it. One fine April day, a caravan of friends with cars and trucks descended upon my milk barn home and transported my possessions to my urban farmhouse home. I paid my workers with scones, coffee, and raspberries scavenged from my new yard as they carried my things up the walk. E stayed to put away my kitchen things, V took charge of the library, M set up stereo and music. By the end of the day, I was moved in and soaking in M and Ws hot tub: they now only lived a mile away.
In the course of the next 17 years, I hosted annual pumpkin carving parties, Christmas cookie baking parties (all the best parties happen in the kitchen), Superbowl parties. When Grandma turned 80, I took over the Thanksgiving dinners. One weekend much later, I kicked D out and invited woman friends to a detox weekend, complete with massage and cleansing foods. Housemates came and went. So did pets: Bunji and Yo-Cat were both buried in the yard. In summer and fall I harvested raspberries and walnuts from my jungle yard. In winter I made wreaths from the red-brown dogwood cuttings. In spring I cut pussy willows and filled vases around the house. I gathered greens and lemony-tasting sorrel from the yard for an Easter omelet. For every holiday and season, the house provided space and inspiration for celebration and love.
And, I made my own changes to the house, refinishing floors, moving doors, adding attic space and closets, releasing a hidden skylight, and opening up the tiny upstairs room, changing it into a library. The big remodel was the new addition, which took out the hawthorne that the cats used to climb to get onto the porch roof and into my bedroom window. It also took out the daphne and the hydrangea, but it added a wonderful family/guest room, with a wood-burning fireplace, wall bed, reclaimed-wood kitchen bar, and tiled shower. The stained-glass window from the old Woodstock Library was imbedded above the fireplace, with a light behind it. The room was comfortable, filled with music, art, and light. When I lost my PSU job, it paid for itself as an Airbnb room.
Friends were also incorporated. B's mother took my grandmother's quilt scraps and crafted quilts that graced the guest room. AB's water colors and oils, and AC's prints and my own photographs filled the walls. L's roses brightened the jungle garden. When I thought I'd have to lose my house, MC wrote a check for $4K to keep me afloat. I found a house-mate and finally realized my dream to change the shed into a guest room. It had previously morphed from carpenter's shop to printshop to artist's studio, to garden shed, but in my last few months I slept under the skylights, watched the sun rise and illuminate the flower-filled garden, and listened to the rain on the roof. I was happy in that new space, despite the financial uncertainty, nightmare house-mate, and eroding marriage.
As the house changed, so did the neighborhood. Indigine closed, but other restaurants opened. Nature's had a place just a few blocks away. The neighborhood remained a tad bit funky, with middle-aged hippies, original residents, and gentrifying yuppies making fairly gentle incursions. New businesses were careful to use the shells of old buildings and homes, and the thrift stores did a thriving business. The nearby park was leash free, and I walked and biked around, visiting friends and heritage trees and local coffee shops.
In other words, I had a home. And now it's gone. But....
At least the friends
And memories have remained.
For the time being.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Anniversaries
Three weeks ago, I was in Melbourne, Kentucky, at G's riverside family vacation home, for the 2nd Annual Spider Reunion. Only four of us made it, as with the 1st, but the rest were there in spirit. As we drove and photographed and chatted and posted silly things to Facebook, I realized how deep the friendship is. We bonded at a young age, and when we meet, we fall back into the old patterns as if we never parted.
37 years ago, we were callow 18-year-olds. We didn't know who we were, or who we wanted to be. By the end of the four years, it was clear that few of us would turn out as planned. In the interim, we had our differences, we had our crises, we grew up, we disappeared, we reconnected, we remained friends. And now it turns out, the most important discovery from that long-ago freshman year is that friendship endures. What a splendid discovery that is!
That being said, another discovery is how very little people change at the core. The process of living has refined and winnowed, and we are unapologetically ourselves, without much veneer, and without much desire to have one. In fact, we embrace our quirks, as evidenced by our ready assumption of the nicknames G's boyfriend M assigned to us (he couldn't remember our names.) B was the Manly One, C the Child. I was the Hippie (that's Bohemian to you, M!) And yes, that's always been my bent: slapdash with my house-keeping and organization, living in the moment, wearing comfortable swirly clothes, dancing and singing at the drop of a cue. What sealed the deal, for M, was my home-made kale chips. He took one, politely, nibbled and said, "that's good!" and then turned to G and made a WTF?! face.
This sounds like fun doesn't it? And it was: zip-lining between two backyard trees, sitting on the deck watching the barges and drinking coffee, walking through the woods and parks, listening to Latina jazz at G's regular Tuesday night music venue, and talking, talking, talking. However, on the next to the last night, I got into a confrontation with G and realized how thin my skin remains. I know it always has been, but I had thought that, since the divorce, I had toughened up. I thought that I accepted myself and trusted in the love of my friends and family. I was startled when, during the confrontation, my throat tightened with hurt and tears.
In many ways, it is a silly fight. She says, "Tomorrow it's your turn to pick up and clean and decide meals." Surprised, I say, "sure..." and then I pause. "Do you think I'm not pulling my weight?" She looks at me and says, rather like a manager/psychologist, "What do you think?" In times past, I would have crumpled and apologized, for what I wouldn't know, but I'd apologize and grovel and feel like pond scum. I would embrace the judgment and feel hurt by it at the same time. On this occasion I say, "Yes, I do think I've been pulling my weight. I've been doing dishes and picking up and contributing."
She does not agree, and I recognize afresh how little power one has to change an opinion. Because, yes, I am doing my share. But, I am also leaving coffee cups on side tables, snack dishes on bedside tables, doors ajar. I am making my bed, but leaving my coat and scarf hanging on chair backs and my knitting and camera bags on the floor by the corner chair where I download my pix every night. I am trying to contain my overflow, but, catlike, I am scattering my fur everywhere and sitting wherever I damn well please. In her eyes, I am a nightmare guest, selfish and disrespectful of others.
I am hurt, and I leave the house and sit out in the old Shawshank bus/guest house, editing pix and talking with C on speaker phone. I think about my reaction to criticism. I can't totally blame D for it. Yes, his constant picking amounted to emotional abuse, and yes, I am slowly recovering from that. But, I wouldn't have been vulnerable to him, and I wouldn't feel hurt by G's irritation with me, if I didn't, at the core, believe that I am a pain in the ass, unproductive and unlovable. I used to tell him, "I have my own voice telling me I'm a fuck-up, I don't need yours as well." Now, although I stood up for myself with G, I don't really believe it. I grieve: why don't people notice the GOOD things I do? Then I think, why would anyone be friends with me? I feel myself spiraling downward into the old self-loathing, and then I realize what I am doing.
I give myself a talking to: People are quirky. People have different priorities. People have different ways of looking at the world, of being productive, of being friends. People have flaws, and self-awareness only goes so far. People are lovable. And I am a person.
So, I talk myself out of the bus and into bed. I get up and do dishes and put things away. I wait on my friends. I sit quietly on the edge of group. I get through the last day, uncomfortable, wondering if I will be welcome at the 3rd reunion, fumbling through an apology in my brain. I talk with B on the drive back to the airport, working through my feelings, honing my arguments, shoring up my defenses. I go home. I act like nothing happened. I don't send G an apology (although I do send a thank you.) In the end, I have almost forgotten about it. Until this week.
Yesterday would have been my 10th wedding anniversary. For the last week, I've been in a mini-funk, without really knowing why. It's October; the aspen and cottonwoods are golden and the deep blue skies are full of clouds and rainbows. I'm making music, I'm seeing friends. It's my favorite time of the year. What is wrong? And then I remember. 10 years ago, I was in Portland, marrying D, filled with joy and light and hope. I was so sure I was doing the right thing, so confident in my friends and my love and my family. The day was golden, the food was excellent. I honeymooned in Santa Fe, I visited Madrid. I planned to come back here to live.
Ten years ago, I felt like the most lovable person in the world.
I remembered this, because E and I were driving through Madrid back from ABQ, having dropped off her high-maintenance friend. The relief was overwhelming, and I thought, G and D should try living with her. I thought, maybe my funk was because it was so exhausting hosting her. Then I recalled the date, and out of the blue, I emailed M and S and N: "Care to meet me for dinner tonight in SF after rehearsal? I'll be free at 7."
Why did I do that?
M couldn't make it, but S reserved a table at El Meson. It was a lovely dinner. We shared our tapas, and we caught up. They looked so happy with each other, both so beautiful and charming and smart and witty. They talked of their jobs and their lives together. I talked of my travels and my future plans. I pondered the idea of the library job in Taos: it feels like I'd be moving backwards. S said, no, care-giving is moving backwards: you've done that for 10 years. I did a double-take: I've only been with E for one year. And then it hit me. hmmmm. Yes, I was the caregiver in my marriage, and it is time to take care of myself, to trust that I am worthy of that.
S is not the best friend I've ever had, and I have been avoiding him for months because of past hurt. However, last night I remembered why I cared. He listens to me, and he makes connections. He helps me grow. He tries to grow himself. And, like my old friends, he judges me and loves me anyway. He and N were the perfect choice for my non-10th anniversary dinner.
As we talked, he reminded me that his ex died a year ago. I was humbled. I'm mourning the loss of my marriage, but there are other, deeper losses. Yes, every day is an anniversary of something, and every day is a chance to make the choice of forward movement. I don't have to wallow in the mistaken choices of my past. I don't have to accept the mistaken judgments, even those of people I love. I don't have to partner up, and I don't have to be alone.
I do have to have friends.
37 years ago, we were callow 18-year-olds. We didn't know who we were, or who we wanted to be. By the end of the four years, it was clear that few of us would turn out as planned. In the interim, we had our differences, we had our crises, we grew up, we disappeared, we reconnected, we remained friends. And now it turns out, the most important discovery from that long-ago freshman year is that friendship endures. What a splendid discovery that is!
That being said, another discovery is how very little people change at the core. The process of living has refined and winnowed, and we are unapologetically ourselves, without much veneer, and without much desire to have one. In fact, we embrace our quirks, as evidenced by our ready assumption of the nicknames G's boyfriend M assigned to us (he couldn't remember our names.) B was the Manly One, C the Child. I was the Hippie (that's Bohemian to you, M!) And yes, that's always been my bent: slapdash with my house-keeping and organization, living in the moment, wearing comfortable swirly clothes, dancing and singing at the drop of a cue. What sealed the deal, for M, was my home-made kale chips. He took one, politely, nibbled and said, "that's good!" and then turned to G and made a WTF?! face.
This sounds like fun doesn't it? And it was: zip-lining between two backyard trees, sitting on the deck watching the barges and drinking coffee, walking through the woods and parks, listening to Latina jazz at G's regular Tuesday night music venue, and talking, talking, talking. However, on the next to the last night, I got into a confrontation with G and realized how thin my skin remains. I know it always has been, but I had thought that, since the divorce, I had toughened up. I thought that I accepted myself and trusted in the love of my friends and family. I was startled when, during the confrontation, my throat tightened with hurt and tears.
In many ways, it is a silly fight. She says, "Tomorrow it's your turn to pick up and clean and decide meals." Surprised, I say, "sure..." and then I pause. "Do you think I'm not pulling my weight?" She looks at me and says, rather like a manager/psychologist, "What do you think?" In times past, I would have crumpled and apologized, for what I wouldn't know, but I'd apologize and grovel and feel like pond scum. I would embrace the judgment and feel hurt by it at the same time. On this occasion I say, "Yes, I do think I've been pulling my weight. I've been doing dishes and picking up and contributing."
She does not agree, and I recognize afresh how little power one has to change an opinion. Because, yes, I am doing my share. But, I am also leaving coffee cups on side tables, snack dishes on bedside tables, doors ajar. I am making my bed, but leaving my coat and scarf hanging on chair backs and my knitting and camera bags on the floor by the corner chair where I download my pix every night. I am trying to contain my overflow, but, catlike, I am scattering my fur everywhere and sitting wherever I damn well please. In her eyes, I am a nightmare guest, selfish and disrespectful of others.
I am hurt, and I leave the house and sit out in the old Shawshank bus/guest house, editing pix and talking with C on speaker phone. I think about my reaction to criticism. I can't totally blame D for it. Yes, his constant picking amounted to emotional abuse, and yes, I am slowly recovering from that. But, I wouldn't have been vulnerable to him, and I wouldn't feel hurt by G's irritation with me, if I didn't, at the core, believe that I am a pain in the ass, unproductive and unlovable. I used to tell him, "I have my own voice telling me I'm a fuck-up, I don't need yours as well." Now, although I stood up for myself with G, I don't really believe it. I grieve: why don't people notice the GOOD things I do? Then I think, why would anyone be friends with me? I feel myself spiraling downward into the old self-loathing, and then I realize what I am doing.
I give myself a talking to: People are quirky. People have different priorities. People have different ways of looking at the world, of being productive, of being friends. People have flaws, and self-awareness only goes so far. People are lovable. And I am a person.
So, I talk myself out of the bus and into bed. I get up and do dishes and put things away. I wait on my friends. I sit quietly on the edge of group. I get through the last day, uncomfortable, wondering if I will be welcome at the 3rd reunion, fumbling through an apology in my brain. I talk with B on the drive back to the airport, working through my feelings, honing my arguments, shoring up my defenses. I go home. I act like nothing happened. I don't send G an apology (although I do send a thank you.) In the end, I have almost forgotten about it. Until this week.
Yesterday would have been my 10th wedding anniversary. For the last week, I've been in a mini-funk, without really knowing why. It's October; the aspen and cottonwoods are golden and the deep blue skies are full of clouds and rainbows. I'm making music, I'm seeing friends. It's my favorite time of the year. What is wrong? And then I remember. 10 years ago, I was in Portland, marrying D, filled with joy and light and hope. I was so sure I was doing the right thing, so confident in my friends and my love and my family. The day was golden, the food was excellent. I honeymooned in Santa Fe, I visited Madrid. I planned to come back here to live.
Ten years ago, I felt like the most lovable person in the world.
I remembered this, because E and I were driving through Madrid back from ABQ, having dropped off her high-maintenance friend. The relief was overwhelming, and I thought, G and D should try living with her. I thought, maybe my funk was because it was so exhausting hosting her. Then I recalled the date, and out of the blue, I emailed M and S and N: "Care to meet me for dinner tonight in SF after rehearsal? I'll be free at 7."
Why did I do that?
M couldn't make it, but S reserved a table at El Meson. It was a lovely dinner. We shared our tapas, and we caught up. They looked so happy with each other, both so beautiful and charming and smart and witty. They talked of their jobs and their lives together. I talked of my travels and my future plans. I pondered the idea of the library job in Taos: it feels like I'd be moving backwards. S said, no, care-giving is moving backwards: you've done that for 10 years. I did a double-take: I've only been with E for one year. And then it hit me. hmmmm. Yes, I was the caregiver in my marriage, and it is time to take care of myself, to trust that I am worthy of that.
S is not the best friend I've ever had, and I have been avoiding him for months because of past hurt. However, last night I remembered why I cared. He listens to me, and he makes connections. He helps me grow. He tries to grow himself. And, like my old friends, he judges me and loves me anyway. He and N were the perfect choice for my non-10th anniversary dinner.
As we talked, he reminded me that his ex died a year ago. I was humbled. I'm mourning the loss of my marriage, but there are other, deeper losses. Yes, every day is an anniversary of something, and every day is a chance to make the choice of forward movement. I don't have to wallow in the mistaken choices of my past. I don't have to accept the mistaken judgments, even those of people I love. I don't have to partner up, and I don't have to be alone.
I do have to have friends.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Gonna snip that man right outta my hair
Last month I spent 10 days in Oregon. I was totally overbooked and over stimulated, and by the time I returned, I was ready for a vacation.
The main event was the Viola da Gamba Society of America conclave. I attended this 3 years ago, at the same place, Forest Grove. I had not remembered most of the teachings, but the memory of the event was green. How often does one get to immerse oneself in something, surrounded by like-minded people? Not since college have I spent my days in such kindred company, occupied with soul and mind enhancing activities just because I was interested in them. So much of my time is spent on maintenance and work for pay. I prefer work for play.
Unfortunately, I was also there to clear my soon-to-be-sold house of the boxes of STUFF that D and I left behind over a year ago. He had presumably retrieved his possessions but there were boxes and boxes of books, CDs, clothing, dishes, craft supplies, memorabilia, art, letters, business papers, photos. Not to mention several pieces of Grandma S's furniture and an immigrant truck: wooden with a simple reddish rosemaling of a horse on the inner lid and "Kari D.J. Qvitness, 1861" inscribed in swirly gold letters on the side. She died of a heart attack in her 20's, and her trunk used to hold the baby clothes of my older brother, born and died a year before me. Now it holds other memories, the photographs and letters from my early 20s with a smattering of more recent papers tossed in on top.
The conclave went Sunday-Saturday, which left me with the preceding Saturday and the following Sunday-Tuesday to see friends, go to the beach, check out the Cracked Pots show, sort through possessions, take them to Good Will or the post office, and get my hair cut. Needless to say, something had to give. That something was the boxes of papers and photographs, most of which are currently languishing in my aunt's garage. All but one box of books was left to go to thrift stores. The CD's are with S, being slowly ripped into MP3 files and then given to other friends. The art and dishes are in another friend's basement. Some furniture is with a friend, some with my aunt. Clothes were the only thing totally taken care of: they have been mailed to Albuquerque or dropped off at Goodwill.
I will have to wait for another visit to complete the job, not to mention see the friends who were unable to meet my scheduling restrictions.
I thought of just tossing the letters and photos. It seems I have saved every card, letter, note, and picture. And what I didn't save, my Mom and Dad did. When I opened the box filled with bluebooks and papers from college days, I flung back my head and moaned, "WHY?????!!!" And yet....I didn't put them into the recycling with the 10-year-old bills and flyers from journeys. (I did toss the grade cards going back to 1st grade.)
V says I need to keep them for future family historians who will want to fill in the blanks of the family story. "Who was that crazy woman who took off for the west coast and flitted hither and yon? What was she thinking when she got married at age 47? How did she live?" While I'm not sure I agree with her, I know that I need to go through them for myself. Just the few hours I spent glancing at envelopes brought memories and feelings wavering to the surface. S wrote to me for years, it seems, before he disappeared from my life. My friend M's brother sent me flowers after his visit...ah yes, I remember walking with him, how he slowly stripped off my glove so we could hold hands, skin on skin.
In previous years, I sorted the letters by sender: B's in one envelope, coming from Champaigne, IL, from Connecticut, from Springfield, IL. L's came from IL, TX, HI. The trajectory of their lives entwined with my inertia. Once I reached Portland, I never left, except to travel. And now those memories are boxed up, disorganized, like so many of my thoughts and feelings. I want to open them up before I start the next phase.
Meanwhile, I saw my friends, sang the Taverner Missa, re-resolved to rent a gamba and learn to play it well, to find a good singing group, to stay in better touch with JMR, my super-talented, super-gentle, super-troubled musician friend. And, I got the last of the dyed hair cut off. Karena Chop-Chop and I got caught up while she snipped and snipped, gradually winnowing down to the natural grey/brown/white, careful to not bald me. She said, "I'm cutting D away." When she was finished, my head felt light, with loose curls clustered all around. It's an old-lady cut, in a way, and I feel like it shows to excess my fat and aged neck. However, that is a voice that I need to learn to silence.
When we left, K waved from the door and said, "I'm going to sweep up D and throw him in the garbage." Now that's a voice worth listening to.
The main event was the Viola da Gamba Society of America conclave. I attended this 3 years ago, at the same place, Forest Grove. I had not remembered most of the teachings, but the memory of the event was green. How often does one get to immerse oneself in something, surrounded by like-minded people? Not since college have I spent my days in such kindred company, occupied with soul and mind enhancing activities just because I was interested in them. So much of my time is spent on maintenance and work for pay. I prefer work for play.
Unfortunately, I was also there to clear my soon-to-be-sold house of the boxes of STUFF that D and I left behind over a year ago. He had presumably retrieved his possessions but there were boxes and boxes of books, CDs, clothing, dishes, craft supplies, memorabilia, art, letters, business papers, photos. Not to mention several pieces of Grandma S's furniture and an immigrant truck: wooden with a simple reddish rosemaling of a horse on the inner lid and "Kari D.J. Qvitness, 1861" inscribed in swirly gold letters on the side. She died of a heart attack in her 20's, and her trunk used to hold the baby clothes of my older brother, born and died a year before me. Now it holds other memories, the photographs and letters from my early 20s with a smattering of more recent papers tossed in on top.
The conclave went Sunday-Saturday, which left me with the preceding Saturday and the following Sunday-Tuesday to see friends, go to the beach, check out the Cracked Pots show, sort through possessions, take them to Good Will or the post office, and get my hair cut. Needless to say, something had to give. That something was the boxes of papers and photographs, most of which are currently languishing in my aunt's garage. All but one box of books was left to go to thrift stores. The CD's are with S, being slowly ripped into MP3 files and then given to other friends. The art and dishes are in another friend's basement. Some furniture is with a friend, some with my aunt. Clothes were the only thing totally taken care of: they have been mailed to Albuquerque or dropped off at Goodwill.
I will have to wait for another visit to complete the job, not to mention see the friends who were unable to meet my scheduling restrictions.
I thought of just tossing the letters and photos. It seems I have saved every card, letter, note, and picture. And what I didn't save, my Mom and Dad did. When I opened the box filled with bluebooks and papers from college days, I flung back my head and moaned, "WHY?????!!!" And yet....I didn't put them into the recycling with the 10-year-old bills and flyers from journeys. (I did toss the grade cards going back to 1st grade.)
V says I need to keep them for future family historians who will want to fill in the blanks of the family story. "Who was that crazy woman who took off for the west coast and flitted hither and yon? What was she thinking when she got married at age 47? How did she live?" While I'm not sure I agree with her, I know that I need to go through them for myself. Just the few hours I spent glancing at envelopes brought memories and feelings wavering to the surface. S wrote to me for years, it seems, before he disappeared from my life. My friend M's brother sent me flowers after his visit...ah yes, I remember walking with him, how he slowly stripped off my glove so we could hold hands, skin on skin.
In previous years, I sorted the letters by sender: B's in one envelope, coming from Champaigne, IL, from Connecticut, from Springfield, IL. L's came from IL, TX, HI. The trajectory of their lives entwined with my inertia. Once I reached Portland, I never left, except to travel. And now those memories are boxed up, disorganized, like so many of my thoughts and feelings. I want to open them up before I start the next phase.
Meanwhile, I saw my friends, sang the Taverner Missa, re-resolved to rent a gamba and learn to play it well, to find a good singing group, to stay in better touch with JMR, my super-talented, super-gentle, super-troubled musician friend. And, I got the last of the dyed hair cut off. Karena Chop-Chop and I got caught up while she snipped and snipped, gradually winnowing down to the natural grey/brown/white, careful to not bald me. She said, "I'm cutting D away." When she was finished, my head felt light, with loose curls clustered all around. It's an old-lady cut, in a way, and I feel like it shows to excess my fat and aged neck. However, that is a voice that I need to learn to silence.
When we left, K waved from the door and said, "I'm going to sweep up D and throw him in the garbage." Now that's a voice worth listening to.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
"In 6 months you won't recognize yourself...."
This is a time of stock-taking. I just had a birthday, and I'm starting my 55th year. I could conceivably retire at the end of it. And there are other landmarks.... A year ago I had just left Portland and was starting a new job in a new place. 6 months ago I had just left D and was starting a new life in a new home. At that nadir, T told me "In 6 months you won't recognize yourself." He meant to be encouraging, of course, but since I couldn't believe it, it just gave me another yardstick for failure. "Oh shit, in 6 months I have to be all better?! I'll never manage it."
So, here I am, 6 months later, 1 year later, 10 years later (since I met D), 54 years later....and where am I?
From T's perspective, he was absolutely right. I am light years away from that self. I am paying off debts and I've simplified my life. I'm taking care of business, I've started saving money. I'm losing weight, I'm gaining health and energy and friends. I'm no longer sobbing at random moments. I don't fall apart when I have to deal with things. I find myself singing and laughing and skipping on occasion. I look forward to spending evenings alone. While I still am not sleeping well, I'm no longer a danger to myself driving home late at night. Yes, compared to my December self, I am not recognizable.
Compared to a year ago, the change is even more dramatic. I've gone from a partially-employed married woman living in a 2-story farmhouse in Portland Oregon, to a fully-employed divorced woman living in a 350-square foot casita in Albuquerque, New Mexico. In a year's time I've moved into 4 different homes. I've traveled through 7 states. I've gone on 5 weekend or week-long trips. I've gone on too many day trips to count. I've hosted 3 guests. I've learned a new job and system and I've worked on one 6-month project (in 17 branches) and managed 2 branches. I've joined one orchestra and one choir. I've volunteered at the Balloon Fiesta. I've hiked 7 trails in the Sandias and 3 in the Petroglyph National Monument, and 3 in the Bosque. I've made 15 friends to do things with and many more friendly contacts. To sum up, I've made a life here.
It's quite a list of change, mostly gains. The losses? Savings, pets, possessions, friends, and a marriage. Quick to say, but agonizingly long to feel those things dropping away, to realize that they were never coming back. I've made a life here, but I am still grieving (oh how I'm grieving) the life I've given up. One year ago I was living in my own home, with my husband and pets and friends and books and....10 years ago I met D and.... 31 years ago I graduated from college and moved from Illinois to Oregon. In each move, I added things. I had a rich (even, as my friend E says, baroque) life. This past year, it has all contracted. From 30-year friendships to 6-month friendships. From a houseful of stuff to a casita-ful. From a staff of 30 to a staff of 4. From 25-guest parties to single guests. From a yard full of raspberry canes and a deck full of veggies and herbs to a single tomato plant.
So, here I am. taking stock. The organizational me wants to figure out where I go from here. The critical me wants to assess the change: have I learned anything from this past year? am I growing? do I like the person I am right now? do I like the life I'm living? The whiny me wants to lament what I've lost, the optimistic me wants to glory in the accomplishments (hence all those numbers: is it measurable? doable? Hell yeah, and that makes it real, right?)
Last weekend I was walking the labyrinth at Ghost Ranch, thinking about the last time I was there with D and K and E. E was limping with his horrible back problem. I was thinking about my future: trying to figure out what I was going to do if none of the interviews panned out. D was delighting in being there with me and our friends. Now I was alone, walking the familiar curves, looking at the red, ochre, yellow, and beige cliffs, with the bright blue sky behind, listening to the brake-squeal vocalizing of the burro (is that really a living creature?) I found my throat tightening with tears. I missed D. I didn't know what wisdom I wanted to receive from this process. I sat in the middle, waiting for something to come to me. Instead, a group of women appeared, talking loudly, braying with laughter. Two of them walked the labyrinth, the other two sat on the bench, whispering and giggling explosively. I felt attacked: I couldn't think, I couldn't enter into a quiet space, I couldn't let go. When they left the tears spilled out and I gasped with the sobs I had been suppressing.
No, I'm not done with this grieving process. 6 months have passed, and I have a good and productive life, but it's not the life I want, and I'm still missing the life I had.
So, here I am. And maybe that's enough for now.
So, here I am, 6 months later, 1 year later, 10 years later (since I met D), 54 years later....and where am I?
From T's perspective, he was absolutely right. I am light years away from that self. I am paying off debts and I've simplified my life. I'm taking care of business, I've started saving money. I'm losing weight, I'm gaining health and energy and friends. I'm no longer sobbing at random moments. I don't fall apart when I have to deal with things. I find myself singing and laughing and skipping on occasion. I look forward to spending evenings alone. While I still am not sleeping well, I'm no longer a danger to myself driving home late at night. Yes, compared to my December self, I am not recognizable.
Compared to a year ago, the change is even more dramatic. I've gone from a partially-employed married woman living in a 2-story farmhouse in Portland Oregon, to a fully-employed divorced woman living in a 350-square foot casita in Albuquerque, New Mexico. In a year's time I've moved into 4 different homes. I've traveled through 7 states. I've gone on 5 weekend or week-long trips. I've gone on too many day trips to count. I've hosted 3 guests. I've learned a new job and system and I've worked on one 6-month project (in 17 branches) and managed 2 branches. I've joined one orchestra and one choir. I've volunteered at the Balloon Fiesta. I've hiked 7 trails in the Sandias and 3 in the Petroglyph National Monument, and 3 in the Bosque. I've made 15 friends to do things with and many more friendly contacts. To sum up, I've made a life here.
It's quite a list of change, mostly gains. The losses? Savings, pets, possessions, friends, and a marriage. Quick to say, but agonizingly long to feel those things dropping away, to realize that they were never coming back. I've made a life here, but I am still grieving (oh how I'm grieving) the life I've given up. One year ago I was living in my own home, with my husband and pets and friends and books and....10 years ago I met D and.... 31 years ago I graduated from college and moved from Illinois to Oregon. In each move, I added things. I had a rich (even, as my friend E says, baroque) life. This past year, it has all contracted. From 30-year friendships to 6-month friendships. From a houseful of stuff to a casita-ful. From a staff of 30 to a staff of 4. From 25-guest parties to single guests. From a yard full of raspberry canes and a deck full of veggies and herbs to a single tomato plant.
So, here I am. taking stock. The organizational me wants to figure out where I go from here. The critical me wants to assess the change: have I learned anything from this past year? am I growing? do I like the person I am right now? do I like the life I'm living? The whiny me wants to lament what I've lost, the optimistic me wants to glory in the accomplishments (hence all those numbers: is it measurable? doable? Hell yeah, and that makes it real, right?)
Last weekend I was walking the labyrinth at Ghost Ranch, thinking about the last time I was there with D and K and E. E was limping with his horrible back problem. I was thinking about my future: trying to figure out what I was going to do if none of the interviews panned out. D was delighting in being there with me and our friends. Now I was alone, walking the familiar curves, looking at the red, ochre, yellow, and beige cliffs, with the bright blue sky behind, listening to the brake-squeal vocalizing of the burro (is that really a living creature?) I found my throat tightening with tears. I missed D. I didn't know what wisdom I wanted to receive from this process. I sat in the middle, waiting for something to come to me. Instead, a group of women appeared, talking loudly, braying with laughter. Two of them walked the labyrinth, the other two sat on the bench, whispering and giggling explosively. I felt attacked: I couldn't think, I couldn't enter into a quiet space, I couldn't let go. When they left the tears spilled out and I gasped with the sobs I had been suppressing.
No, I'm not done with this grieving process. 6 months have passed, and I have a good and productive life, but it's not the life I want, and I'm still missing the life I had.
So, here I am. And maybe that's enough for now.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
In which refgoddess discovers she's a lousy mom
So, we're getting ready to move to New Mexico. We have 9 days to decide what comes with us and what stays. We have no money for a real move, and we want to figure out neighborhoods and jobs before we totally uproot. The original idea was to rent a furnished apartment and take enough dishes and clothing to last for 6 months while we located a more permanent dwelling. Sadly, we were unable to find a furnished apartment within our budget. Of course, there are plenty of vacation rentals, and if I were an executive I could find some dandy places..... for $3.5k a month....which is more than I'll be making.
Instead, we are renting an unfurnished 2-bedroom apartment, loading up the truck (cue Beverly Hillbillies theme song) and the Honda, and looking for drivers to spell us on the 3-day drive. There is everything to be done: finding boxes, packing things for storage or transport; finalizing rentals here and there, setting up utilities, filling prescriptions; finishing up taxes and other business transactions; saying goodbye to friends for the nonce.
Fortunately the most difficult and important job was taken off our hands by H and S: they offered a home to Carbon and Simone. I will not dwell on their kindness in taking on a geriatric dog, right after losing their beloved Louie. Nor will I dwell on how it feels to leave the furry side of our family behind. I know it's in their best interests to not uproot or separate them, and there's no way Carbon can manage the trip with her laryngeal paralysis. But I will miss them so much.
Monday night, H and S came over with knitting and notebook and ice cream to discuss the logistics of the hand off. Who's the vet? How do they behave at the vet? What sorts of meds do they take? What do they eat? Are they allowed people food? Do they have accidents in the house? Can I predict the causes? etc.
I fumbled on so many of the answers, most of them Carbon-centric. Ummm....yeah those meds, well, they're supposed to be given every 12 hours, but she's lucky if she gets them once a day. The ulcer on her gums has been there for over a year, there's an ointment but I don't put it on her regularly because it's a 2-person job. No biting, just a lot of head-burrowing and head-shaking. (Simone still has stitches from her last abscess and I can feel another bump.) No walks for Carbon, now that her ailment has kicked in. (Yes, it's a good idea to keep Simone in for the first week, but good luck making that stick.) Food, umm....she's allowed to lick the plates, and I usually just set the plate on the floor when I'm done although I know she should eat in the kitchen, mumble mumble.... Commands? "Sit, go lie down, moven sie." Stay, sorta. She comes when I call her name, because that usually means food or walk. She does not come if there's a squirrel in sight.
They nod and take notes and at no time do they say I'm a lousy mom, although at one point S informs Carbon that she will be moving in with a martinet. I'm guessing she'll be learning a few more commands. I'm pretty sure you can teach this old dog a few new tricks: she's both smart and amenable.
We finish up the list, talk about our respective travels, eat some smooth and creamy vanilla ice cream, sans chocolate sauce. Simone cuddles up next to me and I get a bit teary: usually cuddling is reserved for the cold months, but I think she knows I'm getting ready to abandon her. Carbon lies at our feet and gets up now and then to put her head on a knee. H and S tell me that they are so looking forward to having a biological kitchen cleaner again: they are tired of picking up dropped food, and the soap usage has risen since Louie stopped licking the grease off the plates.
I am grateful to have trustworthy and loving friends who want to take on my responsibilities. And, although I am the light of Carbon's life, I think they'll be better moms, too. But oh, I'll miss them. All of them.
Instead, we are renting an unfurnished 2-bedroom apartment, loading up the truck (cue Beverly Hillbillies theme song) and the Honda, and looking for drivers to spell us on the 3-day drive. There is everything to be done: finding boxes, packing things for storage or transport; finalizing rentals here and there, setting up utilities, filling prescriptions; finishing up taxes and other business transactions; saying goodbye to friends for the nonce.
Fortunately the most difficult and important job was taken off our hands by H and S: they offered a home to Carbon and Simone. I will not dwell on their kindness in taking on a geriatric dog, right after losing their beloved Louie. Nor will I dwell on how it feels to leave the furry side of our family behind. I know it's in their best interests to not uproot or separate them, and there's no way Carbon can manage the trip with her laryngeal paralysis. But I will miss them so much.
Monday night, H and S came over with knitting and notebook and ice cream to discuss the logistics of the hand off. Who's the vet? How do they behave at the vet? What sorts of meds do they take? What do they eat? Are they allowed people food? Do they have accidents in the house? Can I predict the causes? etc.
I fumbled on so many of the answers, most of them Carbon-centric. Ummm....yeah those meds, well, they're supposed to be given every 12 hours, but she's lucky if she gets them once a day. The ulcer on her gums has been there for over a year, there's an ointment but I don't put it on her regularly because it's a 2-person job. No biting, just a lot of head-burrowing and head-shaking. (Simone still has stitches from her last abscess and I can feel another bump.) No walks for Carbon, now that her ailment has kicked in. (Yes, it's a good idea to keep Simone in for the first week, but good luck making that stick.) Food, umm....she's allowed to lick the plates, and I usually just set the plate on the floor when I'm done although I know she should eat in the kitchen, mumble mumble.... Commands? "Sit, go lie down, moven sie." Stay, sorta. She comes when I call her name, because that usually means food or walk. She does not come if there's a squirrel in sight.
They nod and take notes and at no time do they say I'm a lousy mom, although at one point S informs Carbon that she will be moving in with a martinet. I'm guessing she'll be learning a few more commands. I'm pretty sure you can teach this old dog a few new tricks: she's both smart and amenable.
We finish up the list, talk about our respective travels, eat some smooth and creamy vanilla ice cream, sans chocolate sauce. Simone cuddles up next to me and I get a bit teary: usually cuddling is reserved for the cold months, but I think she knows I'm getting ready to abandon her. Carbon lies at our feet and gets up now and then to put her head on a knee. H and S tell me that they are so looking forward to having a biological kitchen cleaner again: they are tired of picking up dropped food, and the soap usage has risen since Louie stopped licking the grease off the plates.
I am grateful to have trustworthy and loving friends who want to take on my responsibilities. And, although I am the light of Carbon's life, I think they'll be better moms, too. But oh, I'll miss them. All of them.
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