Moving On

Time to fly

Several weeks ago, I was enjoying one more swim at summer’s end in our farm pool. The air had started to hold the crisp scent of autumn and as I swam back and forth, I kept my eyes on a bluebird family fervently fussing with their nest. Mrs. Bluebird was feeding a late summer brood of hatchlings. “Impressive,” I thought. “You’re heading south soon and here you are squeezing in one more nest of offspring.” It got me thinking of how effortlessly birds up and move, north to south and back again, year in, year out. “This bluebird family better hurry up,” I thought. “Trees are starting to turn color. Winter is coming ...” 

I too have a deadline looming on my calendar ... and it’s creeping closer. I am in the midst of a move out of my home of 24 years, a house in the middle of an enchanted neighborhood. The home where I raised my family. The home I made my own, little by little, until it had my fingerprints all over every room, metaphorically and literally. A home with a lifetime of memories, blessings, good times, tough times. It is not a tragic move, not one of necessity or loss, though we are moving into the house of my husband’s parents who both passed away over the past two years. It is a move of choice, of opportunity, of thinking forward, moving into a home in which we can “age in place.” We are moving from one beautiful home to another beautiful home. Around the corner, no less. We are blessed.

But I hate moving. The emotion, the upheaval, the chaos ... I look at my bird friends and wonder, “Do you have stacks of boxes, packing tape and sharpies in there? Do you have TO DO lists on Post Its? Are you purging before your big move? Or are you just going to, you know, wing it?” 

I am having a hard time with the purging because I am a sentimental sot. My writing table faces a painting of my childhood home at 21500 Erie Road. Gazing at it that painting every morning, I smell my dad’s Dial soap aroma, hear my mom’s calloused feet shuffling on the kitchen linoleum floors, taste the burnt chicken from backyard grill, smell the mineral scent of water from the garden hose. I still dream of that house.

The home we are leaving is beautiful, built with love and care by its original owners. It is house that is reportedly a replica of an historic home in Maine. Yes, her triple track windows are inefficient and troublesome. And her basement ceiling is low and weird. And her master bedroom and bathroom are smallish and have lousy storage. But her woodwork and her bones ... they sing when you walk in her doors. A quiet, lovely song. Hello, come on in. Walking through my home of 24 years ... my beautiful, imperfect home, one notices its lovely details, its solid sense of roots, of permanence. The new owner will change a lot, I’m sure, as I did. Will they blow out the porch to make a great room? Will they change the wood floor stain to a darker one, paint those kitchen cabinets, as I was going to? Will they gut the basement rec room? Will they love and appreciate this home as much as we did? Yes, they will. They are anxious to get in and start their lives.

But I don’t have time for musings. Purge. Pack. Move. Unpack. Purge some more. Put away ... the process is daunting. Do I hang onto those 80’s tapes? DVD’s? CD’s? VHS? “Screw it,” I think. I throw them all into a box to move them and decide later. I continue packing, organizing boxes, setting things aside for my daughters, for giveaways, for garbage. Labeling things so they have a place to land on the other side of this chaos. 

What will my girls remember from our house? The creaky step halfway up the stairs? Arguments at dinnertime? Tiptoeing down the stairs on Christmas morning? Stomping up the stairs and slamming doors? That wonky brick step outside the mudroom that keeps coming loose? The many dinner parties with family and friends? Hopefully they will remember music, laughter, support, love. 

Change is hard.

Moving on ... Our new home is a home of beauty, calm, comfort and legacy. I am saying goodbye to the past, but am also stepping into the past, into a different house full of memories. My husband’s parents were in that house for thirty years. Emptying out my in-law’s house, I am struck by the triviality of the stuff we all accumulate through a life. They had lovely things -- the figurines, the furniture, the candlesticks, etc. But when a life is all over, it’s all just left for someone to go through, pass around, give away. The things we carry ... evidence of a life lived. I am floating from my own memories to my husband’s memories, through my in-law’s memories. Looking forward and backward at the same time is giving me emotional whiplash. I keep humming to myself Joni Mitchell, “We go round and round and round in the circle game.” I lay down on the floor of the foyer and cry with gratitude, loss, exhaustion and back pain. I am thankful for the history in the new/old house, I hear my father-in-law’s chuckle as I hold his back scratcher, my mother-in-law’s nervous humming while emptying out her kitchen drawers. I am remembering our Christmases, Independence Days, birthdays, a wedding in the yard. I am thankful for the future we will build there. The house will be different, yes, but as my oldest daughter reminded me, “we will still be us.” Of course we will.

They say one should move every six years or so just to force oneself to get rid of stuff. I have friends who have moved several times. Some who have moved from city to city so often they are unfazed, they are pros at this. The thought of that much moving pains me. As I am in the midst of that process, I am trying to find the minimalist deep inside of me ... she’s here somewhere, under a pile of my old tap shoes and Manta Reef t-shirt from 1992. I am getting rid of kids’ art projects from 20 years ago, books about how to raise children not to be sociopaths, cookbooks never opened but purchased for their culinary porn photos. I grab the cargo pants that I delay giving away because they may come back in style and anyways, they do make my butt look good. But it is all so overwhelming. Family photos, memorabilia from travels ... I vow to never purchase anything ever again.  

I pack away my mom’s spatula with the burn mark on the handle, the china set from our wedding (all fourteen place settings). The teacups from a grandmother I never knew. My mom’s cheap floral china coffee cup and saucer and think, “What will my own daughters do with our lifetime of stuff? Give it away to strangers to live a new life? Give it to their own children? What will be the thing they hold onto from our life together?” One never knows ... it’s usually the little inconsequential stuff that holds the most meaning, which is why I lovingly pack my mom’s mangled salt shaker that fell down the disposal during the flurry of a post dinner cleanup sometime in the 1970’s ... more than once. It reminds me of the comforting chaos of her kitchen.

I stop at the door of my old house, running my hands over the hashmarks on the doorway marking everyone’s growth milestones, and think of the past purge/pack marathon. We made the deadline, but it wasn’t pretty. Near the end, I just started throwing crap – sentimental and otherwise – into moving boxes. More and more boxes were labeled “Mary’s Misc. Stuff”. Who the hell knows what I will unpack from those boxes? It will be a ridiculous surprise of familiar flotsam. The pink high top Chuck Taylor sneakers from the bar basketball team I was on in the late ‘80’s or the billowy scarf collection that makes it seem like I am secretly a gypsy or a Stevie Nicks impersonator. It’s all so ridiculous.

Closing the door behind me, I drive around sobbing, thinking, remembering. It is a loss. It is a gain. I find myself driving past my childhood home, thinking to myself, “Who would I be if I had grown up somewhere else? Who would my own family be had we lived in a different house, a different neighborhood for the past 24 years? Who will I be in this new house?” I snap out of my melancholy and think of All. Those. Boxes ... “Who would I be without these trappings, all this stuff I just packed up?” These things are the pebbles I put in my pockets as I’ve made my way through life. I don’t want to attach myself to them too much, but yes, but they do hold meaning and memories. That mangled salt shaker is a family jewel to me. But I doubt any of my daughters will want it. 

After we moved out, our new house wasn’t ready so we took refuge back at the farm for a few weeks. I checked in on my bluebird family and found they had moved on. I took down their birdhouse and cleaned it out ... nothing was left but twigs and feathery fluff. 

I hope they’re happy in their new place. I know I will be. 

I gaze at the cleared-out birdhouse in my hand and think, “I need to buy a couple of these for the new house.”

And so, it begins ...

To Everything There Is A Season

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” Ecclesiastes 3

It is finally, officially Spring … and not a moment too soon. I’ve been living in a season of sadness lately … a season of funerals. Sometimes, it feels kind of Biblical, Jobian, like I’ve been “walking through the valley of death.” Just when it feels like it’s lifting, another crushing loss comes around.

Years ago, a friend of mine said to me, “I feel like you are always going to baby showers and funerals.” She’s right. The gifts — and challenges — of being part of a big, rambling family is that there is always a lot of a lot. Births, baptisms, First Communions, illness, hospitalizations, funerals, burials. Successes, failures, worries, joys. Like shark teeth, it all just keeps coming and coming and coming.

Living through these funerals recently, it struck me that planning a funeral is like planning a sad wedding in about three days. The flurry of funeral arrangements, preparing for imminent death, worrying about the widow, the widower, the grieving family, family dynamics at play, worries, fears, facing your own mortality, your siblings/parents/friends’ mortality. Feeding people, crying, laughing, gallows humor, crying some more. Keeping the vigil … “Love you … See you on the other side.” Trippy, strange dreams, sleepless nights. Raging against a church that feels cold, difficult. More trippy dreams, loving remembrances, weepy conversations, staring at the ceiling, staring out the window, talking to the dog, rolling this way and that in bed at night. Comfort food, more comfort food, finding sensible shoes for the marathon of an Irish wake, an Irish funeral, finding clothes that fit. And are clean. 

Buying control top pantyhose so that the dress does fit, after eating all that comfort food.

Worrying about the widow, the widower and the grieving family members, who are falling ill from stress and lack of sleep. Getting the antibiotics, calling the doctor, getting the widow to the doctor. “Is she confused from a UTI? Stress?” Keeping the welcome mat open for family members to come, hide, talk, cry, smoke, drink. Keeping the peace. Assembling family photos of the deceased, making sure all families are represented there, figuring out the technical aspects of sharing those photos with guests, making sure the story of the deceased is told well, appropriately, thoroughly, enough. Bringing family home from out of town, home from Europe, leaving time for the relatives from far and wide to come in, to pay respects, to say good bye … The rambling, out-of-body conversations with well-meaning folks. Meeting people that the deceased not only knew, but impacted profoundly. “How is that I’ve never met this person whose life was changed?” Consoling the folks who are there to console you, knowing it’s ok, you’re cried out anyway. For now. Until that one person shows up and starts up the water works again. Worrying that well-meaning folks are tiring at the wake, that we’re taking too long to chat, to greet, to move through the hundreds of people standing for hours. 

Finding the prayers. Sharing The Funeral File for inspiration and ideas from funerals you’ve liked, or planned, before. Organizing the reservations for dinner. Where do we go after the wake? How many people will come? So many out-of-towners. Trying to keep the crowd manageable. Worrying about … everyone. Choosing the casket. Choosing the days, the church, the priests. Tell the nuns, the friends, the neighbors. Write the obit, find the photo for it. Choose an outfit for the burial. Hating that chore, but realizing how important it is. 

Tears, anger, relief, various and different kinds of grief, crying, exasperation, inspiration. Miracles. Cardinals. Meals shared, dropped off, stories of support, love, tenderness, notes, flowers, letters, chocolates. More love. More support. More miracles. More food.

Worrying about robbers and bad guys who prey on houses emptied for funerals and wakes and hoping there is a special place in Hell for them. Worrying about scammers and predators who prey on grieving spouses and families, tricking them into giving donations, gifts, money. Hoping for good weather, knowing that is completely out of your control. Buying the boots, just in case.

Funeral day. Walking the center aisle. Cue the music. The dark suits, the clutched hands and tear stained cheeks, familiar faces in the congregation, the casket, the shroud over top, unfolded with care. The cross placed gently on top, facing the altar. Painstakingly chosen music, readings, readers, eulogies. Blessings, incense. Praying for those giving the eulogies … they nail it. Good job. It all triggers recall of previous funerals, previous tears, Mom, Dad, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. The circle getting smaller, tighter, death getting closer. Of course there will be more. Always more funerals. Huddling under the tent at the grave site. Exhaustion.

Finally, the reception, more food. Hell yes, a Bloody Mary. And another. There is laughter, let down, heels kicked off, feet put up on cushioned chairs. It is finished.

And then, a baby toddles by, blissfully unaware of it all. New life. Hope. It will be okay. You will be okay. To everything there is a season.

Rest in peace. We are okay.

Amish Guys Got Swagger

I begrudgingly agreed to my husband’s farm fantasy. I don’t know how it happened, really. We stopped in to look at a farm one day, and as luck would have it, it was one of those magical autumn days in Ohio. As we drove through the gates, rather than seeing steaming piles of God-knows-what, I saw rolling, grassy, well-manicured hills, horses frolicking about. The air was crisp and cool. The sun shimmered on the yellow and orange leaves of the trees. It was breathtaking. It really was.

“Ok,” I thought. “You’ve got my attention.”

A four wheeler tour of the property, a glass wine and an al fresco lunch of locally raised pork with salad greens right from the garden … some bids, and counter bids and … boom! We were farm owners. Well, weekend farm owners, really. Because we wanted to stay married and, like I've mentioned before, I'm not Amish, we kept our suburban house. This farm fantasy would only work because we invested in a self sufficient, well run business. We would visit the property on the weekends and such. Like posers, you know.

So, just as I was entering a crossroads in my life, ready to clean out junk drawers in my kitchen and maybe find my "Calling" in there, I found myself building a farm house. My husband, Farmer Brown and I are both from very large families. This adventure would only be fun if we had playmates, so we decided to make room for them by building a house that could hold a sizable group of folks for dinner. (And, ok, a lot of beds because our friends and family like wine and it’s kind of drive to get there.) We interviewed various builders of all stripes and in the end, we chose the Amish guy. Not because he was the cheapest, but quite frankly, because the guy had swagger. He didn’t have zippers or a belt, but he had swagger.

The Amish, guy was actually one of a dynamic duo of brothers. I’ll call them Levi and Uriah because all Amish men are named either Levi or Uriah*. I didn’t know much about the ins and outs of the Amish lifestyle before this, but I was expecting much more quaint, country bumpkin fellows. Not at all the case, as it turns out. Tall, lanky and bearded, Levi was the father of 9 boys. I’m one of 9, so we had some simpatico. Uriah, (“Uri”) was the office guy, very efficient at showing samples of beautiful wood, going over blueprints and roofing materials and closing the deal. Only his bowl haircut gave a hint that he was Amish. I was kind of like, “Are you putting me on? Are you really Amish or is there a Jag out back and scotch in your bottom drawer?” He was legit, though.

Levi was the day-to-day on site guy. He had his own driver, thank you very much, a fine “English” man who drove him anywhere he needed to go because the Amish don’t drive cars. When he would arrive for our weekly meetings he’d amble out of the truck like an underdressed rock star and saunter over to me, a toothpick in his mouth. He had a glint in his eye that said, “Yeah, I’m rocking these overalls and straw hat, lady.” And he did. A handsome devil, I have to say. Not exactly Harrison Ford in “Witness,” but kind of an Amish Michael Keaton, if that makes any sense.

So Levi doesn’t drive, but he and Uri do both use email and cell phones. When I discovered this, I got excited.

"Oh," I said, "Can I share my Pinterest account with you to give you an idea of what we're thinking about?" 

Silence. Farmer Brown looked at me askance, shaking his head.

"No? … Ok, I guess I just ... never mind." 

Hard to know the rules here. In fact, later on in the project when I visited the Amish cabinetmaker they referred me to in the remote back hills of Ohio (surely a cousin, because the Amish are like the Irish that way, keeping things in the family), the office was in a barn with a gaslight hanging from the ceiling, no air conditioning in 100-degree heat … and a desktop computer. What the? 

Anyway, I got comfortable with Levi after a few weeks. When things looked like they were slowing down, I’d playfully punch him in the shoulder … “We’re going to be in by Thanksgiving, right, Levi?”  

“Oh yeah, Miss Mary, we’ll be done by then” he would cockily reply.

I liked the guy so I hoped he wasn’t lying because Farmer Brown, an entrepreneur who doesn’t take BS from anyone, not even a handsome Amish building magnate, had a stopwatch going, and had pulled Levi aside at the beginning of the project, warning him, “I know that all contractors have larceny in their hearts.” Good one, right? “I want you to assure me that this house will be finished and we will be in by Thanksgiving.”  Game on, Levi. One bearded man against another. Farmer Brown was clearly not intimidated by that straw hat.

Uri and Levi were true to their word and, with a flurry of silent, hardworking, task-driven Amish craftsmen descending on the property, they had that darned house built in 8 month’s time.  We were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, right on schedule.

It was all set to be a picture perfect holiday in our new farmhouse … until I sent my daughters on a drug run from the dinner table. But that’s another story.

* I hope I’m not offending anyone here … but my Amish friends aren’t allowed on the Facebook and blogs are they? If you’re Amish and cheating  … tsk, tsk!

Photo by Anetlanda/iStock / Getty Images

Listen ... I'm not Amish

"I just want to stop and look at this farm while we're out" he said. "Oh for chrissakes," I thought. I had been down this road before.

Five years prior, my husband, brought me and my three daughters to a godforsaken, wouldn't-hit-a-dog-in-the-ass-with-it, muddy, lumpy farm in northern/mid-Ohio. At the time, he was wild for a goat farm...

"We should get ahead of this growing market. It's the fastest growing protein in the country. We could raise goats. Get a jump on the competition, corner the market, be the goat gods."

So, there we were, trudging through this desolate property, and the girls are going wild with the prospect of owning a farm. Here's the scene...

Daughter #1: "Dad, can I get puppy on the farm?!"

Him: "Sure!"

Daughter #2: "Can I get a pig, Dad?! I looove pigs. Omg, they're so cute! Like Babe...”

Him: "Sure, why not?!"

Daughter #3: "I want ducks ... ducklings! Ooooo. Ducklings, Dad!"

Him: "Ok, ok. Yeah."

Me: "Um .... wait. We are just looking everyone. No one is getting a pig ... or a duck, or a puppy. Or a goat, for that matter. Just slow down everyone. Slow. The heck down."

A farm? Really? A farm.

Later that night, after putting exuberant, ecstatic, delusional 4, 7 and 9 year old little girls to bed, visions of farm animals dancing in their heads, I sat down next to my husband, looked him straight in the eyes and spoke my truth:

"Sweetheart, I get it. It get it that you have long had farm dreams. I get that you want a connection to the land and that you want the girls to have that too." He nodded, his eyes dancing with excitement as he picked the dirt (or was that goat shit?) off his sneakers. Then I lowered the boom ... "But, when I look at that filthy, stinky farm, all that mud, that piece of crap house that feels like an Alice in Wonderland reject house ... when I think of, God help me, owning farm animals ... Pigs for chrissakes ... all I see is work for me. Me. Not you. "

I started to gather steam. "So, what's the plan? We are going to move from our suburban home to be ... what? Farmers? I don't know anything about farms or farming.  And frankly, neither do you. Maybe we should start with you pulling a weed or two here in the ‘burbs. You don't even cut the grass, for God's sake."

You see, my husband is an entrepreneur and he's an expert at delegating. He is the original Tom Sawyer. I could just see me slaving away, mucking stalls and wiping my brow like a Dust Bowl era heroine, while he would breeze in and out of "the farm" carefree and happy. Nope. That was definitely not happening.

"I get it," I continued. "I get it for you. But me? I am not that person, dude. Not me." He nodded, silent, the glimmer going out of his eyes. "Look, I get that YOU want this. If you’re going ahead with this, you and your Amish wife will be very happy together. Knock yourself out. You God bless you. I'm out."

Sorry, Babe, it is what it is. Dodged that bullet.

Fast forward ... 10 years later. We have a farm.