It is Going to be Okay
Our new house has what I think of as ridiculously high taxes, apparently we are in a great school system, but there is no trash pick-up! Coming from South Florida, where the trash is picked up, at your house, twice a week, including bulk pick-up, which will literally carry away your kitchen sink, adjusting to having to take my trash to the dump, has come kicking and screaming.
Not only do I have to separate my trash, which the city sells, for a handsome profit, according to the men who work at the dump, but I actually have to physically drive it to the dump and deposit everything in its own repository.
The first load of trash, from our house, Kate took by herself. She did not have a very pleasant experience, and someone referred to her as a foreigner – umm? I decided to tag along, for the next load, ready for a fight! As far as I know, Ohio is still in the Union; and while Florida may have a beautifully diverse population, being an adopted Floridian did not make you a foreigner, more importantly: What was wrong with foreigners?
When we arrived, at the trash dump, I paid attention, as Kate walked me around, and we figured out where to put everything; but I was more engrossed with the people, trying to find out who had been mean to Kate, he was not working that day. I remember thinking that Kate has always handled the trash, I really do not have to worry about any of this; but just in case Kate has to be out of town for work, for an extended time, or her Mother needs her to come to Cleveland, or Kate has to go down to deal with the house in Florida, I should know where to take the trash. I did not expect the just in case to be an accident which would impact our life, as we knew it.
The paradox of needing to travel and explore new environments, while hating change, can be quite challenging. There is a part of me which is only truly alive when I am on the road, facing some unknown highway and the adventures that it will bring; but I also have a deep need to know I have a home, a place where I can find my books and art, sit my friends down to eat, a meal I cooked for them, and be engulfed with the music which speaks to my soul. At the moment, my paradoxical needs have become intertwined in a way which I have yet to figure out how to maneuver.
My home is not set up and I am being forced to explore new environments, like the plastic tubing from the dishwasher to the garbage disposal, which I neither knew existed nor had I ever cared to learn about it, nor had I ever wanted to pry nail boarding off of the master-bathroom floor, so that Kate can get in there to shower, without stepping on a nail, or manage the fire in a wood stove.
For lack of a better word, the house in New England is: raw. The interior painting is not finished, the floors did not yet get addressed, except for the tiny “Florida room” which Kate did an excellent job of installing new flooring in, boxes are still unpacked, and the exterior you already know http://thatisallfornow.com/?p=6368 .
Before her accident, Kate and I had a true division of labor, in our home. I assured she always had half and half, for her coffee, and she in turn made sure the car had gas. With the exception of a few road trips, either taken alone or with my Mother, in 27 years, I think I had put gas in my car all of ten times. It is now 11 and I have a feeling I will stop counting. The good news there is that I also have a feeling the gas gauge will never fall below a half tank again – a smiley face is needed here.
When your world stops spinning, as you know it, there are many moments of despair, which can quite literally bring you to a standstill. I know I am not alone in these moments, as I have heard from so many who have already experienced such despair.
I pay the bills and handle our investments and finances, except the mortgages and insurance, which Kate deals with. I remember standing in the emergency room, grateful I had remembered to grab Kate’s wallet and hoping the little insurance card would lead those good souls to whatever other information they were going to need to admit and treat Kate; which it did. We have always been good in an emergency, Kate reminded me. That was true, I thought; but the emergency passes and then you are back to daily life, then what happens?
Kate has always put the Christmas tree up, strung the lights, and then I decorate it, putting a few ornaments aside, like a snowman from Melody, which Kate likes to add to the tree herself. How will I get the tree this year? How will I get it up? How will I stabilize it? Oh wait, why does it matter?
A few days ago, I read this story: “Indiana hunter paralyzed in fall chooses to end life support one day after injury.” http://www.foxnews.com/us/2013/11/06/facing-grim-prognosis-indiana-hunter-paralyzed-in-fall-from-tree-chooses-to-end/?intcmp=trending . My heart, broken in a thousand pieces, as I read about this expectant father, who still had to be in shock, and whose body was not even given the opportunity to heal, before he decided to end his life, because of the expected effects of his accident; Kate’s fall was actually from a greater height, and I am worried about a Christmas tree. Perspective is everything.
Since Kate’s accident, I have found myself repeatedly wishing I could walk over to Fran’s. I suppose Fran is the only person who actually knows all of the sad and uninteresting truths about my life, in last the three years, of turmoil. When going through truly dark days, one of the things you quickly learn is that most people, no matter how well intended, are simply too overwhelmed with their own burdens, to listen to your sorrows. The odd thing with Fran, however, is that she always knew . . . she was always the one who asked . . . and she always knew that the only thing to say was . . . I am sorry Jill, I love you.
I have shown up at Fran’s, to ask how she was or if she needed something or simply because I felt the need to catch up, after having been out of town; and she would look at me, offer me chocolate, and somehow manage to bring up my latest heartache. The unpleasant details would poor forth, I would oddly feel better, eat another piece of chocolate, Fran would impart her wisdom and then share these incredibly intimate stories about her life, which not only drew us closer, as friends, but which assured me that no matter how the story develops – I am going to be okay.
Today, for the second time, since Kate’s accident, I went to the dump. I collected all of the trash last night, and yes, I forgot the cardboard boxes, which I unpacked yesterday, and are still in the basement. I set Kate up, in the office, with a warm fire, which I managed to keep alive all night, loaded my car, and drove off to the dump.
I had a small grocery bag, which was not encased in the blue bags the city makes you buy, to throw your trash away, and a paper cup, from McDonalds, which had been sitting in the car, for a week. They both would fit inside the blue bag, but I had already closed it, which you must. I hoped, when I got there, that no one would give me any grief, forcing me to open the sealed bag, or bring home the grocery bag and cup, until next week.
As I pulled into a parking spot, by the blue bag dumpster, I noticed a woman walking over to the Yankee Swap Shed with a rake! It was an old rake, with a wooden handle, and long metal teeth – I needed that rake. I knew she was taking it over to deposit it in the Shed, where people leave items which are still usable, and which others can select two items, per car, and take home. I wished Kate was with me, because I know she would have boldly asked the woman for the rake, but I could not bring myself to speak out.
Having brought one cord of wood, into the garage, alone, I had decided that my flimsy leaf rake was not strong enough to clean up the mess left by the wood. I need to rake out the dirt and leaves from the kindling, which you very much need to start a fire. I still have another cord of wood to deal with, and it is even messier than the first. Yes, I can afford to buy a rake, but I had thought about how I needed an old rake, one which would have been manufactured back in the day when workmanship, even on a rake mattered. You cannot rake wood, dirt, and leaves with a hallow handle, I was going to need a very strong rake . . . and I so love free things!
I emptied by bag of trash, and threw the cup and grocery bag away, as well, without incident, and leaving my car running, phone and purse in car, with the windows down (something you would never do in South Florida) I walked over to the Yankee Swap Shed, which, by the way, is my name for the hut. Being a Saturday, it was quite a popular spot, and I had to excuse myself several times, making my way around the crowded room, as I looked for the rake. It was nowhere to be seen, how could it have gone so quickly?
I was still entitled to two items, so with a bit of sorrow and regret that I had not been brave, I walked back toward the books, where I saw the rake! It was mine! I grabbed it triumphantly, and a copy of Anna Karenina! I made my way toward the front of the little shed, where the man who watches over it, commented that it was a fine rake. “Yes, it is.” I said; looking at my find. “I needed a rake, and now I need a snow shovel.” Then I boldly proclaimed, as I smiled at him, and made my way back to my running car, where my phone and purse were waiting for me. I felt victorious and like God had gifted me with something which I needed – not only the rake, but the assurance that even though things may be different, unfamiliar, challenging, and outside of my normal comfort zone, it was all going to be okay – the adventures at the dump are going to help me turn this house into our home. That is all for now.
