Category: Moving

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Letting Go Again

Andy, Maggie and Kaspar.
Andy, Maggie and Kaspar; just some of the pieces of my heart out in the world.

In the cool wee hours of the morning, with Orion directly overhead, I stood in my driveway and watched the tail lights of Andy’s SUV, move out onto the street and then out of sight.  It’s a variation on a scene we’ve played throughout his life; my watching him leave me to head off on his own adventure.

You’d think by the time your child enters their thirties, the letting go wouldn’t be an issue, but the simple fact is that no matter how old they grow, your child is still your child and when they leave you, no matter how exciting the circumstances may be, a piece of your heart goes with them.

One of my most vivid memories as a child was seeing my Grandma Farner break into tears and put her hankie to her eyes as my Dad backed our family car out of her driveway to head home after a summer visit.  I’d never seen her cry before, or any other adults for that matter, so it made an impression.  I remember thinking that she must have loved my dad an awful lot to start crying just because we were going home. Now, fifty years later, I find myself in the same place.

Fortunately, it’s not a debilitating condition.  I am not at home wailing or rending my garments. I am actually very happy for him.  After almost thirty years either in school for working in education, he is embarking on a new adventure in the field of social research.  It is an opportunity he is well suited for and I’m even excited that he’s going to be settling in Oregon.  Even though it’s on the other side of the country,  I’ve always wanted to go there.  Now I have an excuse.

 

 

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Living Green

This first spring in our new home has been a busy one.  Dave and I have begun the work of transforming our yard into our own personal paradise.  Whenever we have a few moment and the weather cooperates, we’re in the back, diggin up sod, shifting rocks, weeding and dreaming of our finished garden.

We’ve done this before.  When we moved into our last house in 2005, our back yard was boring.  The previous owners had four small children and two dogs.  Gardening was not high on their priority list.

We had a shady patch of grass with a couple of mature trees, all surrounded by a cedar fence.  As always, Dave had a vision and in five short years, with hours of labor and sweat,  we had transformed our bland patch of green into a beautiful garden with plenty of color and life.

This time of year especially, I’d love to take my morning coffee out into the yard and make my rounds from bed to bed, looking for the daily changes.   One morning there would be a new shoot of green popping up through the mulch; the next day I’d find a new bud or even flower. Our garden was exciting and energizing.  It is the one thing I really miss about my old house.

Our new yard is not the blank slate our old one was. There is plenty already here.

Almost half of the back is wooded with mature oaks, cedars, maples, pine trees and even a dogwood and carpeted with fallen leaves and acorns.   Unlike our flat coastal plain yard in Virginia Beach, here in the Piedmont, our yard has a slope which is both beautiful to behold and challenging to mow.  Because of this, we are departing from the goals of  former settlers who cleared the land to plant lawns and fields. Instead, we have decided to  systematically increase the size of our wooded and natural area to decrease the amount of mowing.  I could fib and declare we are doing it to save fossil fuel as a commitment to green living  but in reality our goal is to save our own time and energy!

I do love my new yard.  It is one of the things I love the most about my new home.  I will even love it more once the digging is done and the planting begins.  I’m anxious to see the little green shoots popping up from the mulch.

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Laundry Daze

Last Monday morning I was surrounded by a pile of dirty clothes and bed linens in preparation for weekend guests when I received a text from my friend Sarah.

“I’m at my folks and heading home tomorrow.  How about if I stop by for a visit?”

“Hell yah!”  I shot back.

“OK, see you tomorrow!”

Sarah is one of my dearest friends.  We started working at First Command (then USPA/IRA) within a couple of months of each other back in 1998.  While there we graduated our children from high school and college, endured Navy widowhood while our husbands were deployed and shared all the assorted other stuff associated with both office life and home life.  Though the years we’ve become comfortable friends, able to go long periods without contact, but picking up and continuing when we are lucky enough to have our paths cross.

Last spring, after I stopped working, Sarah and I were able to spend more time together, exploring knitting shops, grabbing a bite of lunch or just enjoying a cup of coffee on her back deck.  We share a love of nature; flora and fauna, wine and knitting, in about that order.  I love the sound of her laugh so often poke fun at her to get her going.  Since my move, the phone has been our only source of conversation.  Just last week I realized I hadn’t spoken to her since before the holidays.

Addressing my pile of laundry became more urgent.  Vacuuming and dusting we also added to the “to do” list along with the bathrooms.  A week’s worth of housework had to be condensed down to one day.  I hit the gas and got moving.  Then the phone rang….

It was my friend Kim.  We met on the way home after dropping our kids off for their first day of school at Mililani Waena in Hawaii.  Our husbands’ military tours on Oahu overlapped almost completely giving us three years to pal around and explore together.  Andy and her oldest son Josh became friends and our families both attended St. John the Apostle and Evangelist RC  church.  Kim invited me to join her on several Marine Corps OWC outings which were all great fun.  At the end of our tours, they were off to Okinawa and we headed to the DC area.

About six years later, we were settled in Virginia Beach, when Kim’s husband Jeff received orders to Norfolk.  Those years were choked with work, teen drama and heavy church commitments so we mostly saw each other at church or at the odd lunch to catch up.  After a couple of years, Jeff received orders again and they were gone.

We reconnected several years later when we had a trip planned to Fredericksburg to attend a wedding reception.  As it turned out, the bride’s parents lived on the same street as Kim and Jeff.  I gave her a call to see if we could get together at some point during the weekend and she invited us to spend the weekend with them.  Again, they are the kind of friends you can just pick up with where you left off and enjoy.

Back to the phone call…

“I’m catching up on my Christmas card calls.” she said, “You probably think I’m horrible for not sending you one after you send me one.”

“Did I send you one?” I asked, “I was so confused when my cards went out I couldn’t remember who I sent them to.”

“Since we live so close, we should get together again, maybe meet somewhere half way for lunch….”

Half an hour later, having caught up on the highlights of the past couple years, I hung up with the promise that we would indeed get together in the next few weeks for a lunch or maybe even dinner with the guys.

Friendship is such a treasure.  I sincerely love that my friends feel free to burst into my life when the notion suits them, like the sun bursting through the clouds after a cloudy day. The laundry and dust will always be with me, while the time I am gifted to spend with my friends will not.

Speaking of laundry, I have to switch loads.  I hope the phone rings!

 

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Settling In

It’s had to believe that three weeks ago today we left our home in Virginia Beach for our new life here in the shadow of the Blue Ridge.  Despite the short time, it is faily safe to say that our new house has been transformed into our home.  Just as in our previous house, I continuously battle to maintain a clean kitchen counter; the guest room is the tidiest room in the house while the little room is the messiest and a pile of  “to be filed” bills and statements grows steadily on my desk.  The pantry is well stocked, the laundry caught up (except for the ironing of course) and the lawn is kept mowed.

The former abode is comfortably under contract.  Today’s property inspection is the last hurdle to determine just how much we will have to bring to the table to complete the sale.  It is a sad thing, to lose so much money on something so well-loved.  Thoughtfully, we remind ourselves that we purchased that house as a home, not an investment.  The additional funds invested in our numerous remodeling projects were to enhance our quality of life, not to increase its value, although that would have been nice.  I only hope that the new owners will love and care for our “beach” home as much as we did.

As for me, I’m falling in love with my new home.  I’m still fine tuning the furniture and picture arrangements and contemplating paint colors.  As for the area, I am already smitten.  Yesterday I continued my local nesting by joining a gym and having my toes done.   Men will undoubtedly fail to understand the importance of tidy pink toenails as it pertains to the nesting process; and I suppose that’s a good thing.  For me, it means that I have ventured into my new surroundings, made a new connection and life goes on.

 

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Closing the Gate

Going back to an empty house for a final look is tricky business.  It is important to keep emotionally divorced and focused on the task at hand, systematically going through each room with a critical eye.  I find that even in writing about it, I need to stay removed from the sentimentality I could so easily apply to each room and area that we worked so eagerly to make our own in the six years we lived on Shelborne Ct.

This weekend, when we went back to collect the items that the movers wouldn’t take, our time was very short.  I think we’d planned it that way purposely.  We left here just after lunch on Saturday so by the time we hit Newport News, the east bound traffic was already building to its ugly summertime self extending the last twenty miles of our trip by an extra forty five minutes. This, coupled with the general Kempsville weekend traffic as we slugged our way from the interstate to the house reminded us how quickly we’d become accustomed to our new rural routine.

By the time we reached the house, we were running late for our dinner plans so we divided and conquered – Dave took the garage and I took the inside of the house.  My room by room eval went well.  I even discovered a fudge pop in the freezer!  I gathered the remaining cleaning and forgotten items and helped load the car.  I was doing just fine until I opened the back gate to toss my Popsicle stick in the garbage when it hit me.

Opening that gate into the yard we’d transformed from a patchy lawn rutted with dog trails into a lush, shady outdoor escape, was easy.  It was closing it for the last time that was tough.  I’d become so attached to each plant and blade of grass, so connected to the earth itself.   We  invested so many hours of preparing the soil, planting each perennial, bulb and shrub.  We weeded. We cultivated.   We watered.  In return we were rewarded with year-round beauty which we anticipated with the enthusiasm of young children counting down the days before Christmas.  Each new green sprout and flower bud was worthy of dinner conversation.  It was our yard that rooted us to our home because it was what connected our home to God.  Saying goodbye to that connection was tough.

Driving back the next day,  the traffic stayed behind us as as we drove further and further west.  Turning off the interstate onto Rt. 33, we drove the last twenty miles to our new home through the green landscapes that are now a part of our everyday life.  With the Blue Ridge mountains peeking between the breaks in the trees and the endless green around us, I feel the tingling of new roots beginning to sprout.  We have a new patch of green behind our home waiting for tending.  Each season will bring new sprouts and opportunities for connection to creation.  And so it begins.

 

 

 

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Green Acres We Are Here!

When I told my sister Barb we were moving to Ruckersville, she asked me if it was close to Hooterville.  At the time I laughed and said no, but in the time since, I’m beginning to wonder.

I’m not claiming there is a trio of beautiful young women with a “Jo” at the end of their name in town, nor has Mr. Haney arrived at our door with an offer too good to be true.  But in some very distinct ways, we are very much like Oliver and Lisa Douglas; leaving our “city” life for that of the RFD.

The first thing that struck me was the seemly long distances needed to travel to get to where I want to go.  In some cases, it really is a “furr piece”.  We drove eleven miles to go to Mass on Sunday- and it only took a few minutes longer than our accustomed four mile trip to St. Marks.  In others, it only seems that way – the closest Walmart, an icon of modern civilization, is only about two miles from the house, roughly the same distance from our old house to the Walmart on Princess Anne.  But, to get there I have to turn left onto US29, climb a hill, travel through a deer crossing and turn left on US33.  For me, this is a much different experience than just driving a few blocks through a few couple of traffic lights.  The suburban landscape is familiar, the rural is not.  Everywhere I turn there are rolling green hills.

Mind you, everything I need is here, without all lot of stuff I don’t need stuffed in between.  It is a change I can get used to, without much hardship.

 

 

 

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14,000 Pounds and What Do You Get?

The transfer of our household goods and worldly possessions is finally complete.  After seven long days of  gathering, packing, loading, unloading, unpacking and disbursing in some of the hottest, steamiest July weather imaginable, we are here!

In the finaly weigh-in, our loads totalled a whopping 14,000 pounds!  The loading day went great until they hit the attic.  Over the past six years, Dave had stowed away and out of sight, the parents’ nightmare – the kid stuff that stays behind after the kids are long gone.  Even though we’d spent countless hours weeding through our own book and memorabilia, we’d overlooked the many boxes containing the stuff Maggie and Andy had collected and left with us in safe keeping.  And, while I enjoy seeing the rough neck boxes of Legos and Barbies, the heavy book cartons of college texts do not leave me with the same warm fuzzies.

On the delivery day, Maggie came up and helped with unpacking the kitchen.  It was fun to open the boxes with her and unwrap the dishes until we realized that the items we will use really only needed a couple of shelves.  Many more shelves needed to be reserved for the other stuff – the parents’ revenge – stuff your parents give you to preserve when they downsize.   Again, I enjoyed seeing each water glass and serving dish and the warm memories of my life as a young person but don’t really care for climbing the ladder over and over again to nestle them on the way top shelves.  I told Maggie I felt as if we were a travelling Smithsonian exhibit.  She said she hoped someday she’d have a place big enough so she could take some of these things off my hands.  All I can say is, me too!

 

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Bill and Hillary

Bill and Hillary arrived at my door early this morning. No, we weren’t entertaining the former president and Secretary of State, Bill and Hillary are our packers.   I thought it ironic that I fit right in as a “Monica”.

Eight hours later, the house is almost empty and reaks of cardboard.  I also realized that Bill and Hillary drove away with half of our belongings and I don’t even know either of their last names or have a contact number for them.

Moving involves so many leaps of faith.

 

 

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Labor and Delivery

The packers will be here in a few hours.  This past weekend, while the rest of the country celebrated our Nation’s independence, Dave and I worked on our breaking away from our life here in Virginia Beach.

The eating and goodbyes continued.

I told someone yesterday that is move is kind of like a pregnancy.  There has been the waiting and anticipation of new life, and now we’re entering labor.  It’s going to be a long haul, hurt like hell and then the new life will begin.

Well, at least there won’t be the interruptions of crying during the night.  At least I hope not.

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The Nearly Old Woman and the Sea

The sunburn on my shoulders and forehead is still red and achy.  I can’t believe I did this to myself….

Last weekend, Maggie and Jan decided to take advantage of an opening in their calendar and  called to say they wanted us to join them for a day at the beach.  We all knew it was our last chance before the move, so we did.  It was the perfect day – mid to high eighties, cool breeze off the water and waves big enough to play in but not so rough that there was much danger of being rolled on the beach.

And play we did.  After not too much time in the sun we headed for the water.  Once we passed the beach break and got “used” to the water temperature, we went out to shoulder deep water to ride the waves.  I’m not sure what it is about wave bobbing that makes me so very happy but it surely does.  I even turned to another woman about my age doing the bob and remarked that it was my favorite thing in the whole world.  And, at that moment it was.  It was as if I’d become ageless.  I was me at 55 but also me at 35 and 15 all at the same time.  I was weightless – which is a good thing at any age.

Just what is it about the bob that is so addictive?  As I jumped through a wave, I was already looking forward to the next.  As my body tired, I still wanted more.  Time was irrelevant.  The world revolved around me and the unending supply of waves.

This is how I got the sunburn.  It was totally worth it.