25 November 2017

Good morning,

Two sentient beings still sleep, though I have already disturbed one of them.  Under the coffee table in the front bedroom, the old dog curls in her tattered bed.  I’d like to buy a new cover for it, but we want her to have familiar smells when she moves to her adopted home.  The boy of my heart, a grown man now, has camped on the couch because I woke at 4 and started trolling the internet in my boredom.  The sound filtered through the floor to the guestroom below me and drove him to the living room.

When I finally despaired of falling back asleep and came downstairs, I did not see him.  I made coffee, washed a few stray plates, and scuffed through the dining room to snag my laptop.  There he lay, under the soft throw that Jennie Taggart Wandfluh gave me for Christmas last year.  His penultimate night in the home of his childhood, and I drive him to cling to sleep in any loathsome corner.  A small shoot of guilt rises within me, but I tiptoe back out and pour a cup of coffee.

Night clings to the neighborhood.   Dark hovers at the window, broken only by the reflection of the spice rack and the cluttered shelf above the stove. The clang of my MedicAlert bracelet against the plastic tray on which I write reverberates in the empty rooms.   I pause, listening to the cheerful, low hum of the furnace.  Lists of tasks that must be done today scroll through my brain.  I reflect, for the thousandth time since waking, that I am insane to do what I’m doing.

With no more than whatever will remain after all the costs of closing and taxes get paid, and the tiny house builder gets his balance due, I’m heading to California in three weeks.  Today we’ll get the dog situated at Ross and Katrina’s house. I’ll spend an hour or two shredding old bank statements at my office.  Tomorrow I will shove whatever office trappings fit into a friend’s van and dump my files where I’ll be squatting for the next six months as I come in and out of town, evolving into a part-time lawyer and full-time writer / job-seeker.  I must be mad.

I’m leaving this house in the dead of winter just as I found it, though without the snow beneath which it huddled 25 years ago when I first laid my hopeful eyes on its porch.  My landlord, Jeff Jones, had dined with its owners and heard their tale of wanting to sell in June.  The husband, an architect, had decided to go to seminary.  The wife, a nurse, wanted only for the family to stay long enough for their oldest child to finish kindergarten.  They needed a buyer who didn’t want to close until June.  I had six months remaining on my lease and a house to sell in Arkansas.

The perfect match.

While Jeff worked the lock, I shivered on the screen porch, staring at a wooden plaque beside the front door.  “The Kanoy’s”, it read.  I turned to Jeff.  “Not Rick and Cheryl?”  He nodded.  I knew these people. Our children had been in the same day care    Other kids from “All God’s Children Daycare” lived two or three doors down, a boy and a girl with whom my son had gone on play dates.  I wanted the house already, a feeling which intensified when I walked its hardwood floors and gazed up the stairs at the knotty pine walls of the main bedroom.

We signed paperwork in January, and Patrick and I moved on Memorial Day weekend in 1993.

The pink counters have been replaced by the most God-awful beige synthetic stuff.  The white kitchen floor yielded to fake brown tile.   I didn’t pick these fabrications.  I wouldn’t have changed that pink for anything less than granite.  Unable to afford such upgrades, I would have left it, with its eighties vibe and its flowered wallpaper rising to the ceiling.  These weird improvements got put here by a well-intended soul in 2014, my lost year when i couldn’t stay out of the hospital or lift my head from folded arms for weeks at a time.

But I’m grateful for the new dishwasher, and the double-wide refrigerator, which I’m sure appealed to my buyer.  So I’ll give the awful upgrades a pass; thankful for the effort even if the result lacks a certain panache.

Other changes have been unmitigated blessings:  The capability of laundry on the first-floor; the shower in the upstairs bathroom; the walk-in attic closet; the gorgeous front porch.  I owe each of these to my two spouses.  Ironically, they  professed to hate this house but nonetheless  financed creature comforts.  I thank them.  Their efforts helped me cope here in these last, lonely three years.  I forgive whatever sins they might have also committed, as I hope they forgive mine.  I sweep the debris of our failed marriages into a pile and gently tip the dusty mess into a trash basket.  I leave their goodness on the make-shift table. I’ll carry it with me to California.

As the first light of the Saturday sun spreads across the neighbor’s roof, I stand in the back doorway.  Sounds of children playing in a three-foot pool drift through the years.  A Chocolate-spotted Beagle darts through the backyard, chased by a gaggle of little boys.  One of their mothers calls out; the chasing stops but the laughter echoes.  I call, “You kids get off that slide, you’ll break your necks!”   A voice says, “Do you want them to be afraid of you?” I turn, and the outrage of the gentlest mother washes over me.  “If it saves them from drowning, sure,” I mutter, but I lower my tone when I turn back to the children at play.

This house has its own actual ghost, a man, we think.  He walks about the place and sometimes talks to me.  He often pats my leg as I lay struggling with sleeplessness and pain.  If you do not believe in lingering spirits, then accept whatever explanation you need for the knives which stand themselves on their thin edges and the cabinets which fly open and disgorge dishes from time to time.  We’ve never figured out who he is, but even the most skeptical have seen him flicking by, a quick reflection in a mirror where no one stands.  I hope the new owner doesn’t mind.

Nor should she mind the lingering fragrance of birthday candles; the flowered valance over the sink which only I liked; or the weird concrete pad beneath the washing machine.  I’ve not left much of a mark in Kansas City.  But here, here in the Holmes house, I’ve washed the floors with  tears and pruned the bushes with loving, spastic hands.

I hope she’s happy  here, my buyer.  And as my son takes his backpack and his clean laundry out to his little Kia at the bottom of the driveway for the last time tomorrow, I hope he carries with him some sense of belonging with which to make his way in this often wicked world.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

18 November 2017

Good morning,

I balance the ThinkPad on a tray which itself rests on a half-open drawer.  I sit on a wooden stool, one of two left behind by someone who briefly tarried in my life and then sought a smoother path.  The radio plays as it always plays, intruding now and then into my thoughts.  Just now the story centers on survivors and I pause to listen.  I hear the words “every victim” and shudder.  How carelessly we contemplate “every victim”, “every mass shooting”,  every family member left to grieve.

I don’t know the prodigious burden of having a family member gunned down or blown apart.  My losses take a simpler path.  A brother who laid down his burden beneath a tree in a patch of columbine.  A mother who shriveled beneath the careless disinterest of an old physician who did not keep pace with medical knowledge and a surgeon whose knife slipped in a way so common that it does not rise to the level of malpractice.  A father whose life-time abuse of his body finally spelled his undoing.  A baby who never made it past the first three months in my womb.  Quiet losses.  Nothing mass.  Nothing global.  Private grief.

Winter shrouds my home.  I think of other winters, all in this house.  I remember Thanksgiving dinners with more than a dozen gathered at the table in a dining room which now holds only a few scattered post-it note pads and a china cabinet that no one wants.  I stand in the doorway and hear their voices.  Children dart around chairs.  The smallest one balances on a stool pulled to the corner between his parents.  Small fists clutch knobs of potato while larger ones tip wine glasses across the expanse to herald each other.

We go around the table saying our Thankful-Fors.  Youngest to oldest in the way of my childhood.  Here in the stillness of a nearly-empty dwelling, I remember each time that I stood in this same doorway insisting that I must go last.  I choked on my unexpressed sentiment.  I clutched my chest with folded arms, my apron bunching in my struggling spastic hands.  My list of things for which I was thankful grew every year, as did the unrelenting  strength of my emotions.

In this home, I raised my boy.  I married and divorced twice.  I welcomed two amazing stepchildren whom I can honestly say I will love forever.  Shared children, the children who comprised my son’s social set, brought their parents who became my friends.  Some of those friends still tarry in the river of my life.  We embrace.  We do for one another.  We send little notes by text and e-mail even when our respective lives take us into other eddies.  Their children and their grandchildren count me in the third or fourth perimeter of family.  I accept that with as much grace as possible, albeit with a slightly bittersweet nod toward the distant, near-forgotten days when we accorded one another daily ranking.

A sheaf of tender stories flutter to the ground when I open the last cabinet.  I sweep them into a pile and gather them into an empty box.  An occasional sentence catches my eye.  But I cannot take responsibility for anyone else’s pain, nor claim the glory for the days gone by which I did little to orchestrate.  I close the lid.

I’ve disappointed many.  I’ve satisfied few.  I’ve done as much as I can do and occasionally, a little more.  Now the dust of fallen leaves lifts and dances in the breeze each time I leave the house, unimpeded by furniture or clutter on the shelves.   The vague hum of the refrigerator echoes in the emptiness.  I take my sorrow and my joy with me, surrounding  my thin bones with softly spun cashmere to warm the brittleness which remains when all else falls away.

Some years, I had trouble opening my mouth to identify that for which I felt most grateful.  Other years, I could barely stop myself from listing every person at my table, every shining face, and some who sat elsewhere but never left my heart.  A doctor who saved my life by seeing through the complexity of my illness to a simple solution; a friend who sent a sheaf of angels cut from a magazine because my voice sounded lonely when we spoke long-distance.  A sister who unfailingly rose to every occasion.  With those who sat, poised forks in hand, each of the absent ones held their corner of my my life to keep it from dragging in the muck.

Nothing has changed but everything has.   Solitary after all; alone again; with a clutter of dishes in the drain basket and a shelf of dying plants.  I’m still here, still thankful, still overwhelmed with a flood of unresolved affection.  I can’t take my time to speak; I can’t rush; I’m caught between the urgent need to honor every life and the fear that I will omit someone whose presence meant so much.  I stand, listening to the distant lingering noise of yesterday’s Thanksgivings — the cheerful chatter, the clink of china, the fall of children’s feet on the dusty hardwood.

I’m thankful, finally, for all of it.  For the love and the loss.  For the better and the worse.  For the ups and the downs.  For the pain and the pleasure.  I’m thankful for the doctor who let me sink into decline and the doctor who breezed into a hospital room and rescued me.  I choke with inability to acknowledge the variegation within each person who entered this home.  My superlative life disintegrated and I learned to recognize that everyone who crossed my path held value.  I wouldn’t uninvite any of them to my table.  I’m thankful for them all.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

 

04 November 2017

Good morning,

Today I remember my favorite curmudgeon, Jabez MacLaughlin, three years after his passing from this life to whatever lies beyond the world we see.  I’m thinking of the first time that I drove one of the nearly-twin vehicles which he and his Joanna had.

We were to have met at his house and drive over to the restaurant together, but circumstances prompted him to call and say he would meet me. I did not question his instructions.  I understood from his tone that he had made a determination; I would follow what he wanted, as I had been doing since I first met him in 2009.  Besides:  a  man in his 80s should garner that allegiance.

I pulled into the parking lot ten  minutes early, but Jay had still arrived ahead of me.  I saw him struggling to the door, slow, hampered by the lack of air.  One impaired lung, one nonfunctioning; they wore at his body.  He had been hunched over since I knew him, but regal still, with a measured air and confident gait.  Now he forced himself forward with each tortured step.  I paused, watching him approach the front of the restaurant.  My heart clenched and I swung my legs out of my own car,  hurrying over to help him.

Where did you park, I asked. I had not seen his Prius in the designated handicapped spaces.  He gestured.  I saw the grey claim his complexion and put my arm around him as the host opened the door.

When we had settled him, I realized that he had not worn a sweater despite the chill of air conditioning still wafting in the cool of autumn.  I asked, Did you bring a jacket, and he shrugged.  It’s in the car, he responded.  I stood, saying that I would get it.  He looked at me, weary eyes telling me that we would not have many more dinners together.  I thought about the empty house, the wife of more than fifty years gone just a handful of months before this evening.

Shall I move the car, I suggested.   A flash of concern crossed his face.  He did not trust his notorious daughter-in-law with his treasured Prius.  But the weight of that awful walk won out, and he relented.  I stood beside the table, holding the key fob, patiently listening to his instructions.  Step on the brake, push start, watch the camera, and for God sake, honey, don’t wreck my car.  

He said that twice:  For God’s sake.  Honey.  Don’t wreck my car.

Notwithstanding his advice, I nearly did.  I found the brake in time; and sat, pulse racing, face flushed, while an outraged Johnson Countian whipped an opulent Mercedes around me.

When I had safely slid the vehicle into a spot by the door and retrieved his jacked from the pristine trunk, I slid past the same host.   I think he had watched the near-debacle in the lot.  He asked, Everything okay, ma’am? and  I shot a look towards him.  He smirked but only just; deniably.  I didn’t say a word.

I tried to quell my lingering panic and had nearly succeeded by the time I got back to our table.  I held Jay’s jacket for him, then took my seat.  Our waitress brought the two glasses of wine which he had ordered.  He would drink his and mine both; we played this game; we had for all the time we had known one another.  He raised his glass in  my direction, his eyes sparkling, the little smile playing across his face.

Is my car all right, honey?  I nodded.  He stared, long, hard, squinting a bit to look beyond my composure.  Then he met my nod with one of his own — firm, certain, crisp.  He understood.  I had not wrecked his car.  He knew the rest without  explanation.  He knew me so well, did my favorite curmudgeon.  I could hide nothing from him, least of all my love and admiration.

Winter beckons me.  In front of this house where I have been in turn happy and devastated sits a blue Prius that I came to own by way of my favorite curmudgeon’s death and the kindness of his son.  That vehicle has served me well. It has taken me from where I have been stuck to where I have needed to be.  What more can I ask of a faithful friend?

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

Jay MacLaughlin