Snakeskin Journey

I walk off into the mid-morning sounds of bird songs and whirling insects—the woods and hedgerows are alive with sound.  My entire body is sore…sore from a marathon Mother’s Day weeding session, sore from an accidental fall off my lawn tractor (parked and turned off, my shorts catching on a lever causing me to tumble to the gravel hitting elbow and bottom), sore from a series of plane rides depositing me here at my sister’s home.  I need to stretch it out.

The weather is warm and somewhat humid.  It feels familiar down to my bones (this place I know, this place I am known) and I enjoy the occasional breeze as I peer into front and side yards, noting the differences from where I live.  I pass a pond, and a multitude of gravel driveways spitting rocks onto the narrow blacktop I follow.  I smile as I realize the sounds I hear echo remarkably the “sunrise” setting of the battery operated machine I brought along to play at night to mask the unfamiliar household noises as I sleep.

Later on when I drive to my parents now empty house to meet the sweet man who has long mown their lawn and brought them fresh vegetables from his garden I realize things have changed forever.  I’m sobered and somewhat saddened—my reflexes will have to adjust again and I do not like it.  I can only imagine what my mother must feel.

The main purpose of my recent trip to Southern Illinois was to decide and execute how to divide up the contents of my parents’ home.  It was a bittersweet task for everyone involved, but not without some humorous moments.  In fact there were times when I found myself not just smiling but laughing out loud—loudly.

In the balance, it was my father who provided the lighthearted relief. Though sadly he passed away this last December, his presence loomed large as I picked and pulled myself through the large library and the stacks of his odd collections of articles and magazines.  To say he could be obsessive about things truly does not touch the reality.

And so one of the memories I brought back was this book.

When I found this treasure, I laughed from my belly.  What in the world?!  I cannot imagine the thought process that brought on this creation but I can imagine my father sitting in his chair creating it, one sticky note at a time.

My longtime friend, Jill, is no stranger to farming.  Back when her children were babies she’d spend entire days driving a huge tractor beside her husband, baking in the sun and aching from the labor.  She spent a large part of her adult life working in banking and investments—trying to help farmers hang on and get ahead and then moving into huge corporate areas that, frankly, left her discouraged and fearing for our future.

Jill took it back, back to the roots of farming, purchasing a place just across the Union County border in the fertile hills of Southern Illinois. After crisscrossing the country visiting organic farms which inspired her imagination and fueled her desire to do something significant with her time and energy, she labored along side the workers sent to erect her four greenhouses—come all the way from Washington state.  This is her first growing season and she and her lone helper spend the bulk of each day pruning and selecting and planting and harvesting and watering (and whatever else it takes to manage multiple crops), learning the ropes of growing organic produce and flowers and finding ways to market them to the surrounding businesses and consumers.

It is a bold move, this late career/lifestyle change.  I’ll admit that her time spent in big farming and banking and investments paved the way to allow her to follow a dream.  Visiting recently (after being almost knocked over by one of her large champion bred dogs) she and I tromped through the fields to see what was growing.  Kale! Cucumbers!  Onions!  Flowers!  She explained that her houses (she has four) are on tracks, allowing them to be pushed so that the soil can be exposed to the elements after a growing season.  Fascinating technology and yet in the end, the fruits of all the investment and labor were gorgeous green plants spreading and climbing and growing so fast I felt like I if I could just turn around quickly enough I would catch them stretching to the sky.

I hope the best for my friend.  I hope Southern Illinois embraces her efforts and chows down on her beautiful and healthy produce.  I hope she finds a way to do some farm to table dinners out there in the fields along side her flowers.  I hope her gamble satisfies her desire to live purposefully and eventually profitably too.  And I hope, when I go back soon to visit, there is still some of that kale left for me.

Home.  Three long days in a box truck, 2300 miles.  I’m pleased to be home and I’m beat.  From where I sit I’m confronted by piles (and piles) of things unpacked from boxes pulled from the truck, and my house and porch are littered with furniture.

My sister Karen had a little cry when she faced the enormity of what she’d rescued from my parents’ soon to be sold home—perhaps it reflects something about my personality when I admit to loud laughter as my strong sons unloaded all of this chaos.  How could I have done this?  Where will I put it all and why??

The “where” will be a bit tricky, though having a large storage unit will allow me to trade some of my current things for the new/old ones.  The “why” is less tricky, and perhaps the reason for my laughter.

Even in chaos, as my eyes roam the room, I am comforted and delighted to recognize continuity.  Here is something of my mother…there my father.  Over on that table a dish from my grandmother…that box holds simple doll furniture built by my great-grandfather during the dark hours on his job as a night watchman.

I can see the treadle sewing machine on which I learned to sew–a love/hate relationship when in junior high (looking forward to the electric machines) I was stuck using the lone treadle because I alone had experience on one.

These “things” I drove home on a grueling, lonely drive are just “things”.  But they are part of my family history, connecting me and my children to stories and sadness and events and laughter.  The “things” become the catalyst for memories to be shared.  They are the springboard for stories beginning not with “once upon a time” but with those delicious words “remember when”.

I’m an emotional wreck as I drive away from my parents’ nearly empty house.  The twelve foot rental truck I’m steering hints loudly at the baggage—actual and emotional—I carry with me.  The truck holds a treasure trove of Freitag family history along with the somewhat quirky mementos of life in the bosom of this family.

It has bothered me over the years to see truckloads of antiques bought up from the Midwest to be sold at high prices in California.  I have no intention of selling, but I still feel a bit guilty taking these things away. Two local young men, Joe and Erik, packed the truck yesterday.  I was touched at the care they took, and grateful.  It feels balanced as I drive, though I’m half terrified to make this journey alone.  I’ve driven this route many times but never in a truck like this…I do like my rear view mirror and the thought of having to back up gives me pause.  My goal:  move forward, simple as that.

It is nearly the end of my time here.  By most standards it has been very productive.  Having been warned (yes, warned is the correct term) by several friends that parsing out my parents’ belongings could get dicey and devastating, I’ll have to say the process has gone smoother than anticipated.  Emotions have played a part but less, frankly, than expected.

Today the Friends of the Library volunteers will come and take away the considerable amount of books gathered from all corners of the house for their annual book sale.  My mother likes that they will go to a good cause.  My sisters have taken the items they gathered in our tribal wanderings, room to room to room, and my enormous piles await the strong backs of some college boys and the truck I’ve rented to drive my memories home.

Mother’s new apartment is ready and awaiting her arrival on Sunday. Placing each familiar object in an attempt to echo what Mom is used to…this small dresser on the right side of the bed, the coffee making things in the cabinet to the left of the sink, the kitchen table ready with napkin and salt and pepper holder in the center of the lazy-susan, and finally Pam and Gordon’s artful placement of wall prints and family photos the icing on the cake.  The details will fill in—today the phone is turned on, I will stock the refrigerator with apples and milk and fresh ground no-salt peanut butter from the co-op.  Change of address at the post office, and suddenly a new chapter begins.

I’m leaving wishing I had the time to see this out to the end.  The house has “stuff” left, lots of it.  We are not sure what to do with it and the house is listed for sale as of this coming week.  But duties of home are calling and I have a long drive ahead.  I will have many hours of interstate in the cab of a ten foot moving truck to sift and contemplate and dream and anguish over what has happened and what is to come.

The house, always so welcoming and tidy, looks like a garage sale come inside from the rain.  In the downstairs family room every surface is covered with the ghosts of Christmases past—the ornaments and decorations collected over 60-plus years of marriage.  Unwrapping it all and spreading it out for view was my method for us to decide what to keep and what to discard and so I had spent many hours laying it all out for view.

For a time my parents put up three separate trees:  the big one with its catch-all ornaments saved for decades, many made with love and fumbling fingers by children and grandchildren; my father’s tree of clowns of all colors, shapes and sizes; and my mother’s spectacular tree filled with beautiful bird ornaments.  Add to that the tabletop santas, ceramic angels and trees, several tree toppers, multiple Christmas tree skirts and other fabric decorations for mantle, table and wall…that is a lot of ghosts.

I brought my mother home for a few hours (she was thrilled to be in her home, messy as it was) and after sitting for a time at her beloved computer we went downstairs.  We were both pleased that her therapy had strengthened her enough to allow her to negotiate the long staircase.

Using her walker for steadiness, she wound her way through the Christmas clutter and the amazing amount of glassware (valued and not, that I pulled from the depths of cabinets and cupboards), commenting, choosing a few things to take to the new apartment, and giving me a story here or there.  By the time we made it back up the stairs, oxygen tank in tow, she was tired and it was time to go.

Dropping her back off in her small room at the rehab/nursing center, I wondered how she was absorbing it all.  ”Are you scared or excited?”, I asked.  ”Mostly scared”, she said.

Later she told my sister Karen that she wishing she could keep it all…and while I don’t quite believe that (after all, some of the things had not seen the light of day for many, many years) I do understand that she is facing her mortality, the final break from a place she lived with her husband, and the loss of place she calls home.  Of course she wants to keep it all…and my heart wishes she could.

There are days, all too frequent, when my life could be descriptively illustrated by a picture of me leaping from ice chunk to ice chunk…shoreline in the misty distance.  If I just keep moving, using the momentum of that last push-off, and if the ice will only keep floating into my path—well, I just might make it to the shore.

I know from experience and conversation that many people feel this way.  Some are quite good at hiding this from view, others scream their heads off hoping someone will notice and rescue them.  My latest leap in the quest for solid ground takes me back to the Heartland. Arriving in St. Louis, I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the Mighty Mississippi (this is what I get for insisting on an aisle seat) marking the shore of my old home state.

The last leg of the day, a small plane flying me low and intimate over the landscape, offers up markers:  St. Louis’ famous archway to the west, trains, baseball fields, strip mines, water towers, a small landing strip leading to a touchdown in Southern Illinois…yep, I’m back.

My sister lets me stop at the store after picking me up (coffee, cream, wine) and then drops me off at my parents’ vacant house.  I wander, deciding to sleep in my father’s old bedroom—not wanting to impose on my mother even though she will never sleep here again.  The calendar in the kitchen, the one in the office, and the one in the bedroom are all on the wrong month, unturned since my mother has been convalescing from her broken neck.  The hardest calendar to see is the wooden one with numbers my father changed daily while he lived here.  It reads May 25, a date that is approaching but was last changed last year.

Every room, every item serves me notice:  this will not be easy.  Gear up.  I’m here to work on dispensing the contents of this house, bracing myself to deal with sisters and memories, furniture and photographs, and my mother.  I can barely see that shoreline and can only hope to go with the floe.

It is difficult to image a culture that does not incorporate blessings into its fabric.  This discovery of the paintings in The Cave of Lascaux in France, thought to be painted some 15,000 years ago, are surmised to have been done in part as a blessing for the hunt.

Women whisper blessings as they send their children off to school…or to war.  Holy men pray blessings upon seekers from their perches in caves or churches or mosques.  Choirs sing blessings, handed down from generation to generation.  Fathers place hands of blessing on the heads of their sons, hoping for a better life.

Many years ago when my family was visiting my husband’s paternal grandparents, my husband asked his grandfather to bless him.  It came out of the blue (at least to me though I’m sure much thought had gone into this request) and yet the grandfather responded with grace and surety.  He placed his hand on the head of his grandson, closed his eyes and lifted his voice to God.  It was a sweet moment and in the end, both men came away blessed.

My sons are off on a business adventure.  They have created a company, a towing company.  The truck, large and sturdy, made for rescue and recovery, was blessed this past week…sprinkled with water flung from cuttings of rosemary, saved from the Feast of Theophany. It felt right to witness and participate in this ritual, acknowledging a pull as constant and ancient as the movement of the tides.

On a rainy afternoon the last day of March I sliced, diced, steamed and simmered my way to a passable vegetable/lentil/bean soup.  As I blew on each too-hot spoonful, I paged through a magazine that bills itself for older women “of style and substance”.  I do not order this magazine and yet it appears monthly in my postal box.  The magazine has a regular feature that proclaims:  ”This is what __ looks like (fill in the blank with a number, an age).  Trust me, it is not what __ looks like.

Self inflicted torture is what I get for reading this thing.  Yet again I chastise myself for bringing it home rather than tossing it straight into the recycle bin at the post office.  Why do I do it?  This glossy monthly claims to cater to women of substance and yet most of the articles focus on fashion, diet, make-up to look younger, and food (oh, throw in the success stories of women transitioning from oppressive corporate jobs to dream jobs saving the environment or running non-profits to empower women from third world countries).

The thing is…and I cannot be alone in this…my take-away from this type of publication is a nagging feeling of inadequacy mixed with disgust at the sales pitch.  Just once I’d love to read a story about the typical, struggling, loving, failing, working, trying, seeking, imperfect human.  Just once I’d like to finish an article with the recognition that I’m in the company of a kindred spirit.  But here is the thing…I’m feeding at the wrong table, I’m swimming in the wrong ocean, I’m searching in the wrong place.

Next time, the recycle bin gets the toss—and I’ll get to eat in peace.