Abandoned

I’m meant to be leaving. I plan to deliver food to my friend’s family as they sit vigil over their dying mother. I plan to visit my aunt in Winter Haven; there are just so many summers. And just so many springs – we have to spend time with our loved ones when we can. I plan to drop off a key to my brother’s house in Winter Haven to the man who will be doing some repairs.

Here I am, though, in my own home, windows open to the humid, warm air. I’m listening to silence punctuated by the delicate sound of wind chimes dancing on the breeze, traffic on the distant interstate, Sandhill cranes calling; the ceiling fan steadily spinning. I had to sit and write a few moments before I go to my tasks. Home has been on my mind – home, our abandoned childhood home, laying in cold, darkness, the basement filled with water from a burst pipe; the foundation probably compromised, because the mortar holding the giant stones the foundation stands on is melting in that giant puddle of water. The backyard pool, always so beautiful, even with snow covering it; the promise of summer lay waiting; now half filled with muddy, dirty snow and water; the lining ripped and torn.

I drive by abandoned, crumbling, falling down houses all the time, and I can imagine the stories those walls could tell. They break my heart, those sad lonely houses. I imagine that someone walked out that door for the last time, leaving all the memories stored in those walls behind. We did that this past fall; how can that be? How can it be that we cannot keep it AND our own homes, too? Our home since we were pre-teens closed up, lonely, yet full of a lifetime of memories both good and bad; life, death, laughter, tears – joy, sorrow. That beautiful, stately home, deteriorating day by day since it was rebuilt and reimagined 45 years ago. That beautiful stately home, originally built back in the turn of the 20^th century, surviving the fire that swept through the village so long ago. That home lovingly cared for, now lying so silent and still. Years of porch sitting, years of old windows open to spring and summer breezes. Years of lives lived, dreams dreamed. Years, more recently, of mom’s quiet, lonely days.

Abandoned homes break my heart. At some point, someone was the last person to turn the key in the lock and walk away from that place of life, of memories of secrets. This time, it was our task to take on. My heart is filled with sorrow. 

River glass and the passage of time

It’s hard to believe it is already so late in the year. My great-grandmother’s voice always resonates in my mind when I think thoughts about how quickly time flies. I can remember being in her apartment one afternoon after school and for some reason the topic came up. I don’t remember her exact tone of voice, but her words stay with me, all these years later – when you get older time seems to go faster and faster and one day you blink and wonder how you came to be this old person. Her apartment was never sunny and bright. The sun rose and set at odd angles around her place, so I remember it as being dark; black and white almost, although I know it was not somber. That memory probably lies within the photo I took of her sitting at the window overlooking Cherry St. – her face was bathed in filtered sunlight and the lines on her face were so striking to me; she was beatific. The expression on her face says she was lost in thought, or in a memory. She was approaching 80 then, her husband had been gone for close to 25 years; my grandmother – her firstborn daughter - may have just passed away; she died when I was 17. From time to time her words echo in my mind; those afternoons spent in short visits to her remain part of the fabric of my teenage years.

The date was not on my mind as I decided to record my thoughts this morning, but as I typed the date and realized there are only four more months left in this year, my mind’s eye blinked, then the memory of Grandma Hooker came to mind. The thoughts first on my mind were waking to a dream of walking in a river with several of my friends. It was just a shallow river, flowing lazily in the late summertime. It was peaceful, calm, serene. They were standing on the banks talking, bantering, lost in their own conversations and I was searching for river glass. Searching for glass is a passion of mine. There is something in the hunt itself; something soothing and thrilling all at once to discover little moments of the past in the form of shards of glass – broken bottles, glasses, even dishes, polished with a soft edge, once whole, then discarded, lost, broken down with time, water, sand, and rocks. River or sea glass are little pieces of someone’s life, even if it was just a bottle of beer someone drank and tossed in the river or ocean. It doesn’t matter, it somehow becomes special with the passage of time. It’s kind of like a quest for antiques; they assume a character; a history; and if they could talk they could tell a part of someone’s life story.

But my dream - It was a soft slice of time; a moment of quiet and tranquility. Such are the moments I collect and use as a balm for my soul. I am a seeker of silence, of simple moments, of peace, serenity, quietude. It’s not always possible in our world full of noise and distractions. Many of us feel the need to fill all of our moments with something; a distraction, a sound, an activity. Maybe such moments make some people feel alive, with purpose, or action. I am discovering more and more that I like quiet, and I am finding the world more and more noise filled. Waking from such a dream this morning was something substantial or symbolic. There is probably some implication that dream interpreters might find – it was definitely a seeking dream (most of my dreams are searching dreams where I look for someone or something). Maybe it was just as simple as what I was searching for was just a few moments of peace and tranquility in a life full of activity and not nearly enough quiet time for reflection or for myself. I had such moments this summer, although they were spaced farther out than I would have liked. Maybe the dream is just a reminder to me to appreciate those few moments of silence as they come, and to treasure them as I do bits of river glass, or even moments of memories of loved ones who have passed on.

The Red Pashmina

I have a red pashmina I bought in Rome. It travels with me where ever I go. It's been to Sweden, Ireland, Canada, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maryland, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, Colorado, Washington, California, Oregon, and all over the southeast; Florida, South and North Carolina, Georgia, West Virginia, and Virginia. It's well travelled, and it keeps me warm as a cover on chilly flights. I wear it often as a fashionable neck scarf when not traveling. It's soft and light, and I easily conforms to whatever role is needed.

I searched Rome for it; literally. Pashminas, in Rome, are available everywhere in wide arrays of colors, textures, and lengths. I wanted a particular shade of red, and I found it my very last day there. It was meant for my mother. She loved red. She had a red leather jacket, red leather fringed boots (that I bought for her). She wanted her kitchen to be red; red cabinets, etc. The Pashmina I found was an earthy red, almost brick red. Not too much orange, brightness or dark tones to it. Perfect.

I got home from Italy on a Saturday morning, and I talked to my mother on the phone for two hours on Sunday, sharing so many details of my trip; the food I was going to prepare for her, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. The feel of the air in Tuscany on a clear, cool, spring night, with a million stars shining down on me, the only sound to be heard, the wind in my ears. I told her of the 1100 year old church I discovered, still in use, on the road from Radda-in-Chianti to Adine-in-Chianti, and how I sat in those beautiful thick stone walls, cool even though the sun made my hike quite hot. I sat, relishing the peace, listening to the wind, with the scent of luscious food cooking and the faint, lovely sounds of Italian radio coming from a nearby kitchen while the woman inside prepared a noon time meal for her family. I told my mother how the Adriatic looked as it lapped the shores of The Lido in Venice; the quiet, calm, serene slippage of Venice; the joy and glory of Venetian children playing gondola tag, or soccer In their local square. How I adored Florence with David, Raphael, Dante....how Artemisia Gentileschi's paintings moved me to tears...the bars on the windows below the street and how I imagined bony fingers reaching for scraps of food. Rome and the ancient glories; how the old merges so very well with the new, about sidling up to the bar in a cafe and ordering une cafe, per favore - non, no - not Americano! Being stopped by men on the street, kissing their fingers my calling me Bella signorine. Stumbling on Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Theresa by accident, and only because another tourist added a euro to her light box. About the tragedy of the beggars on every corner; on every church step, the woman who dressed her child In rags and sent her begging with a crushed McDonalds cup. The Roman forum and how eloquent it still is; the majestic, crumbling colosseum. I was a chatterbox and she was so proud of me and my wonderful adventure alone for 22 days in a very foreign country, not knowing the language, but having absolutely the best time of my life. She  told me her mouth was watering and she could not wait for me to try the new recipes I obtained from my Tuscan cooking class. I told her that I bought her the perfect present; probably the most perfect present I'd ever found for her (besides the red leather fringed boots!). I told her I could not tell her what it was, but I would come visit soon and cook for her and bring it. Three days later I was on my way to her house, unplanned, dreading the drive, dreading being there. My mother died two days after our wonderful, unknown at the time, last conversation. It was sudden, they say painless, but it was such a staggering loss it's indescribable.

She will always be young forever to my sisters and I. She had just turned 63, and the heart attack was so unexpected. I brought those soft red, fringed leather boots home, and they are in my closet, waiting for me to wear them. The pashmina is with me right now as I write, sitting in a plane, an hour or so east of Seattle. My mother is gone, but she lives on through me and my sisters. She was not a brave adventurer. She lived a small life the best way she knew how. She did not travel much. She was happy enough in the world she made. She was not the strongest or the bravest person in the world. She depended on a man to help create her happiness, and on a man to take care of her, and often the men in her life changed her outward appearance - she was a chameleon with the ability to be whoever her man wanted her to be. Still, she was my mother; my beautiful, adoring, caring, kind, quirky, sensitive soul of a mother. She taught my sisters and I to be brave, to take chances, to want more, do more in our lives, but to above all be happy. She loved poetry and reading. She instilled in my sisters and I a sense of wonder and curiosity, and I love her. She did not dole advice, but I can hear her words in my head when I have decisions to make. I  miss her daily, and I still hear her breathy chuckle-laugh in my ear all the time. I carry the pashmina I bought for her in Rome every place I travel to; every adventure I take. It's like having a piece of my mom with me, and it's kind of like giving her adventures she never had. My great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, us; now my nieces. We are all a part of those who came before us, who lived their lives so we could come into being. My great-grandmother was an adult before women could vote. She gave birth to my grandmother and great-aunts right around the time the law passed giving women the right to vote. My grandmother raised my mother in a post -WWII world; a time of subdivisions, women joining the work force, etc. My grandmother stayed home; never drove a car, raised her two daughters in much the same fashion as she was raised. She was a round, warm, affectionate, apron-wearing, cookie-baking grandmother. My mom raised her daughters in the tumultuous 60s and 70s and we are all a part of them. Fate, destiny, chance. I am who I am because of those who came before me, and I am so very grateful. My pashmina keeps me warm now, as the plane begins the descent to Seattle, and my next adventure begins.

Dates

July 12, 2015

Dates are funny reminders of the past. Every now and then one becomes significant in our memories; births, deaths, marriages, anniversaries. They are just dates on a calendar, and yet they become so momentous in our minds, and they become placeholders of moments in time. I have my own placeholders of my past. Of course my birth, that of my parents wedding – my mother’s death; the day Steve and I started going together; our marriage. Somehow the date of our divorce escapes my memory, but I think that is more of a lack of desire of celebration than anything. There is a day in February that I remember that goes back to college; a day of remembrance that is important, not in the grand scheme of my life, but just a minor life-changing moment I choose to remember.

I am a keeper of objects. Little things that remind me of important moments. Photos, papers, notes, etc. On the vanity mirror on my dresser there is a ticket stub tucked in the bottom on the right corner. Tab Benoit, Skippers Smoke House, January 17, 2014 – admit one. That was really the day of my own personal independence, or freedom day. Insignificant in the overall picture of my life; just a blip on the radar screen, and yet there it is. It ends up the memory associated brings on mirth, rather than tears, although earlier in the day it could have gone either way. I don’t celebrate the end of my marriage. I just don’t. I am sad it ended, but I also recognize that I have moved on, moved up, that my life has become so much more than it probably ever would have with Steve in my life. That said, I also recognize that I was happy; I was content. I meant to stay married; I meant to have a 30^th or a 50^th anniversary. I meant it when I said for better or worse. So the loss of that in my life was never cause for celebration. 

On January 14, 2014; that was a day that did reduce me to tears. Tears of loss, feelings of inadequacy, rage, frustration, almost a bitterness, and very much a bittersweet look at the past. That was the day that Steve deposited his very last alimony payment. For him I think it was liberating, and I guess, for me, it was too. It had already gone on longer than the court papers specified. He had been sick the year before and was out of a work some, so; we worked out a deal to make the payments last longer for me, and ease his financial burden. We also admitted to each other that we knew once that last payment was made that was officially our last legal tie. It was sad and scary and so final. I did cry. I felt that loss keenly, even though he had been gone officially so very long. I almost did not go to the concert. I was afraid I would bring down the mood of my friends, that I would drink too much and be too sad. I remember sitting outside in my car giving myself a pep talk. I remember thinking, ok, Kim. You can go in and be sad and have a terrible time. Or, you can suck this up like you have every other bad thing. You can take a deep breath, go in, enjoy yourself, let your hair down and show the world that you are ok; that you are a survivor. So that is what I did. I did tell my friends about the day, and I did share my decision to have a good time, regardless. And I had a great time. I was flirty, attractive, cute, fun. I laughed all night, and I did drink too much, but it was all okay. My friend Tammy drove me home – the first time ever that we switched roles, and I laughed and felt good all the way home. I was not hung over the next day, and we still talk about that night and how much fun I had. Even now, the reminder of that date brings a smile to my face. It was an awful time in my life; a sad, momentously sad moment in the history of my life. But I am so proud to say that I overcame that and turned my night into so much more. That January 14, 2014 was truly a day to remember.

Pieces of a memory

March 3, 2015

As I walked to the mailbox tonight I found a piece of ceramic tile. Many, many years ago before this house was built, back when my father-in-law owned this property he collected “stuff”. One man’s junk is another’s treasure, and to him it was all treasure. One of his treasures was a load of broken pieces of tile. I am sure he had a purpose in mind for it one day – in his mind’s eye it was useful. After he died and we eventually built this house, Steve filled in the foot of the driveway with wheelbarrow loads of those tile pieces. We had dump truck loads of gravel put in, too, and all these years later, pieces of tile float to the top surface, especially after heavy rains.

 I’ve always thought of finding those pieces of tile a bit like stumbling on the memories of my life with Steve. Little pieces of the past, in a way. Several years ago I wrote in my blog about that topic. My blog disappeared a few months ago – poof, gone into cyber space, but I had the foresight to save at least some of my entries. So this is a piece of my past writing; past moments, all because just now I found another piece of tile in my driveway.

Dec. 29th, 2007

08:33 am - One Man's Junk

A long time ago my father-in-law was a junk collector. To him it was not junk, but future possibilities. To the neighbors, seeing his various dilapidated barns and piles of pipes, old washing machines, farm equipment, etc.; he collected junk. When I moved in here so many years ago, to me, it was junk. When we bought the place 20 years ago, to us both, Steve and I, it was junk. Steve tried hard to clean it up. He would have a pile sorted out and all ready to go to the dump, but somehow that pile mysteriously dwindled and days later he would find some of what he classified as junk back where it had been. To Mr. Foster it was treasure waiting for it's proper use. He knew most everything he had, too. In his mind there was order in what we perceived as chaos. When he died a few years after we bought the place, it was possible for Steve to finally get some of that stuff out of here. He had a friend who hauled off load after load of steel, metal, pipe, etc and he sold it for all for scrap and ended up making a good bit of money. Steve never regretted the money his friend made; he was just glad to have that stuff out of here! So the land was cleared, and seven years later we built this house To do so, we had to tear down the last barn standing. After the new house was up, the old house had to come down, and that was the end of the era of the junk collection here on this property. It has reverted back to grass and trees and nature, and it is a beautiful place to live. It is funny that now and then I long for those days. Not so much the junk (junk in Florida attracts roaches, snakes, rats, bull ants, etc). I long for the happiness of those days; for the order of my life in all of that chaos. It is as if when the junk left and the new house went up, the order of my life went with it. Did that junk somehow represent as the natural order of my life?

Part of the junk collection was a pile of ceramic tile. There were four inch squares that had been broken and of various colors that were mis-matched, but mostly the pile was tiny one inch square tiles. They were tiles from someone’s bathroom once; imagine the life they had? Lining someone’s bathroom floor, walls, shower stall? Laid ages ago, someone worked to keep them clean; they witnessed lives being lived, and then, poof, one day, they were removed. Maybe the house was removed to make way for a newer house, and somehow those tiles ended up here in the junk collection of an old man who saw their future potential, or maybe he just imagined their past; who can say? Steve used those tiles in the driveway as filler. After he dumped the loads of tile in the driveway, we got in a dump-truck load of fine gravel. It took him days, but he finally got it leveled. However many years ago that was, the fine gravel has basically all dissipated into the ground. Now the tiles pop to the surface of the driveway like memories. I find myself collecting them and saving them in a glass bowl. This morning on my way to the road to retrieve the garbage can, I found two more. I brought them to the house, washed them off, and I will keep them like scraps of my life; scraps of the life I had here, ceramic scraps of the past that remind me of my life and my happiness; of who I was, and who I want to continue to be.

Today is my wedding anniversary. I am divorced, and I hate that word, hate that state of being. I miss being married, I loved being married. I reserve this one day to myself each year. I let myself remember, I cry if I choose, I laugh at some thoughts, and I let myself wallow a bit in how it used to be. I can tell myself I am ok, I will be happy again, I will be loved again, and I mostly believe that. But this one day a year I let myself be alone with my thoughts and my feelings; whichever direction they take, and I give this to myself without judgment or justification, and I think that is fine. Finding two tiles this morning was like finding two memories waiting for me.

Current Location: The back porch

Current Mood: reflective but not sad

Current Music: The chatter of birds

 

Peace and Reflection

February 8, 2015 

This morning I am feeling peaceful, yet reflective. Every tiny thing brings a memory – the trill of the morning birds, sweet, singing their songs, seemingly to my human ears, purely for my enjoyment. The fresh, cool air streaming in through the open back door (48 degrees cool). The slant of sunshine pouring in through the glass, sliding across the counter, diving through the bottles of wine stored there; jeweled prisms refracting, casting beautiful glances across the kitchen. The early morning fog floats above the ground; the dewy grass shines diamond rainbows where the sunlight catches dewdrops through the mist. It’s a beautiful, calm start to Sunday. 

                                                                                             

The slant of the sun triggers quick thoughts, memories of moving into the house originally. Steve asleep on the mattress in the bedroom; the bed frame leaning against the wall. A variety of boxes scattered around the house; me, an early riser always, prowling through the newness of the house and familiarizing myself with my settings. One of the first things that caught my attention was the light streaming through the brand new glass on the oversized sliding doors. The moss was not so thick in the trees, a large oak branch flung its arm across the yard and the sun played tag with the extending fingers of the tree. The quiet was beautiful – we were farther off the road, and peace and tranquility were mine in that brief moment in time. 

The cool morning air reminds me of so many summer days at home in New York I cannot name them all – pressing my nose to the dusty metal screen in my grandmothers upstairs bedrooms – breathing in wood dust, morning air, sweet cool air. Of sitting on the back porch at the lake, the sound of frogs chirping, burping, splashing; the cast of a fishing line as someone cast on the lake; the sound of a motor starting, then stopping as the fisherman moved their boats to another sweet spot. The clink of the flagpole as the flag danced and furled in the early morning breeze. Beautiful moments in time fleeting as they pass, yet forever destined to be reminders of the story of my life.

Pushing Back the Clouds

It’s been cloudy today; overcast, misty, gray. The air is heavy, almost oppressive. Cool air is on its way, but often here in Florida, this time of year, this is typical weather. I am pensive; thoughtful this morning, reflective and reminiscing on days gone by. I knew when I first got the message, that when I returned the call it would be bad news. I knew Maryann – Nanny, was sick; deathly so. I did not expect the news to be that John – Papa, had died suddenly. It seems that he had received news some time ago that he had liver cancer. He chose to keep it to himself, and he chose to focus on Maryann, his life, his love of 50 odd years. I never thought of him as self-sacrificing, but I guess I never had reason to think that way. Now Maryann lies on her own death bed, hospice coming in and making her as comfortable as possible, knowing her husband lost his life and that she will soon follow. There must be some comfort in that; such a long life lived together and neither having to live very long without the other.

When I first met them I was 19, and newly arrived in Florida, newly in love for the first time, full of new impressions and a new life wide open and gorgeous in front of me. The finer details of their lives elude me now, with the passage of time, but I knew their hearts were huge with the capacity to love. They lived just down the road – not even quite a mile, and yet we would often spend the night, crashed in this bed or that, sleeping off the massive party we had celebrated the night before – their only concern that we stay for our own safety. Often John was the one downstairs first, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, enjoying the peace of the early day, and me, always an early riser, relished those quiet moments of fulfilling conversations. They were more like friends than the parents of a friend. They laughed at our crazy antics, and they had more than a few themselves. We partied, hard, with them, and around them, and we stayed safe and sound. Those were crazy, chaotic days filled with a lot of alcohol, a lot of laughter and silliness, yet I remember them fondly as some of the most peaceful, carefree days of my life.

Maryann and John worked hard and their lives were not easy, but they never lost their spirit or determination to fill the world with their love. They wanted a lot of children, but God had other plans for them. Maryann had Ricky and John adopted him; together they fostered and adopted, and extended their family, picking up stray people left and right. None were strangers and all were considered and treated like family. I could not now even begin to untangle the webs of love and care they extended and cast over so many people. I know I am just one little soul in the arms of their care, and through them I came to know and appreciate so many people. 

I’ve known them a long time now – 33 years. They were such a large part of my early days here in Florida; until after my marriage, until after Steve drifted away from his friendship with Ricky, their son, for various irrelevant reasons. Similarly, Steve eventually pulled away from everything in his life, leaving it all behind with barely a backward glance. For the years leading up to Steve’s separation from Ricky’s life, we could stop down at their house at any time, be welcomed with open arms, a warm friendly hello, a great conversation. After Steve left I was in such an odd position. I was close with his sisters, his aunt, all of his friends prior to my arrival in his life. I made the choice to not contact them all, to not force them to take sides, to not stay in touch with so many of them. It was not until the last few years that I began to realize Steve did not just leave me and our life, but he left his entire past behind, including people. By that time, so much living had taken place and I had moved in such a different direction than the others, it was hard to step back in and pick up where we left off. It was hard to rekindle, but it is not hard to remember how vital those years and friendships were. 

When Ricky died seven years ago I nearly did not go to his funeral. I wanted to go, to express my condolences, to share memories with the entire extended family, but I was afraid I might be stepping on a place where Steve belonged, rather than me. His reaction to Ricky’s death was terrible for me to take. He was blasé, almost uncaring, unfeeling. Oh, that is sad, he said. My heart cracked even wider. So I went, he did not, and he never mentioned it again. In their mourning, Maryann and John were so kind and gracious to me, about Steve, about the missing years. And I have meant to go back and see them, yet somehow I never did. I have kept in touch with the girls; their granddaughters, but I have not physically been back to see them, and now it is too late. I can remember them with love and gratitude, but truly, the past is past.

Maryann and John. Hearts of gold, hardworking, hard living, rough around the edges by some standards, but if you ever spent any time with them, all that was obvious was their devotion to each other and to the lives of the children they had accumulated through the years, picking us all up like strays, giving each one a safe harbor, reigns to live and make choices, guidance if needed, along with chaotic, peaceful to nest. They lacked judgment over people, unless their loved ones were wronged.  Their house was messy and big and overflowing with pets and kids and craziness, yet they thrived. They had a chance to buy a new house, to buy the bait shop Maryann had worked at so long, and they did. They moved, lock, stock, barrel, and the new house became the same safe, messy chaotic, safe-haven the old one was. John continued to travel – he was a long distance truck driver, and Maryann continued to run the bait shop. A few years ago they sold the shop – it is gone now, but it was on the corner of a busy, developing area. Instead of enjoying those retirement years, their health began declining. Ricky died of a heart attack, and I know their lives took a terrible turn. Looking back and reflecting on life, it is amazing when we consider the people who have touched our lives, unintentionally, unplanned for, unexpected. And yet, oftentimes, those are the very people who we come to realize have made powerful impressions on our hearts.

This morning the clouds hung low in the sky. It’s a gray day. But a little while ago the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and the day brightened. It occurred to me that John has his angel wings now, and maybe he is the one who helped push back the clouds. He was always, always, a ray of sunshine in my life. I always wanted what he and Maryann had; a loose, easy relationship, complicated by family and bills and craziness, but a true dedication and devotion to each other. I admired him for his ease of friendship, his bawdy humor and great big laugh. He was an amazing hugger, and incessant flirt, and a sweet, caring, kind, teddy-bear of a man, rough around the edges, but matter of fact and kind, deep down to the core. John Hunstman, thank you so much for gracing my life for all the years I have known you. You are a true blessing to everyone who ever had the pleasure of knowing you. You will be missed.