It's done. The house officially belongs to someone else. And it was not unpleasant.
We signed on the lines, removed our keys from our rings and shook hands. The table laughed, shared stories and parted ways. "R" is full of the energy of someone young, yet sensible enough to understand he has some work cut out for him. He looked like a close relative of Matt Damon; boyish charm without the confidence of Hollywood. As lovely an experience as one could have wished for, under the circumstances.
Good luck R. May you make many happy memories amongst friends and family in your new home.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
8/9/11
Last Saturday was the family’s official, final walk-through at our parents house. We were lucky enough to go from listing to signing in just over a month. All the cleaning and sorting has been done, the house has been vacuumed a final time; there will be one last mowing. My sister brought Dad for a visit from the nursing for him to see it before it is no longer ours. He is frail enough that we two girls, and my young sons were able to lift him in his wheelchair into the house. He asked, “so there won‘t be a place for me to come home to?“ and then, “Isn’t it a shame it’s not going to be our house?”
It is a shame, but it would be a greater still to let it fall into disrepair. I don’t think he was quite ready to accept this. S. Drive had been his home over sixty years since taking it from run-down military housing to a tight home in which to raise his family. He is too old and dependent on help to stay there alone. He cannot comprehend his inability, and we all have our own lives which consume so much of our time.
As I walked behind his wheelchair through the echoing empty rooms, I imagined it through the lens of his eyes over sixty years ago. It was a big deal to have a house of his very own to work it as he saw fit, developing skill as he went along. He had quite the list of projects he would undertake over the next several decades: refinished hardwood floors, knotty pine walls and hand-built kitchen cabinets. He’d built solid flat rock walls, stairs, brick driveway and fireplace. He worked not only within the perimeters of his house, but at the neighboring houses as well. It’s hard to let it go, but let it go we must. Dust in the wind.
The light uninterrupted, through windows pooling, falls on the honey colored floors. Breezes blow through windows left open carrying the scents from the gardens in varied bloom. I said good-bye to my childhood rooms, where I’d listened to the crickets and watched for fire flies in the summer. I took one last look out windows where I’d wondered at my future. In the basement, I touched now barren walls which once held my father’s woodworking tools and treasures from scavenging deep in the woods for rocks for his walls. I whispered a farewell to the kitchen and my mother’s Sunday dinners, holidays, baking, the sounds of her singing, her special hugs. Only now as I write this do the tears start to roll.
My Mother kept us all together; family was important to her. She‘d come from one coast to the other, leaving a huge extended family to start a life here with our father who‘d not been so fortunate. She was good to us all, patient and soft spoken and tough where it counted. When she lost all her memories, I began to let go, preparing. We kept up our visits with Dad at the house, a difficult man though he’d always and continued to be, until his well-being was more than could be handled throughout the week.
We let go now another thread in the skein of our lives and go on.
Last Saturday was the family’s official, final walk-through at our parents house. We were lucky enough to go from listing to signing in just over a month. All the cleaning and sorting has been done, the house has been vacuumed a final time; there will be one last mowing. My sister brought Dad for a visit from the nursing for him to see it before it is no longer ours. He is frail enough that we two girls, and my young sons were able to lift him in his wheelchair into the house. He asked, “so there won‘t be a place for me to come home to?“ and then, “Isn’t it a shame it’s not going to be our house?”
It is a shame, but it would be a greater still to let it fall into disrepair. I don’t think he was quite ready to accept this. S. Drive had been his home over sixty years since taking it from run-down military housing to a tight home in which to raise his family. He is too old and dependent on help to stay there alone. He cannot comprehend his inability, and we all have our own lives which consume so much of our time.
As I walked behind his wheelchair through the echoing empty rooms, I imagined it through the lens of his eyes over sixty years ago. It was a big deal to have a house of his very own to work it as he saw fit, developing skill as he went along. He had quite the list of projects he would undertake over the next several decades: refinished hardwood floors, knotty pine walls and hand-built kitchen cabinets. He’d built solid flat rock walls, stairs, brick driveway and fireplace. He worked not only within the perimeters of his house, but at the neighboring houses as well. It’s hard to let it go, but let it go we must. Dust in the wind.
The light uninterrupted, through windows pooling, falls on the honey colored floors. Breezes blow through windows left open carrying the scents from the gardens in varied bloom. I said good-bye to my childhood rooms, where I’d listened to the crickets and watched for fire flies in the summer. I took one last look out windows where I’d wondered at my future. In the basement, I touched now barren walls which once held my father’s woodworking tools and treasures from scavenging deep in the woods for rocks for his walls. I whispered a farewell to the kitchen and my mother’s Sunday dinners, holidays, baking, the sounds of her singing, her special hugs. Only now as I write this do the tears start to roll.
My Mother kept us all together; family was important to her. She‘d come from one coast to the other, leaving a huge extended family to start a life here with our father who‘d not been so fortunate. She was good to us all, patient and soft spoken and tough where it counted. When she lost all her memories, I began to let go, preparing. We kept up our visits with Dad at the house, a difficult man though he’d always and continued to be, until his well-being was more than could be handled throughout the week.
We let go now another thread in the skein of our lives and go on.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
I am proud of my oldest son. He has been dealing with a distant relative of sorts who, after ignoring him for six months, has recently been attempting to hold him partially, erroneously responsible for their distance. He has held is ground, unwavering in his position and recognized his autonomy. He has thought out each response, each reply and measured his reaction to their folly. He has come both to his father and I for advice and I have offered him the tools with which to think for himself. It was a difficult thing to answer when we asked, "Mom, is life always going to be this hard?" And I had to answer him honestly. I could not deny him the truth that life is full of obstacles and heartache and frustration. But I was able to say too, that in knowing how to handle life's curve balls, you can better determine the ease with which you transition through it. In the end he hugged me, told me he loved me, and I had to let a bit more of the baby faced boy go. He is growing up.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Roughly three weeks ago I lost my keys. By the time I discovered they were missing I had lost track of days and the ability to retrace all my steps. After fruitless nights and weekends looking in ridiculous places inside, I had to assume they'd been lost outside in the snow on my walk to work.
The key chain contained timeworn and true, original keys to my parents house. and a special key, made by my father, which spoke of his genius in fashioning useful tools out of found objects. He'd made it for a funky lock on their back porch. There is a tide of emotions in those keys.
There were keys to my sisters house. We grew up having free entry into our parents house at any time and my mother made sure we always had a key. She trusted us immensely, and my sister has done the same. Her key was differentiated from all the rest by the name "Mexico" stamped on one side.
Lastly, were my own keys. An automatic opener (what a pain in the ass to replace) keys to our place, and all those plastic nuisances that make shopping marginally convenient. But it was the key chain picture of my son which bothered me most. There was something about his little plastic face laying in the snow, being run over by tires, that made me ache a little.
I imagined all the ways in which the keys would be ignored, or dealt with. None of them involved someone going out of their way (who does THAT anymore) one thought had someone walking around the neighborhood looking for their free vehicle by way of panic button. I realize that was likely a stretch. You might imagine my excitement then, when my husband handed me the keys on Wednesday and told me how they'd been found.
The keys had been discovered in a mailbox. The owner of that mailbox walks in the neighborhood and is friendly with the crossing guard at the elementary school. Thinking she might know the child from the picture, he brings the keys to her. She immediately recognizes my son, and flags my husband down.
No one had to take the time. No one had to put thought into finding the rightful owner. We are all busy, preoccupied, jaded in our own ways large or small about the order of the world. The fact that through a series of otherwise simple steps, my keys were returned to me though, is a beautiful thing. It renewed my faith in human kindness and was a great lesson for my children about the value of small kindnesses.
I wrote a thank you note to (Judy) the crossing guard, and asked her to pass along my thank you to the mailbox owner.
The key chain contained timeworn and true, original keys to my parents house. and a special key, made by my father, which spoke of his genius in fashioning useful tools out of found objects. He'd made it for a funky lock on their back porch. There is a tide of emotions in those keys.
There were keys to my sisters house. We grew up having free entry into our parents house at any time and my mother made sure we always had a key. She trusted us immensely, and my sister has done the same. Her key was differentiated from all the rest by the name "Mexico" stamped on one side.
Lastly, were my own keys. An automatic opener (what a pain in the ass to replace) keys to our place, and all those plastic nuisances that make shopping marginally convenient. But it was the key chain picture of my son which bothered me most. There was something about his little plastic face laying in the snow, being run over by tires, that made me ache a little.
I imagined all the ways in which the keys would be ignored, or dealt with. None of them involved someone going out of their way (who does THAT anymore) one thought had someone walking around the neighborhood looking for their free vehicle by way of panic button. I realize that was likely a stretch. You might imagine my excitement then, when my husband handed me the keys on Wednesday and told me how they'd been found.
The keys had been discovered in a mailbox. The owner of that mailbox walks in the neighborhood and is friendly with the crossing guard at the elementary school. Thinking she might know the child from the picture, he brings the keys to her. She immediately recognizes my son, and flags my husband down.
No one had to take the time. No one had to put thought into finding the rightful owner. We are all busy, preoccupied, jaded in our own ways large or small about the order of the world. The fact that through a series of otherwise simple steps, my keys were returned to me though, is a beautiful thing. It renewed my faith in human kindness and was a great lesson for my children about the value of small kindnesses.
I wrote a thank you note to (Judy) the crossing guard, and asked her to pass along my thank you to the mailbox owner.
I am looking looking through the marred and aged lenses of my glasses while sitting atop crossed legs that ache from under use. I struggle to put words to the buzz in my head and remind myself not to clench my teeth lest they fracture. In my glass for my soul should be water but is wine while waiting for a pie to bake. I feel a small mess but I am alive and without right to complaint. I make my daily deals with the fates with greater control than is easy to admit. I am growing older but I do have that and this sadness that I feel for random losses around me is misplaced. Were I, after all, laying bent at deaths door, I would relish the taste of another day, another word spoken, another chance. I cannot let that go to waste.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
On Photographs
I love those moments when something becomes crystal clear, the moment, or person or place is unquestionably real and present. I suppose if I were a practicing Buddist I might experience them more, but I prefer serendipty.
I have never been a fan of posing for a photo, but I am less a fan of those candid shots where my mouth hangs open, or my eyes are half closed. I have relented in recent years, to smiling for a camera, especially with my boys who some day will no longer be children and who will have lives of their own. Sometimes, I see myself as an old woman looking back and wondering if any of it really happened. Was any of it real? I will have these photos to jog, if I am lucky, a struggling memory.
In photos I can see that which I miss when looking at an object, or in the mirror. So often I am harsh of my enviornment, or my study of such. A photo allows me an objective view that I would otherwise miss. Perhaps this isn't living to some. I am intersted in knowing other's perspective of this.
I have been looking through photos which belonged to my parents. It is sad on the one hand because so many are not marked and so the history is lost. But it is lovely on another because clearly, these people lived and breathed a life of their own. There are bits of drama, play, romanticism. I am here, because two people met during the war, fell in love, had a life, birthed life.
In these cold and wintery months, I hope to bring these photos to new life. To look at them with a new perspective, to realize a life lived, and lives still ripe with opportunity because of them.
I have never been a fan of posing for a photo, but I am less a fan of those candid shots where my mouth hangs open, or my eyes are half closed. I have relented in recent years, to smiling for a camera, especially with my boys who some day will no longer be children and who will have lives of their own. Sometimes, I see myself as an old woman looking back and wondering if any of it really happened. Was any of it real? I will have these photos to jog, if I am lucky, a struggling memory.
In photos I can see that which I miss when looking at an object, or in the mirror. So often I am harsh of my enviornment, or my study of such. A photo allows me an objective view that I would otherwise miss. Perhaps this isn't living to some. I am intersted in knowing other's perspective of this.
I have been looking through photos which belonged to my parents. It is sad on the one hand because so many are not marked and so the history is lost. But it is lovely on another because clearly, these people lived and breathed a life of their own. There are bits of drama, play, romanticism. I am here, because two people met during the war, fell in love, had a life, birthed life.
In these cold and wintery months, I hope to bring these photos to new life. To look at them with a new perspective, to realize a life lived, and lives still ripe with opportunity because of them.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Happy New Year
Nothing much changes unless you want it to. And then, it doesn't take the imagined magic of turning over the calendar to make it so. Life will always be what we make it; how we handle the diversity large or small which any of us may face.
Most of us mark our life with events on a calendar and I try to imagine doing otherwise. What would happen if we didn't know how old we were, or we forgot to experience the heartbreak each time we passed a traumatic event over and over again?
I recently watched a Twighlight Episode the other night about residents of a retirement home, one of which believes he has found the secret of youth in childhood games. That episode reminded me that we age pretty quickly when we start believing that we are "too old" to do those things which bring us simple, pure joy. When small things no longer make us laugh. When we no longer pause to feel the sunshine on our face, or hold our hands out to the rain.
May we all remember to make the time to feel the sunshine on our face, take a walk and smell the air of each season, and play with youthful attitude.
Happy New Year!
Most of us mark our life with events on a calendar and I try to imagine doing otherwise. What would happen if we didn't know how old we were, or we forgot to experience the heartbreak each time we passed a traumatic event over and over again?
I recently watched a Twighlight Episode the other night about residents of a retirement home, one of which believes he has found the secret of youth in childhood games. That episode reminded me that we age pretty quickly when we start believing that we are "too old" to do those things which bring us simple, pure joy. When small things no longer make us laugh. When we no longer pause to feel the sunshine on our face, or hold our hands out to the rain.
May we all remember to make the time to feel the sunshine on our face, take a walk and smell the air of each season, and play with youthful attitude.
Happy New Year!
Saturday, December 11, 2010
There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays..........
Driving home late this afternoon I flipped around the dial as is my usual, searching for music. I was in an elated mood, having just been carded at the grocery store after what felt like a face sagging day of futility, fruitlessly hunting down Yule gifts for my boys, and heard the strains of Perry Como. Now, this is the first time in many many years that I look forward to the Yule season, and that Christmas songs haven't made me want to rage against the world. I sang along, looking at all the Christmas lights and decorations from the sublime to the ridiculous in the neighborhoods I drove through then, I was hit with the most sorrowful feeling imaginable.
My mother always made the holidays special. My parents did not have a lot of money but as kids we didn't know that. I only know now, while struggling to find the right balance for my own children, how much she did with relatively little. My memories are of warmth and lights and smells. My Mom was responsible for holiday expression in our home and each year that passes, it seems the memories become stronger. I don't recall what I didn't get, and I don't remember everything that I did, but I do recall the feeling of the holiday.
Bayberry candles were her favorite and signaled the start of the holiday. We had tall candles with a kind of sugar coating glazed scene illuminated by the lit candle. There was garland of holly berry that was strung up around the living room, the centerpiece of which was a kissing ball with an imish elf posed within. If these items were not hung, it wasn't Christmas. She would put out ribbon candy that was rarely eaten but looked so beautiful in the candy jar, and there was a plastic tree that she would have us decorate with gum drops of different colors. The trees always seemed like perfection in our minds, even though now, when going through photographs, we realize we had years of the Charlie Brown quality tree. These were the staples of each passing year. As we girls got older, we influenced her choices of decor, but there were always those key elements that if missing, threw off the balance.
I hadn't conciously thought of my mother as I drove home today, but something was clearly triggered by the music and the sights of all those houses lit. My parents would occasionally drive us around at night with the music playing and my mother singing along and as I pulled into our driveway, I looked up into our apartment dining room and was warmed by the lights I had strung across the windows. Our dining room is the main focal point for the holidays, and while it's not exactly as I would like it, I know that our boys wander in and stare at the lights, look at the decorations and enhale the holiday smells. My hushand has commented that our youngest would be crushed if I removed some element out of frusration.
Holidays are what we make them. We, as a family, celebrate the holiday as Yule, as Winter Night, and as Family. Some years have been bountiful, other lean, others virtually non-existent. Last year we were packing and moving between Yule and the New Year and told each other it was our gift; more room, separate rooms and new opporunities. I hope this year, with the space, time and opportunity to celebrate, the boys will remember the little things I did to capture their imaginations.
There is no place like home, be that a room, an apartment or a house. I am grateful that I have a secure place to call home that is warm and encompases the people I cherish. I avoid the malls like the plague, try to shop in the smaller, local shops when I reasonably can, and I am grateful for the very few close people in my life.
"For the holidays you can' beat home sweet home...."
My mother always made the holidays special. My parents did not have a lot of money but as kids we didn't know that. I only know now, while struggling to find the right balance for my own children, how much she did with relatively little. My memories are of warmth and lights and smells. My Mom was responsible for holiday expression in our home and each year that passes, it seems the memories become stronger. I don't recall what I didn't get, and I don't remember everything that I did, but I do recall the feeling of the holiday.
Bayberry candles were her favorite and signaled the start of the holiday. We had tall candles with a kind of sugar coating glazed scene illuminated by the lit candle. There was garland of holly berry that was strung up around the living room, the centerpiece of which was a kissing ball with an imish elf posed within. If these items were not hung, it wasn't Christmas. She would put out ribbon candy that was rarely eaten but looked so beautiful in the candy jar, and there was a plastic tree that she would have us decorate with gum drops of different colors. The trees always seemed like perfection in our minds, even though now, when going through photographs, we realize we had years of the Charlie Brown quality tree. These were the staples of each passing year. As we girls got older, we influenced her choices of decor, but there were always those key elements that if missing, threw off the balance.
I hadn't conciously thought of my mother as I drove home today, but something was clearly triggered by the music and the sights of all those houses lit. My parents would occasionally drive us around at night with the music playing and my mother singing along and as I pulled into our driveway, I looked up into our apartment dining room and was warmed by the lights I had strung across the windows. Our dining room is the main focal point for the holidays, and while it's not exactly as I would like it, I know that our boys wander in and stare at the lights, look at the decorations and enhale the holiday smells. My hushand has commented that our youngest would be crushed if I removed some element out of frusration.
Holidays are what we make them. We, as a family, celebrate the holiday as Yule, as Winter Night, and as Family. Some years have been bountiful, other lean, others virtually non-existent. Last year we were packing and moving between Yule and the New Year and told each other it was our gift; more room, separate rooms and new opporunities. I hope this year, with the space, time and opportunity to celebrate, the boys will remember the little things I did to capture their imaginations.
There is no place like home, be that a room, an apartment or a house. I am grateful that I have a secure place to call home that is warm and encompases the people I cherish. I avoid the malls like the plague, try to shop in the smaller, local shops when I reasonably can, and I am grateful for the very few close people in my life.
"For the holidays you can' beat home sweet home...."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A day of "ARGHH!!!!!!!!!"
Yesterday, the boys were with the in-laws. Husband and I had the whole day to ourselves. And yes, we did partake of the privacy. Mmmmhmmmm. Then we got down to more "practical things" and this is where age starts to show.We decided to utilize our free time and shop for our oldests' birthday, throw in a little pre-Yule shopping and find some necessities. Not the kind of free time of our youth, that's for sure. (To be fair, hushand would have wisely chosen to do nothing but lay around naked, BUT, because he loves me, he chose to go where the wind [me] blew us).
Today, in the midst of utilizing as much of the quiet times remaining before the boys' return, I cleaned, made a mental list in my head of the holiday feast prep., and discovered that the "really cool" tablecloth I got yesterday for a steal, was a steal because...."IT'S A FUCKING GOD-DAMNED VINYL TABLECLOTH!!!" Where the hell did my mind go in the moment of "Wow, what a great price" and "wonder why it's so cheap?" Really? Vinyl? These were things that my suspicious Yankee mind would have ferrited out once. Apparently no longer. 'Cuz here I am trying to figure out just what the fuck I can do with it. I'm not returning it because frankly, the 3.99 it costs is not worth the 2.84 per gallon to take it back.
Then, I realize that I am simply trying to accomplish way to much with my remaining quiet hours and rethink when it is I will do the laundry, bring up the Yule decor from storage, and still find time to imbibe in a good glass of wine and peruse a magazine for holiday ideas. About the time I'm congradulating myself for taking a break and only bringing down the box fans to the basement, I discover that mold has invaded an entire box of pocketbooks and anhilited two really old leather bags of mine! If these things had gotten any fuzzier they'd be angora! Christ! As much as it hurt to throw away leather, I was more concerned at that point with saving a silk bag my sister had brought back from Thailand for me.
We moved from our old apartment to this one when our landlord was nearly complete renovations. We moved from the opposite side of town after years of swearing to one another we would never do it. Here we are, beautiful sunsrises and sunsets, boys happy in school, more room then we had before, and MICE! One of the reasons we left the old place was mold. Mold that had only recently begun to develope but after a couple of years of heavy rain and flooding had taken hold. So, now we have mice (and still some mildew from poorly installed windows (any suggestions people?). I threw away my first trap with a decapitated mouse in it today. Not a proud moment because I really hate to kill critters, but my family's health comes first. We have a cat who was clearly never a mouser, and, I write this from my sons desk which overlooks a steep drop off of trees and rocks, city views and clearly, lots of places for mice to hide. I've worked really hard at not being a fanatic about cleaning to obsession because life is too short, and now find myself wondering what the solution is.
My longest buddy in the world and I talked today. Yesterday, a very old boyfriend apparently walked into her shop. He's not worth a lot of wasted time to discuss, so suffice it to say, that some memories are truly best left forgotten. I've grown up a lot since then; apparently, he has not. His name became synonymous with dorky clueless behavior, except, that he believes somehow that he is till the intelligent one. Ignorance is bliss.
But, it's been a day of good humor. Isn't that all we can really hope for? That we have the good decency at the end of the day to not take life, or ourselves, too seriously?
Today, in the midst of utilizing as much of the quiet times remaining before the boys' return, I cleaned, made a mental list in my head of the holiday feast prep., and discovered that the "really cool" tablecloth I got yesterday for a steal, was a steal because...."IT'S A FUCKING GOD-DAMNED VINYL TABLECLOTH!!!" Where the hell did my mind go in the moment of "Wow, what a great price" and "wonder why it's so cheap?" Really? Vinyl? These were things that my suspicious Yankee mind would have ferrited out once. Apparently no longer. 'Cuz here I am trying to figure out just what the fuck I can do with it. I'm not returning it because frankly, the 3.99 it costs is not worth the 2.84 per gallon to take it back.
Then, I realize that I am simply trying to accomplish way to much with my remaining quiet hours and rethink when it is I will do the laundry, bring up the Yule decor from storage, and still find time to imbibe in a good glass of wine and peruse a magazine for holiday ideas. About the time I'm congradulating myself for taking a break and only bringing down the box fans to the basement, I discover that mold has invaded an entire box of pocketbooks and anhilited two really old leather bags of mine! If these things had gotten any fuzzier they'd be angora! Christ! As much as it hurt to throw away leather, I was more concerned at that point with saving a silk bag my sister had brought back from Thailand for me.
We moved from our old apartment to this one when our landlord was nearly complete renovations. We moved from the opposite side of town after years of swearing to one another we would never do it. Here we are, beautiful sunsrises and sunsets, boys happy in school, more room then we had before, and MICE! One of the reasons we left the old place was mold. Mold that had only recently begun to develope but after a couple of years of heavy rain and flooding had taken hold. So, now we have mice (and still some mildew from poorly installed windows (any suggestions people?). I threw away my first trap with a decapitated mouse in it today. Not a proud moment because I really hate to kill critters, but my family's health comes first. We have a cat who was clearly never a mouser, and, I write this from my sons desk which overlooks a steep drop off of trees and rocks, city views and clearly, lots of places for mice to hide. I've worked really hard at not being a fanatic about cleaning to obsession because life is too short, and now find myself wondering what the solution is.
My longest buddy in the world and I talked today. Yesterday, a very old boyfriend apparently walked into her shop. He's not worth a lot of wasted time to discuss, so suffice it to say, that some memories are truly best left forgotten. I've grown up a lot since then; apparently, he has not. His name became synonymous with dorky clueless behavior, except, that he believes somehow that he is till the intelligent one. Ignorance is bliss.
But, it's been a day of good humor. Isn't that all we can really hope for? That we have the good decency at the end of the day to not take life, or ourselves, too seriously?
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