Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Today is the one year anniversary of my husband's death, and I'm on the way to the bank to deposit the check for the sale of my mother's house. There are many examples of this sort of thing in my family history:
- all the people in my immediate family were born on holidays (well, technically Alex missed by two hours, but she's always late for everything)
- my grandfather MacNeal's body was sent home on my grandmother's birthday
- my grandmother remarried many years later, and my husband and I got married on her and her second husband's anniversary (he was long gone, and we didn't know about the date)
- my cousin was born on my father's birthday - and I only had one set of aunt/uncle and one cousin.
I'm sure there are more that I'm not thinking of just now. Is this unusual? Do other people's families behave this way? Or is this just one of those you-only-need-13-people-in-a-room-before-t
Friday, September 23, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
While no one called me to task on this one, I feel like I should explain a bit, so here goes:
You know those people who, when you've launched into a lovely complaint about something, interrupt and say, "Well, if it makes you feel any better, *insert dreadful even here*." I've just never understood this. Why on earth should this make me feel better?
The same goes for theoretically being able to soothe oneself by remembering the trials of others. I know the old (very old - like 3000 years old) saying about someone having no shoes meeting a man who had no feet. Maybe it's that Scottish blood thing again, but the only response to this I like is by Steve Wright: "You got any shoes you're not using?"
The point of all this is that, while I appreciate the pain someone must be in because of his two broken legs, it really doesn't lessen the pain in my broken arm one whit.
I genuinely do realize that there are those whose trials make mine look like a stroll in the park. I know there are people who have lost their homes altogether, whether through foreclosure or weather or fire or whatever, who would feel that the tribulations of selling what amounts to an extra house would be one of the circles of heaven. I know that losing a mother at 86 and a husband after 26 years of marriage would sound like an incredible blessing to someone who's lost a child, a young husband, or numerous family members. I also realize that all this can truly be said to be just Life.
I try to keep and to use my sense of humor for lots of reasons, not the least of which is that it keeps me from looking at the world through misery-colored glasses. If my ranting and whining entertains someone, that makes my load a little lighter, too. I've kept me eyes and ears open for over fifty years (though at times you'd never have guessed it), and if some segment of my endless prattle helps someone figure out a piece of their own puzzle or lighten their load a bit, that helps both of us.
I know I have many, many blessings - too many to count - and high on the list are my Spark Friends.
(And Katrina, if you're reading this, you know you're darned near the top of the list even though you're not a Spark person.)
Monday, September 19, 2011
For me, as for so many, it's been quite a summer - weatherwise, moneywise, you name it and you can bet it pretty much sucked.
I've gained ten pounds, but I'm beginning to deal with that trend and reverse it.
The tenants who have basically been ....what's that term when people wall themselves up inside a castle and just stay there til the warriors outside get bored and wander off?....well, anyway, they were evicted April 15th and and left *drum roll* last Monday, after trashing my mother's house pretty thoroughly. Plus it cost me $2000 to have their !@#$ - excuse me, their personal belongings - removed by bonded movers and stored in secure facilities. And before you ask me why I didn't just drag it all out on the front lawn and set fire to it, the answer is: that's the way Pennsylvania does things.
A word to the wise: the situation you do not want, under any circumstances, is to have your house rented to a lawyer, being sold to another lawyer, and the whole shootin' match overseen by your own lawyer. Flurries of threats and filings and appeals and protests and what all - it'll be several years before I'm out of all this. Plus the poor real estate agent (the only person who wanted to sell my house as much as I did, I think) is in the legal swamp with me. Circus, circus.
But I still managed to sell my mother's house, albeit for a little less than a third of what it was worth in 2008. But whining about that is like focusing on the fact that I used to be a size ten - it has absolutely nothing to do with today's size or real estate market. The settlement will be literally 72 hours before the bank forecloses on the farm, giving me just enough time to pay my overdue mortgage. "My Life as a Precision Instrument"
My husband has been dead now for almost a year and I finally figured out that what I still think of as normal *isn't coming back* - this living alone deal is the new normal.
Something else obvious I discovered is that depression feeds upon itself. You don't get out of bed - or off the sofa - because you don't want to, don't have the energy to clean up, eat and drink whatever because you can reach it from the sofa (true, all true), let the library books all go overdue and the cars go uninspected. Then one day you look around and you have $100 worth of library fines, four tickets for uninspected vehicles (two because technically they were also uninsured, since I'd changed the insurance policy to my name but not the titles and that's how NY works), a lawn that hasn't been mown since July, no clean clothing and no clean dishes, and the house looks exactly the way you're thinking it might. Ever watch Hoarders? Not quite that bad, but give me a few more weeks.
Had a friendship-changing argument with pretty much my only local friend over what amounts to personality differences. The immediate repercussion from that one is that I had to reschedule my colonoscopy so that my daughter can give me a ride to and from. Oy.
One of our dogs died (he was ancient, and it was truly just as well, but still.....) and was almost immediately "replaced" by one of the kittens of the resident barn cat. By and large, they hate and fear me, hissing and running when I come in to feed them (I know, I know), but this one came up to me, mewed and bit my nose when I bent over. What can you do? Several large vet bills later, the kitten still known only as Boy Cat has overturned the household, upset the other cats and now everyone is peeing all over the place in protest. *sigh* (NB: a product called, I believe, OdorKlenz, works very well.)
Anyway, (this is where discovering the obvious comes in) who *wouldn't* be depressed living like that?? So it's time to either shoot myself or get myself in hand, and since, given a choice between homicide and suicide, I'll pick homicide every time, the getting-self-in-hand thing wins. So, what's the first step?
I waxed my eyebrows.
Hey, ya gotta start somewhere. Now I'm going out into the world to try to straighten out a few things paperwork-related, then I'll come back and, instead of collapsing on the sofa and watching reruns of either Hauntings or Hoardings while lunching on Cheez Doodles and beer, I'll make myself a salad.
I'm sure there's more exciting and fun-filled stuff to report, but I have to get underway before I lose my momentum.
(I just read back over this piece and realized why I drink. Seriously, this is so out of hand. But despite all that, I have come up with a new plan - making plans, no matter how unrealistic, saves me every time - which I will tell you sometime soon. I couldn't let you all go on such a cynical note. There is Hope - and I promise I won't use phrases like "things with feathers" or "springing eternal" when I tell you about it.)
Saturday, June 18, 2011
(Beware: this one is going to be long - and also over at mumsananarchist.livejournal.com)
For those of us raised either as or by Depression era babies, it's hard to get rid of things. I don't mean like those poor folks in the tv show Hoarders, but we tend to hang onto Stuff, I think, just "in case we might need it one day." For me, as a mixed media artist, it is particularly difficult. Hey, I might need that single butterfly wing one day, for real!
The hardest part for me, since both my kids are grown, my mother died and I'm widowed, has been to figure out, reasonably, rationally and logically, just who the hell I am. I'm not someone's daughter, I'm not someone's wife, I'm not someone's mother (well, I am, but it's different when they're 20+), I don't seem to own any businesses anymore, nor work for anyone else. I'[m not writing for money either right now, or designing or anything else I've ever done for income.
I'm exceedingly lucky in that, even though money is tight, I have my mother's house to sell (if you need a house in suburban Philadelphia, let me know - I've got a nice ranch house you might like...)l, which will pay off this one and leave me enough left over to think about things for a few months. Granted, it's only worth 60% of what it was two years ago, but it's still money, and I could use some of that.
I'm slowly becoming part of the farming community here, which is a genuinely new experience for me. I'd realized years ago that people out here tend to leave one another alone unless there's trouble, then they all show up to help one another, but I hadn't realized the extent to which this is true. People that I barely knew, people that knew my husband slightly, have all stepped up to bat, not by bringing funeral pies and then forgetting about me (which is how I was raised) but by showing up with suggestions and manpower and hay contracts and machines and wood and tow trucks and IDEAS - and the scope of that has just been astounding to me. This is particularly true as this is an area in which women are not viewed as damsels in distress - most of the women around here could easily have written the famous Harriet Tubman speech themselves.
SO, the thing that ties these apparently disparate paragraphs together is that I've realized I don't need to hold onto everything. I don't need a big tractor (I have a little one that I use for everything, plus lots of things to attach to it for various purposes), I don't need to keep it "in case I want to do something that calls for a big tractor." I can hire a neighbor to plow or whatever. In twelve years we'd given exactly two hayrides. I don't need to keep three hay wagons in case I want to give a hay ride. I can borrow one from my neighbor to the west. I'm never (God help me, NEVER) going to make small square bales of hay again - it's an incredibly labor intensive job and probably one of the reasons farm families had twelve children - so why am I not selling the baler? Because I might need it some day?
I'm keeping the things that are so ancient and rusted that they're only worth their scrap weight, because I'm learning to weld and I honestly may want some parts off them (mixed media artist graduates to cutting metal with fire - what's not to love about that?) I'm selling the rest, because sentimentality be damned, this stuff is worth actual money (maybe twenty thousand altogether?), the chances of my actually needing it ever, let alone before it disintegrates, are minimal, and if by chance I do need one whatever, I can buy it *then*. I don't need to hang onto the one I have now, "just in case."
So a few of my new farm community neighbors are going to help me get all this stuff together (half of it I barely can identify, let alone use), get it cleaned up and moved to a good spot on another road, and sell it for me, answering all those questions I wouldn't have a clue about. Sure, of course, I'll give them some money for doing it, but not nearly enough to cover the hassles they'll experience doing this for me. They're doing it because they're good people, and they want to enable me to get on with my life instead of being stuck in a sea of Stuff, miserable and confused.
Not only that, but I have half a dozen phone numbers I can call day or night, in case two dogs and a shotgun aren't enough, in case I need a woman's shoulder to cry on or a man who knows his way around a wood furnace that's four degrees short of boiling.
We get a lot of opportunities in life to interpret any way we wish. We can bemoan our fate and grow bitter and sad, and there's a certain self-righteous appeal in that, or we can draw ourselves up tall and see the good all around us, people and circumstances willing to help if we'll let them. It's been hard for me to opt to go with the good - artists are *supposed* to suffer, right? ... and smart people are totally self-sufficient - but I'm learning. Baby steps, baby. Baby steps.
PS - that blessed community of friends includes you guys right here on SP. There were times I think I would have gone out of my mind without your kind words and sensible input.
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