Since seeing a journal prompt last week from The Clearing, Katherine May’s Substack, on the effect of seasonal transition, I’ve had March on my mind in a reflective way. After wintering so long, mood swings are inevitable, and for me, the life experiences I recognize have caused them. My attitude about March has not only formed over my lifetime, it has congealed. 

As a child, March represented no more than the promise of a week’s break from school. I’d get a new dress my mother sewed on her old black Singer — the machine she taught me to sew on. Often, the dress looked exactly like my younger sister’s new dress because my mother could only purchase fabric in precut quantities. If my sister liked the dress, it was a good thing because she’d get to wear mine after I’d outgrown it. We’d get a new pair of shoes and perhaps a hat for church on Easter Sunday when it happened to fall in March.

On that day, our family would squeeze into our faded blue VW bug and, with other military families stationed in Southern Spain in the mid to late 60s, head to the country for an egg hunt and hot dogs roasted over a camp fire. It signified summer was approaching, promising warm days of wearing cotton shirts and shorts, of bare feet and fun playing with neighborhood friends. It promised longer days of light and later bedtimes. 

My first boyfriend’s birthday was early in March — the boy I met in high school and was engaged to marry six years later but didn’t. And then there was my first husband, the father of my two older boys. His birthday was mid March. It’s always been a curiosity that the first two serious relationships I had with men had birthdays a week apart. 

Things changed after our divorce six years later when I went back to school to finish my degree and became a teacher. I married my husband of nearly 40 years as soon as I finished my student teaching assignment. With two young boys, March still represented that a family egg hunt would be forth coming and perhaps a baked ham my mother never failed to tell me reminded her of the picnics her family had. She didn’t like ham. 

Spring sprouted early in that sunny corner of the world and with a yard that had endless possibilities, I enjoyed being able to plant things and watch them grow. The time spent in the yard was a much needed break from the demands of my job, raising my boys, and sharing our home with my mother. I have fond memories of gardening with her there. One spring, She moved out in dramatic fashion on Easter Sunday and from that point on, I struggled to care for our half-acre property alone. Life was easier without her there, but the yard was never the same.

Fast forward a decade. Over the long relationship I’ve had with my husband, March took on new meaning. Because the nature of his profession requires long hours during certain times of the year, March became “The Stretch”. It meant the end of busy season was in sight, more a much needed relief than the childhood excitement over summer’s approach. Because he’s a devout college basketball fan, the NCAA’s March Madness tournament provided motivation to get not only him, but me to the finish line mid-April. It meant not so fashionably late dinners of high carb comfort food and a favorite show before bed to unwind — or at least try to. After my early retirement, I went into high gear to support this effort but discovered something else in the process: myself. 

Early Spring and long days alone meant I could generally explore what I wanted. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t before, but I suppose I took advantage of the time I had at this point in a much different way. I no longer had a child in school because our son, like his much older brothers, had reached adulthood.

I spent a lot of time walking and exploring the chaparral covered hillsides near our home. I started writing in earnest, and became more serious about photography. I took on DIY projects at home. I planned wonderful trips that gave us both something to look forward to once the dust had settled. All in all the years between 50 and 60 for me were highly creative and productive. In part, I have March to thank for that. 

It was March six years ago that I flew to Maine to look at a house I’d found during one of my Sunday real estate excursions on line. My husband had changed firms and as much as he had hoped that would have helped level out the stress he was dealing with, it wasn’t working. I’m fairly certain he would have agreed to any house I’d found at that point and I was desperate to find it. For me, the call of Elsewhere was stronger than ever so the timing was perfect.

By March of 2020 we’d been in our new old house for nearly a year, excited about the changing seasons and busy creating our new life. The winter hadn’t delivered as much snow as we’d wanted, but no matter. It was all new to us. I purchased a ridiculous number of seed packets — both flowers and veggies. Since we had a basement I decided to learn about starting seeds under grow lights to give them a head start for our short growing season. It wasn’t long before I learned that March is perfect for this sort of thing unless we were like others who, wanting to avoid mud season, flew to warmer climes to sit in the sun. Since we’d lived in the sun all our lives, it wasn’t something we were interested in. 

My husband worked in his home office, and I in the basement with my seeds. March felt promising watching hundred of tiny sprouts push their way to the surface and stretch toward the light. When I wasn’t in the basement, I, like seemingly everyone else during COVID lockdowns, was learning to make sourdough bread. I painted rooms to reflect our taste instead of the previous owner’s. We took country drives to get out of the house occasionally. We joined friends for dinner on hockey nights. We waited for signs of Spring. 

I learned that in March Crocus are the first bulbs to appear — bulbs planted by former owners of our house long ago. They were a cheerful sight in the dreary brown of everything else. Before the end of the month, finally, it snowed once again. I remember being so excited. The unpredictability of the weather helped make the seasonal changes interesting. Summer would arrive soon enough. It was April just ahead with large galvanized bins purchased to build our veggie garden in. In the meantime, new growth was visible each day, with buds on shrubs swelling. Bright green moss grew plump on the granite steps out front. Birdsong was more audible. Walks to town without having to worry about slipping on ice more frequent. But not all was promising.

I learned that first March that someone had been paying attention to my husband. It was a harmless message left by the person paying the attention, but it caused an ominous feeling in me that persisted into April. I remember a sense of desolation but attributed it to the dismal news about COVID we heard every day. Early in May I learned she had been in a relationship with him since late November. Learning about it has altered the way I think about that first year living in a place we were both excited to be. It’s my Ides of March. As much as we have transitioned through the trauma of it all, I understand that now it’s an inextricable part of who I am and of what March represents. Planting seeds, watching bulbs shoot up… It’s all bound tightly together like a ball of yarn — one that unravels less and less with each passing year.

Six years have passed. To some extent, March has resumed what it has always been: a time of transition, of regrowth, of promise. It’s a reminder that life is about change and adaptability. It promises longer days of light and of learning. Of understanding the difference between the intricacies of life we have control over and those we don’t. Of finding myself once more, but forever changed.

“Life is a good teacher and a good friend. Things are always in transition, if we could only realize it. Nothing ever sums itself up in the way that we like to dream about. The off-center, in-between state is an ideal situation, a situation in which we don’t get caught and we can open our hears and minds beyond limit.”  

— from When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön

I’d sit with the open book forgotten on my lap and find myself admiring Monarchs fluttering between the brilliant orange Tithonia blossoms, or gazing into the distance where clouds often gather over the hills to the north of us. Squirrels unaware of my presence would be another distraction as are the many birds that swoop in and away from the feeders suspended from the Dogwood tree next to the house. I’m often unfocused these days, my attention span not what it used to be.

I was digging up Dandelions earlier today after returning from a visit to my mother’s that went south almost immediately. I arrived after her big midday meal to take her shopping. She likes to push the basket and look at everything exclaiming that it’s been years since she shopped. But she was in a foul mood, complaining that her life sucks and that she hates living where she is. I try to tell her that she’s done many things in her life that were fun and adventurous but she shut me down. I let her go on while looking for her hairbrush so I could run it through the back of her hair. A comb had to suffice because the brush was nowhere to be found. “People steal my things. They come in and take them all the time.” She was getting geared up and made the same complaint about being able to take care of herself that we often hear. That we should’ve left her where she used to live. “I can wipe my own ass!” she sneers, now clearly very angry. “Who said I can’t take care of myself?” I remind her that two doctors have made that determination, and mention that myself, my brother and sister also believe this is true. We have observed it to be true.

I squash the remnants of the pleasant feeling I’ve had about visiting her since the last time, earlier this week. I tell her we don’t have to shop, that I can sit and have this discussion with her again, but the F-bombs begin. I tell her I’m leaving and she follows me to the front door of the facility. While I wait to be let out surrounded by a couple of staff, and residents who usually try to leave with me, I hear her yelling, “You’re a fucking asshole!”

It makes me remember an old friend who used to teach at a juvenile detention facility. She said she was called that so often, she thought it might have been printed on the name tag pinned on her shirt. I remember laughing with her over this. Today, I wasn’t laughing as I drove away minus my mother. It doesn’t matter, because she won’t remember the incident. She won’t remember I was there.

When I think of all that has happened this year, it has often felt like much too much: the unexpected flight to Florida with my sister to collect my mother after being told she could no longer take care of herself; the tumultuous five months that she lived with us; her husband’s unexpected death; the legal work to become her guardian and conservator; the search for an appropriate placement for her in assisted living. Her ongoing adjustment to those new circumstances have only barely begun to feel less acute, until they don’t as exhibited by my experience today.

My husband’s parents, each with their own difficulties, have also been in focus. A little more than a year ago, we learned as we did with my mother, that they could no longer live independently. Unfortunately, the amount of care his father needed had associated costs we were terrified we wouldn’t be able to supplement beyond what their fixed income provided. They had no savings, no home to sell. My husband grappled with the VA for a year before financial relief was granted and even that wasn’t quite enough.

Then there was his father’s cancer treatment. It involved organizing a sequence of phone calls each day to remind his mother, who has a significant short term memory deficit, to get his father ready for his appointments, five days a week for seven weeks. It involved finding out who was available to drive him there and back and sometimes, the teenagers in the family were designated. Getting a 95-year-old man with no lower body strength from a wheelchair into a car and out again is not an easy feat for anyone, let alone a young grandson.

Sadly, my father-in-law passed away the first of this month. Now, the focus is on my mother-in-law and her grief, her questionable ability to live a life minus the man she was married to for sixty-five years. It’s humbling to observe from afar, listening to my husband when he speaks to her by phone. I hope she surprises us and musters what is left of the woman I grew to love and felt was a good friend for many years.

Earlier this year, when my own mother was living with us, I avoided wondering how long it would take for her placement in an assisted living facility to be settled. Waiting lists were long and living day to day was a difficult reality. I assumed that if she had still been with us at this point, we’d be in need of an escape. It wasn’t an active thought, but collected air miles tend to persuade — especially when there is an expiration date involved and an email lands in my inbox announcing a sale.

I booked a flight to England with little thought. My sister instantly volunteered to come because someone would’ve had to stay with our mother. And if she hadn’t have volunteered, my husband told me he’d have sent me off somewhere by myself to collect my wits and that he would take care of my mother. It was a selfless gesture that I am glad we never saw to fruition. Who knows how that experience might have gone between them?

Now, the trip we’ll take at the end of this month will have an added focus — one that will allow my husband and I time to reflect on our own lives and of what lies ahead for us. We’ll no doubt think of my father-in-law and how excited he was to be able to travel to England with us years ago. How, if he had been able, would have traveled there again.

My mother will soon be 87, and my husband’s mother, 90. Both are in cognitive decline. Neither has another significant health concern. There is no escape from their current reality. There is no solution for either of them to avoid what lies ahead. The weight of their aging has had a profound effect on us.

I’m looking forward to time spent reflecting, time spent living with as much gratitude as I can muster on any given day, time spent planning for whatever lies ahead. As Robert Frost has written, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.”

I hope the miles are like those we’ve hiked in England. Gentle and memorable.

Sometimes I read about something I can’t control. That helps me understand and cope in one efficient swoop. Lately, I’ve told myself it’s good for my brain, as if it somehow makes up for a lack of sleep. I’ve had quite a bit on my mind lately. At times, too much.

Earlier this week when my sister was visiting with one of her daughters and newest grandbaby, my husband had to leave unexpectedly after learning his father had had a severe stroke. Not wanting to fiddle with the iPad should he call, I’ve kept my phone nearby for the past two nights.

When a call came in yesterday morning, I didn’t recognize the number so let it go to voice mail. Glasses retrieved from where I’d knocked them onto the floor while flailing for my phone, I realized it was a local call most likely from one of the staff members at the facility where my mother now lives. There had been an incident.

I thought of my father-in-law in that moment, unable to move most of his body, unable to speak in a clear voice or connected way, and most likely feeling anxiety about his new condition. In contrast, my mother is completely mobile, and outside of having poor vision, is almost as sturdy as an old oak, but much thinner. Unfortunately, Dementia has left her with almost no memory and significant personality changes. She is often very unhappy.

At this minute, my husband is with his father as are other family members. His father’s passing is imminent. He has been texting me from time to time since yesterday when they decided his father would be receiving hospice care in the hospital instead of returning him to the place he’s lived with his wife of more than 60 years. “He stops breathing for a while, then takes three large breaths. He’s wheezing and the rattle is beginning,” my husband shares. As much as I have learned about how a human body prepares for death, I realize I’m struggling with the updates.

Yesterday, after listening to the voice mail about my mother, I returned the call immediately. The “incident” had been at breakfast between my mother and another resident. She has made a few friends who enjoy sitting together at meals. Recently, one was moved to a facility closer to her family. Her vacant seat in the dining room was taken by the resident who slapped my mother on the arm. I imagine my mother said something unpleasant to her which perpetuated the aggression — something like, that’s not your seat. There might even have been a sneer on her face at the time because I’ve seen that personality. My mother didn’t deserve being slapped, but I understand her retaliation was immediate. She slapped the woman back. There were no complaints about the incident. I was simply being informed. It conjured memories of teaching Middle School. Dear Mr. or Ms. So and So, your daughter struck another student today at lunch.

Right now, according to my husband, my father-in-law takes about three breaths before lapsing back into stillness for almost a minute. He appears comfortable. My husband and others take turns holding his hand. They share stories about growing up that feature their father while their mother mentions she cannot hear because of her hearing aids. She, also, has severe memory loss, and so as much as it seems she understands what is happening, I expect she will relive what has happened over and over after he passes because she won’t remember. I know this because my mother’s husband passed away several months ago. She often mentions that it seems it never happened.

I may go to visit my mother tomorrow, but could wait another day. I’ll wait because I never know how she will respond when I’m there or how she’ll behave when I leave. I’d appreciate being able to bring her to my house in a normal way. Perhaps we’d do some gardening, or I’d make an early dinner for her. Sit on the front porch with our dog and call to the passersby. I just don’t have the confidence that it will go well. Not yet. She’s unpredictable. I don’t have the emotional energy to handle it well. I’d like not to think about it.

Right now, the sun has just dropped below the horizon. Hours have gone by as we wait for my father-in-law to pass. He’s been more a father figure to me than my own father whom I’ve only ever had a vague, sporadic relationship with since I was four. My father-in-law has definitely had a more positive impact on me than my stepfather who was abusive in a number of ways.

I’ve always appreciated my father-in-law’s demeanor: calm, pleasant, quiet, appreciative. At 95, he’s lived a very long life. I’m glad to have known him and to have had the experiences we’ve enjoyed. The six-week wine tasting class that met once a week was excellent. We never spat out the wine as instructed. The animated discussions we engaged in lacked animosity, just the way we all used to be able to contest one another’s views. The trip to England my husband and I accompanied his parents on contained moments of wonder, of hilarity, and expected impatience: how difficult is it to find a Ploughman’s lunch in a characterful pub with a fire roaring in the grate on a crisp Fall day? Evidently, quite. Good memories, though. Very good.

It’s time to go outside and appreciate the coolness in the air this evening. To sit with my dog on the porch and be thankful for my life. To appreciate now. To wait for my husband’s call.

An early version of Pages with a template for journaling caught my eye one day and I settled in gingerly to begin writing. I remember thinking, Just write. Don’t worry about anything. You know. The voices. The voices that tell you that you can’t write, that you need to stay in your lane. The voices writer Ann Lamott calls radio station KFKD in her classic book on writing, Bird by Bird.

“Out of the right speaker in your inner ear will come the endless stream of self-aggrandizement, the recitation of one’s specialness, of how much more open and gifted and brilliant and knowing and misunderstood and humble one is. Out of the left speaker will be the rap songs of self-loathing, the lists of all the things one doesn’t do well, of all the mistakes one has made today and over an entire lifetime, the doubt, the assertion that everything that one touches turns to shit, that one doesn’t do relationships well… “

Perhaps you understand from personal experience. Or perhaps you don’t and now are wildly successful because you have never listened to radio station KFKD. I sincerely applaud you for this. Honestly.

It is with this mindset that I landed somewhere on the Internet and found a Blog. I’d never heard the term before but quickly found it was short for Web Log — a journal kept on line. Immediately, I was attracted. There were others I could have contact with — others like me. I wasn’t sure what that was at the time but learned it had to do with community. It may not have been called that at the time, but it felt exactly so to me.

I sampled Squarespace, WordPress, Blogger, and Typepad. After narrowing down my choices to two and creating two blogs (one is this) on two different platforms, eventually I became committed to WordPress. In time, I bought my domains and transferred my writing to the self-hosted format.

Eight million years have passed. Life has had not only its routine ups and downs, but true traumatic events — most of which I haven’t had the energy to record. As much as I’ve always felt the catharsis writing provides, sometimes I don’t feel well served by rehashing stressful events. Talk about them to someone? Absolutely. A family member, a friend, a professional. For me, at least, this is helpful. Write about them privately? It depends on whether I need to process my emotions. But publically? The desire is there at times, but I’ve got too much to consider.

Time passes. The need to write never leaves me. If I’m not actually writing, then while I’m weeding, or planting seeds in the basement in frigid March, or painting the ceiling in the upper hall, I’m writing. Sentences begin, a paragraph is constructed before too long. I nearly always quash the urge to memorize it and write it down, promising myself I’ll expand it later. Yet I don’t.

For the past few years I’ve used Notes, the simplistic grocery list making app found on an iPhone, iPad, iMac, iWhatever. There’s no audience, it just gets the job done. The rage is on the page for posterity, or for whenever I give myself permission to write something for the public. Right now, public consists of about two or three people. If I put a link on social media, I see there are a few looky-loos, but there appears to be no engagement.

I’m thinking this is perfectly fine because I have missed this view of a digital page I have grown to love over nearly 20 years. I don’t have to think about much other than keeping up with whatever blocks are; blocks are supposedly an easier way to format a post. They’re actually annoying considering they don’t seem to be as easy as the old format. But I see it as brain exercise, and I need that at my age. I need it because I do not want to become whomever my mother is right now: someone who calls me on a perfectly pleasant afternoon to tell me I have a fat ass and to say she doesn’t belong in Memory Care. But I know in less than five minutes she won’t remember the call. Unfortunately I will.

I hate the effect it has on me — the instant dissolving of what I tend to tell myself is strength or resolve. Resilience! She obliterates every bit of it sometimes during a call and sometimes later, after the Bulldog videos I watch wear off. I wonder if I can just sit in my car in the garage until I’m calm, or better, cease to care. Not caring is a difficult and uncharacteristic task for me.

I need to clarify caring and this is where writing for public consumption is problematic. Everyone has an opinion about sensitive issues. What I have experienced with my mother in my lifetime may be similar or completely different from others’ experience. What I say about my experience with my mother will most definitely get reactions from others and that is not what I’m after. I’m not after anything beyond writing truthfully about my life experiences and the effect they have had on me. How I’ve dealt with them. How they’ve changed me. What I’ve learned or haven’t learned from them.

That doesn’t make me a content creator. It makes me someone who writes a journal that is available for the public eye and that is all. The reason I know this is based on how I feel right now after writing all of what is above. The catharsis is alive and well, reducing the sting of the bite.

I was going to shovel dirt from the pile sitting in our driveway to fill the low spots in our yard. I also considered my obsession with pulling Dandelion weeds from our lawn, or finish painting the south facing garage windows. Writing won. Ultimately, I believe it is what helps me work through this awful problem. The other tasks would simply help me feel practical while not addressing what was bothering me — something I will never be able to fix.

So here I am, not quite as happily as I once was years ago, pecking on my WordPress interface. Should I care that this once promising at least to me space could become the Dementia Chronicles, or a new version of Mommy Dearest? Remember, I do care, but what often comes with that is more important: Does it matter?

No, it doesn’t. This Blog is for my mental health. It’s for me. I welcome you to read if you choose to, and to comment with what you think and feel in response to what I’ve written. If you’re anything like me, you search for others who know and are willing to share, or at least understand. If you are, then welcome. Don’t forget to buckle up. The ride is a bumpy one.

In a couple of hours, I’ll drive the short distance to where my mother has lived for a month: in memory care with others who are like her. They’re in their later years, and in cognitive decline. It’s taken me a few days to decide how I’ll handle this visit because each one has been different from the preceding one. This isn’t necessarily because of who accompanies me or what we decide to do. Often, it’s related to her mood. This, more than anything, has had a profound effect on me.

I’m never sure who I’ll find when I arrive. Will she be the pleasantly surprised woman who asks for a hug and tells me how happy the visit makes her? Or will she be defensive and attempting to exert some level of control? Will she be truthful, or pretending? She’s admitted to acting as if she feels differently than she actually does and not being truthful. That hasn’t helped.

The last visit, earlier this week, was made on a whim after I spoke to her on the phone. A staff member had called to say that she was “short”, a word I’d never use to describe the behavior she explained. My mother had been flying F-bombs, starting arguments with other residents, and accusing the staff member of stealing her purse and credit cards. The woman, who was calm and professional as she relayed the early afternoon events, said she thought my mother was going to slap her.

I apologized and she told me it was unnecessary. Unfortunately, that sort of behavior is something they are accustomed to. But she wanted to know if I would call her, hoping it would help settle my mother down.

As expected, the call didn’t go well. I reminded her that I had her purse and wallet and that she had no credit cards. That legally, she could no longer access her money. This set off a barrage of comments about not being able to walk to the store (which she hasn’t done in years), to choose her own groceries, or even to choose what to have for meals.

There’s a story stuck in her memory that involves walking to Whole Foods to have a “half glass of wine that cost nine dollars”. She believes she did this frequently when she lived in Florida no matter how many times we’ve explained that it happened once in five years. That outside of walking her dog around her apartment complex parking lot several times a day, she rarely went anywhere — especially unaccompanied.

I know reasoning with someone who has dementia is not recommended. She doesn’t realize she is incapable of choosing groceries, or ordering from a menu. In fact when I prepared meals for her, there was no discussion of what she would be eating because I quickly learned she couldn’t decide something as simple as whether breakfast should be hot or cold. Scrambled eggs and toast, or yogurt and granola? Or whether the personal pizzas we made together had pepperoni or sausage. Yet when she is in scary mode, she believes many things which are far from being true. It wasn’t a surprise she hung up on me that day.

I told my husband I’d feel better if I made a visit. It would help the anxiety that seems to have taken up residence in me since February. But when I arrived, she was sitting with others watching a colorized Shirley Temple film on the huge flat screen in one of the common spaces. She didn’t seem to recognize me as I approached, but I noticed that her fairly new glasses were hanging from the beaded necklace I purchased so she’d always know where they were. I sat behind her without getting her attention and decided to just observe the room. In the half hour I was there, she turned to look behind her and right at me twice, never registering recognition. Outside of being annoyed because one resident kept standing in front of the screen, she seem relatively calm and quite different from who she had been on the phone.

I decided not to disturb her that visit because I’ve seen how her mood can change suddenly. She goes into the bathroom and comes out completely a different person. I didn’t want to cause that after a rough day.

It’s time to make sandwiches and a small salad. I’ll add some fresh cherries and stop on the way for cold beverages. The sun is out now after a good rain this morning, so I’m hoping we can take a walk, then find a bench to enjoy the picnic. I’d like to think we can have a conversation, but now, that only consists of what I’m doing during the day. She can’t remember much of what her days entail.

I know she believes we’ve conspired to lock her up and that she doesn’t belong there. That she took care of us, so why don’t we want to take care of her? She’s forgotten that we have for years and years in many ways.

“Almost five months now.” I sound like a recorded message because I feel that way at this point. If my mother could retain anything she questions us about I’d have trained Alexa to answer everything she asks.

“Five months?” She shakes her head in seeming wonderment or frustration and turns to gaze out the kitchen window while I imagine she is lining up the followup questions that usually accompany the first. But I’m ahead of her.

“It’s nice outside this morning. You can take a spin around the garden with your coffee.” I know this is an effective distraction because she spends most of every day outside in the yard or on the front porch where she waves to passersby out walking their dogs.

When my sister and I flew to Florida to get Mom, we knew it wouldn’t be easy. We had learned that her husband left with only a text sent to my sister as an idea of what was going on. “I’m outta here. I can’t do this anymore” he wrote, or something even more blunt. Days passed before we could get to her and by that time, protective services had been contacted. We thought he’d come back because he had before, his behavior often erratic. I remember thinking we’ve got to get her out of there before he gets back because he had before.

A month later, he was dead. The lung cancer he had been treated for a year ago had metastasized to his brain. For my mother who suffers from dementia, this continues to be difficult to comprehend. She often believes she left him to visit family and that others would think her uncaring for not being with him when he passed away.

“Mom. He left you. He couldn’t take enough time to have a civil discussion with us about how to handle everything.” This only quiets her for a while because now she believes she was there when he passed and his errant son and she had become friends. They said their goodbyes to her husband together. That he’s buried in Arlington National Cemetery, quite a long way from where he’s actually buried.

In her more lucid moments, she realizes she has made this story up. She’ll become thoughtful for a time then ask, “What am I going to get?” I understand but ask her what she means anyway. “From the government. Because he died and he was a Vet.”

This is another point she becomes fixated on. Where’s the money. For someone who hasn’t had much in her life, this is always the point. No matter what she has, it has never seemed to be enough. “I marry a man thirteen years younger than me and he dies on me. If he wasn’t dead, I’d kill ‘im.” Sometimes she thinks this is funny and has repeated it to doctors, friends, people screening her for placement in assisted living — perhaps everyone she’s met since she’s been with us. All she’s ever really wanted is someone to take care of her.

She insists that she was pushed out of her family home and into marriage when she was sixteen. “Mom, it was pretty common for young women to marry right out of high school,” I tell her once more. “You were engaged as a senior and were married July after graduation.” I believe this is just another story she has made up to support the idea that no one has ever loved her or taken care of her.

“Which one was that?” she asks. It takes a moment to think about what she means before I realize she’s trying to sort out her four husbands. As much as I know her memory is shot, I have wondered if she pretends to confuse aspects of her life so she can keep me involved in a conversation she thinks she’s in control of. Otherwise, there is no conversation. She doesn’t read any longer. She only watches television when we’re with in the evening after dinner. To her, conversation is asking the names of grandchildren, getting the birth order of my brother, sister, and I correct, and trying to place which house she owned last.

Repeating myself to her endless questions is rarely if ever annoying. That is the smallest of issues that her cognitive decline has introduced. She has made jokes for years about having what she calls CRS which stands for Can’t Remember Shit. But I have known where she would end up. I just didn’t know it would be living in my house 3200 miles away and years from when it all began.

I hoped she’d be able to live more independently somewhere nearby before we moved across the country. Even then, about five years ago, not long after she’d moved to Florida with her last husband when they were talking about a divorce again, I thought she could rent a place a couple of blocks away. Somehow, the two always seemed to salvage whatever they could in their perpetually rocky relationship to stay married. He didn’t want to be alone. She wanted someone to take care of her. It isn’t the best recipe for success.

On good days with my mother, and good weather, the emotional meter registers low. She wanders through the yard and around the house smelling everything she can reach in spite of the fact that much of it will cause her nose to run. “Not everything is meant to have a scent, Mom, let alone a pleasant one.” But she sniffs anyway. She says it’s how she tells one plant from another. I know she can see well enough to determine a rose is a rose, but sometimes, poppies are roses, and the peonies? I finally told her they’re big pink flowers because nothing I said helped her remember. She likes being out in the yard as long as everything is green. The idea of spending an entire winter with her has filled me with dread.

When she arrived at the end of February, it was freezing and often, snow covered everything. “What kind of podunk place is this and how did you draw the short stick?” She wasn’t happy about any of it. “Are the leaves ever going to grow back? You know I’m an Arizona girl.”

I also know she hated living in Phoenix and appreciates nothing about a desert. She blames Phoenix for her red nose. Somehow, California, Florida, South Carolina, and Southern Spain remain blameless for the deplorable condition of her skin. Even now, I see her outside on a sunny day, face turned up to the sun, arms stretched out for maximum contact. She’ll kick off her shoes to sun her feet as well.

“Mom. You need sunscreen.”

“You know I can’t remember anything.” She lets me spray sunscreen on her and immediately pats where I’ve sprayed to wipe it on her face.

“Don’t get it in your eyes,” I remind her. She screws up her face and asks whether I think she’s stupid or tells me she’s not dumb. It’s anyone’s guess as to why her mood shifts down the nasty path. This would be the aspect of her dementia that is unnerving and often intolerable. I tell myself to walk away but it isn’t that easy. I seem to represent all that is wrong in her world at times.

At one point, she believed my husband and I kidnapped her. We stole her things and have them arranged in our house as if they were ours. She has spat at him and into the center of our TV room during one of her tantrums. She has gestured to herself obscenely. Thankfully now, only occasionally has she turned a middle finger, gnarled with arthritis, in my direction and told me to fuck myself — usually while taking the stairs up to her room. I tell her I’m not putting up with her shit and she calls me out on that word. “Seriously, Mom? And what mother tells her daughter to go fuck herself?” Usually this is followed by an accusation of our never having had a good relationship or a challenge about putting her in an institution. She has no memory of the six years she lived with us after my youngest son was born. She was his primary caregiver until he turned three.

Today she seems to be in a good mood but is confused. She has already forgotten the parade, picnic, and lobster dinner yesterday hosted by friends who always invite her. I remind her and she thanks me for doing so. She wonders where my husband is and when I mention he’s upstairs, she shakes her head. He had just been out on the porch with her watering the hanging baskets. She hasn’t followed me around the yard as she often does, or has wanted to help. I tell her she’s tired and that it’s okay to rest. Surprisingly, she has given in to that. Often, she doesn’t.

She won’t nap in spite of how tired she is. She believes she sleeps well, yet we believe she sits in the chair by her window and stares out regardless of the time. But it could be worse.

She might have fallen down the stairs in our old house which is quite dark in spite of several night lights. She requires no assistive devices such as a cane, a walker, or wheel chair. This seems to surprise doctors and administrators of the senior facilities I’ve toured. She makes her bed, she dresses herself, feeds herself if a meal is put in front of her, but will not prepare food for herself. “I’m not hungry” she has said. Or “I don’t eat breakfast.” On bad days, she will say it’s not her house. At least she has learned how to make her coffee. However, we’ve never had to show her how to make the Rum & Coke she loves every evening.

Most everything else is a challenge — like hygiene. The subject is a guaranteed argument no matter how it’s approached, so I let her take care of herself instead of helping now. I’ve taken the shower chair I purchased out of the bathroom because she prefers a bath no matter how many times I’ve encouraged her wash her hair and spray her body off first. Lining up a roll of paper towels, alcohol wipes, and cleaning spray on the back of toilets helps as a visual reminder, but not always. White towels also help, but there is no guarantee because of her poor vision. A Victorian sized bathroom upstairs between three adults has been a challenge — especially when constant cleaning has had to be done. And as much as she offers to do dishes, she has never offered to clean the bathroom. I think it’s just too embarrassing for her.

She wants to feed our 15-year-old cat who requires medication when she eats. We tell her this yet she feeds her anyway and probably would every time the cat yeowls, which is most any time someone enters the kitchen. She feeds the cat dog food, or a whole can of cat food. It’s another source of aggravation for my mother who tells me to write things down. “I’ve written things down for you before and you’ve removed the signs.” She’ll tell me she doesn’t remember that, which it code for I don’t believe you. “I know. That’s why I’m helping you.”

For those who have followed this story on social media, much of this probably seems redundant. I’ve expected to write more often simply because of the catharsis it provides me. But taking time to thoughtfully put something down when emotions change like wind direction on a blustery day? I was dreaming when I thought I could do that. At almost five months, I have time now because I need it as much as I need my garden. That more than anything has saved my sanity.

We’re waiting for a move in date for my mother to an assisted living community where she will be in memory care. I have doubts about whether this is the best placement for her, but many variables had to be considered. My doubt is based on what remains of my mother’s personality and not on whatever guilt I may feel. She has maintained she wants to be around “old people like her” and to have her own friends. That is what has guided me in my decision with the help of my sister and brother, spouses, friends. It takes a village, I guess.

Unfortunately, if my mother finds a friend one afternoon, she will not remember the next day. She says she lives one day at a time now and that it’s not all that bad. It could be worse. But I doubt she really believes that. “I told God I wanted to live to be 100 standing on my own two feet. Too bad I forgot to add my brain.” She laughs, shrugging.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” What else can I say?

Why August?

It’s easy enough to say because it’s currently the beginning of August. But I rarely know the date, and one day often runs to the next with little more than a ripple. I like it like that. Steady, evenly spaced ripples. But the mention of August opened the door for many things in memory I seem to connect with the last month of Summer — most of which relate to how hot it is. Bear in mind this comes from living my entire life in places where August can be the hottest month of the year. The excitement of Summer has long ended and is replaced with the anxiety of the return to school rapidly approaching. A new grade, new teacher, unfamiliar faces — and as a teacher, the anxiety continued. Would I be ready with everything that needed to be in place for the first day, the first week, the first instructional unit of the school year?

August is not being able to sleep because the house is hotter than it is outside after a day’s bake in the sun. The aluminum window next to the double bed my sister and I once shared, pushed all the way open, offered no trace of a breeze.  Outside, crickets chirped too loudly, too rhythmically to allow us to sleep. The old window AC in the living room provided relief at times when my mother allowed it to stay on at night. We spread the old sofa cushions across the floor and slept beneath the stream of cool air, lulled by the monotonous hum of the fan.

A life lived below the 36th parallel makes it easy to be fooled by August; shorts and cropped cotton tops disappear in stores, replaced by heavier fabrics and warm colors. Plaids. Sweaters and coats. Boots. But I knew better. August days stretched into September and it was often well into October before anything with long sleeves could be worn.

The heat of late summer meant brown lawns and parched flowers, water rationing. Horizons hazy with pollution. Wild fires.

I thought I’d be able to escape August where we live now, the possibility of rain every week all summer long a reality. Lawns stay green without a sprinkler in sight. The only flowers that need watering are potted in sunny locations. The sound of lawnmowers and the sharp scent of freshly mown grass permeate the neighborhood most days of the week. Only a small handful of days is it ever truly hot. But this year, there has been a difference. We’ve had less than an inch of rain in July with temperatures and humidity pushing past what we’ve grown to expect.

Lawns are patched brown and shaggy, and the sound of lawnmowers noticeably absent. Some trees are dropping leaves. I rise early in the morning to appreciate the relative coolness and water the flowerbeds that tend to dry out more easily than others. It seems odd to have to do this. I notice how the weeds tend to thrive in hot weather and I bend to pull a few of them here and there. I swat at the mosquitos that inevitably find me and rinse my legs with the cold hose water. I’d like to position the hose over my head, but resist because of the mess I’d make walking through the house to change my soaked clothes. The humidity is far too high to allow myself to dry off by spending more time outside, and soon, the sun will be up, scorching everything once again. The heat is forcing blooms not quite ready and shortening the lives of perennials that normally thrive in August. I feel as exhausted as my garden looks.

When the heat index finally peaked at 107 degrees a couple of days ago, I thought I’d do just about anything for it to be cooler. I’d welcome 80 degrees — a good 10 degrees past my idea of perfect weather. I was irritable and argumentative. My mood pushed my communication skills to a relentless, strident level. Old problems and persistent issues were prodded and dissected, stretched out and left to dry. Nothing was really solved in the process. The day would’ve been better spent in the basement where it’s remarkably cool and only dimly lit, sulking. Depleted.

As if the Universe realized enough was enough, the heat was gone, just as if it had never been. Instead of being sprawled across the top of the sheets, the portable AC humming and the circular fan set on high, the AC was switched off, the sheets pulled up to cover us. The breeze from the window next to my side of the bed, slightly chilly by morning.

I rose to write my morning pages in the quiet of the cool kitchen, thinking about how different my attitude felt from the day before. Lighter. Calmer. Resolved. As I wrote, my words matched this mood. I felt as if the mental path I’d been struggling to clear of brush for the past two years was finally visible again. It wasn’t neat and tidy, but definitely something I could walk along and see ahead. I was content with that. It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I saw the date — 8/8. An article’s headline caught my attention and reminded me of its significance.

August 8th is important numerologically and is known as being the most potent date between July 26th and August 12th, otherwise known as the Lion’s Gate Portal. It’s when certain astrological bodies align and is believed that the timing is perfect for making decisions, commitments, and potentially seeing them manifest. For decades, to me, that has meant “putting it out into the Universe,” and that morning, I had already done just that. I love the synchronicity of life at times like this because it confirms what I have long believed: nothing is coincidental.

As a Virgo, I am currently to be focused on what my subconscious is telling me. Think morning pages here — that is exactly what they are for. I’m urged to “heal the past or any wounds that are resurfacing at the moment. The road to recovering could take time, which is why it’s important to be gentle with yourself. Don’t rush the process. Allow yourself to feel your deepest emotions as you remedy your heart.” Truly uncanny. The commitment I’d made to myself earlier was one of self-care. Of letting things go that I cannot change. Of moving forward instead of waiting — always waiting.

Waiting for myself.

Because I was focused primarily on the house for my visit, I spent no time at all sizing up the surrounding property. Everything was covered with snow, so anything I might have been curious about was lost in the wonder of that alone. Snow to someone who has lived in warm, sunny regions all her life is fascinating. I vaguely remember the realtor pointing out what appeared to be a sort of hedgerow as our property line while she suggested I could put a vegetable garden in the space alongside it.  But all thoughts of yards, gardens, and vegetables evaporated once I entered the house. I was captivated. Before the end of that week, we had purchased the house. Three weeks later, my husband returned with me to sign the deed and accept the keys.

There was no snow on the ground late that April, so I was able to see bits of what filled the flowerbeds I couldn’t see on my previous visit. A variety of evergreens defined the bones of the garden, but Irises had begun to push through the soil, and tulips and hyacinths bloomed in random places. The portion of the yard the realtor had pointed out was now clearly visible and the grass greening up nicely. Yes, a vegetable garden would fit there, but without knowing where sunlight fell in the course of a day, I couldn’t be too preoccupied with it yet. I had far more important decisions to make regarding our move.

Fast forward six weeks. The sight that greeted me when we finally arrived in Maine was one I hadn’t expected outside of everything being greener than any other place I’d lived. I recognized some of the plants in bloom; Rhododendrons of all colors, Aquilegia or ‘Columbine’, a patch of Creeping phlox, and Dicentra or “Bleeding Heart” were familiar to me because I’d grown them myself at some point, or had lusted after them in magazines, unable to plant them in the Hardiness Zone 9 or 10 I was familiar with. I knew I’d have a steep learning curve, but I had already begun to do my research on Zone 6a.

Within a week of our arrival, the Peonies had begun to bloom. They seemed otherworldly — something I could only vaguely associate with a scented candle, or a bar of luxurious soap. First, the three tree Peonies put on their show with flouncy, elegant ball gown worthy blossoms in pure white, vibrant pink, and deep mauve. I soon realized that if I didn’t pay attention, especially on an unexpectedly warm day, they would be finished, petals scattered on the ground beneath them. Soon after, the herbaceous Peonies blossomed — all twenty of them, give or take a few. Most were of the same pink variety, all lined up on the sunny south facing side of the house — somewhat like an unruly chorus line. They are nearly as beautiful after they’re spent, their heads hung low at the end of arched stems as if exhausted by their effort.

Soon after the Peony show, the Irises command attention. The Day lilies, the Rugosa rose and Rose campion. The Hostas, Coneflowers, and Rudbekia. The Lavender, which if I hadn’t seen it myself, would never have believed could survive a Winter with temperatures below zero, to blossom again each year — and self sow! Each day it seemed something new welcomed me on my morning stroll through our yard. Even the weeds seemed interesting. There were so many seedlings throughout the beds, almost indistinguishable from one another until they grew into their respective identities. Sometimes the wait involved seeing whether the curious plant would bloom. The idea of pulling something up before I knew what it was kept me vigilant, and my garden set to rival a jungle, because I didn’t want to make a mistake. Plants in general were notably far more expensive here so I didn’t want to have to replace anything because of my carelessness.

For example, what I believed was chicory began to grow en masse. I decided to thin the patch because it was quite dense with the plants appearing on the pale side. It wasn’t long before telltale bulbs grew at the end of very long, hairy stems. I had thinned a lovely bed of Poppies! This increased my worries about pulling up the wrong plants, of course. Thankfully, there were enough to keep the view from the kitchen window a colorful focus point.

By August, I realized the former owner, whom I knew was an avid gardener, had a keen eye for succession planting. Many of the beds were planted with two or three different perennials that bloomed one after the other from late Spring, through Summer, and into early Fall. I was truly amazed, and I had to admit, a bit overwhelmed. An inventory was in order — and a plant identifier app. My goal was to get to know the garden as well as I could so that by the time our first Spring arrived, I could be ready. I’d know what needed to be divided, what might need to be transplanted, what needed to find a new home elsewhere, and most importantly, what I wanted to add beyond the Rose of Sharon I planted our first Summer. Somehow, the vegetable garden I had longed for had been reduced to a couple of tomato seedlings I purchased at a hardware store, and six pepper seedlings gifted to me by our farmer friend. Anything beyond that was on the shelf, but only until the seed catalogs began to arrive later in the year. I now had a basement, so I’d be able to grow seeds!

I had so many questions about what I was discovering.

• Did I have to mulch? It seemed more for ornamentation than insulation on the East Coast, and too much mulch could be unhealthy for the plants. (Mulch, but only a couple of inches at most, and make sure it isn’t touching the base of the plant.)
• Leave the heads on the Peonies, or dead head them? (Dead head them.)
• Split the Bearded Irises and the clumps of Siberian Irises? (Yes!)
• And what time of year is best to prune the Junipers? (Early Spring before new growth.)
• Do I even like the Junipers? (Not really, but I tolerate them.)
• How invasive were the Chinese Lanterns? (Extremely.)
• Are they worth keeping? (Only if you want to control them.)
• Was there anything to be done about the red beetles eating the Asiatic Lilies beyond capturing them and smashing them? (Nothing as effective in my opinion.)

The list goes on and on and on, because as you may know if you’re a gardener, a garden is ever changing. There is always something new to think about and learn, always something to take care of, or to let go. Tending a garden is sustaining in more ways than I imagined when I first saw mine in bloom.

I appreciate my garden most in the early morning before the sun has risen over the trees, and in the late afternoon just before the sun sets. I love its lushness at the height of Summer — right now — as much as I do in Fall as the leaves on trees and shrubs begin to change. In Winter, I respect the evergreens and Junipers because the wildlife — the birds and squirrels all find shelter there. They give dimension to the yard when it’s covered in snow. They’re green when nothing else is.

I now tell others we bought a yard that came with a house, and I thank goodness for that frequently. If I’ve not had time to be in the yard because the weather has been bad, or because I’m working on something in the house, I long to be out there. And it’s a good thing because there really is always something to be done. I’ve learned to pull the seedlings early because I don’t need hundreds of the same flower continuing to reseed the garden. In fact, I collect the seeds of some plants. I dead head what needs it. I pull weeds and then pull more weeds, because like the plants I want in the garden, different weeds come up at different points in the growing season. I move seedlings to cluster them in other places. I research, buy, and integrate native shrubs whose blossoms will benefit pollinators, foliage and stems will bring interest either by shape or color, and berries will feed wildlife in winter.  I plant, I prune, and I water. I fertilize infrequently. I do not use insecticides or herbicides of any kind, ever. I tend not to clean up very well because it gives my husband a task I appreciate him volunteering to do. And at the end of our short growing season, I’m the person who chooses not to do “Fall Cleanup” because those leaves and dead stems are important for the insects and wildlife over winter. The insulation the leaves provide is also good for the perennials and shrubs. My yard may not look as pristine as others because of this, but I don’t mind. That isn’t what’s important. Nothing about the type of garden I grow is pristine.

My garden is fairly wild — a barely controlled sort of chaos. That isn’t an accident. If a garden reflects the gardener’s personality, then my garden is very nearly a reflection of me. If some beds are too exact, the plants too preciously placed equidistant from one another, I find I’m impatient for them to grow and mess up the orderliness — or blur the lines. I understand the loose structure I want to achieve, and so that allows me to let go of much of the control I think can spoil a garden. Is a garden about the individual plants, or is it about the overall effect those plants achieve in relation to one another? Is blossom color, leaf shape, and the overall structure of the plants that grow together interesting? And are the changes they go through during the growing season harmonious?

To me, it’s all about that harmony. More than just about anything, it’s what brings me peace of mind at this point in my life. I know I can go outside, pull on my gloves, take hold of my hand hoe or pruners, and be utterly content with whatever task I’ve decided to do. The reward from my effort seems obvious — I can sit back and enjoy my garden when I’m finished. I can take pride when someone walking by stops to tell me how beautiful it is. But that’s only part of it, because “being finished” is related to specific tasks — like  planting a rose. But if the rose is one of many being planted to create a rose garden, and that rose garden is part of a larger project to redesign a long bed on one side of the house, then when is a gardener really finished?

Can a garden really ever be finished? I don’t think so. How can it be? It changes as it grows. It evolves, given its circumstances and growing conditions — just as we do. In this, the fourth summer I’ve tended this particular garden, I fully understand that the true reward is not in the simple appreciation of its appearance. My reward is in the act of tending it. That, in and of itself, has been the very best kind of self care.

I’ve learned from my own experience, and when I most needed it, why gardens are so good for the soul. Most importantly, my garden has helped me process emotions and provided me constructive, creative time to make some sense of lemons life threw my way — to find understanding and acceptance. In “Garden of Solace”, published in the New York Times (Oct 5, 2019), author Margo Rabb wrote that a garden is “a place where complicated grief [is] a natural part of love”. I know this to be very, very true.

I look at the riot of color along the gravel path that extends from our front porch to the street, the brilliant yellows and soft lavender, purple and white, crimson and peach all swaying the the late afternoon breeze. The bees buzz through it all, working, always working. Monarchs visit daily. Birds hop through the shade in the undergrowth I can only pretend to keep up with. It’s glorious and I’m grateful for it every day regardless of the ache in my wrists when I prune too much, or the occasional pain in my right hip if I’m bent over too long. It’s worth it. My garden is my place in this world now.

My soul is there among the roses I planted in May two years ago. It’s in the shade garden I’ve patched together beneath a row of evergreens where not much else thrived when we moved in. It’s in the wild front path where I decide what stays each season to have its time in the sun. And in the long bed out back, it’s in the only part of my garden that’s somewhat symmetrical — the mezza luna bed. Even it wants to be wild, fighting control, just as I have all my life.

“Pick one room and make it yours. Go slowly through the house. Be polite, introduce yourself so it can introduce itself to you.” – Frances Mayer, Under the Tuscan Sun

In our new old house, I began with the room I’d determined would be the guest room, but only out of sheer necessity. Choosing a room to make it my own would definitely have to wait. My sister and mother were expected soon after we arrived to help with the daunting job of unpacking. Then, toward the end of that first summer, a dear friend and her husband planned to be here for several days. First, I’d need to purchase a bed, then after my family left, I’d have a couple of months to decide what to do with the room in general. It had been the previous owner’s studio for nearly 20 years, but now it would revert to the bedroom it was originally intended to be.

From what I have learned about the house and its first occupants, and from my questionable knowledge of how such people lived in the late 1800s, I imagine it was the head of household’s bedroom. It’s a large, bright room with a pleasant view out windows that make up three sides of the octagonal turret that rises above it. The room is uncomplicated and exudes calmness. I’d have chosen it to be our bedroom if there had been more than a narrow, deep closet to hang our clothes in. The room easily accommodates a large bed and tall chest of drawers. I picture the man who had the house built, a young and newly ordained pastor, sitting at a desk positioned in the bowed window space, writing his weekly sermons. Would that man have required a large closet in 1888? Most likely not. However, his wife may have, if anything, for the sheer volume of her bustled dresses. She probably used the bedroom next door — the one we now occupy. It has twice the closet space as well as a built in dresser and shelves hidden behind a mirrored door. The romantic in me thinks it served only as her dressing room and that they shared the bed in his room. They’d been married only two years before purchasing the land to build the house. Surely they’d have wanted to be together every night, wouldn’t they?  I would only have been able to wonder about any of the former occupants when I began to work on the guest room because I hadn’t had the time to find out. At that point, my attention was squarely on what made the house unique.

As one would expect in an old Victorian house, there are peculiarities. Some require attention, most can wait, and others remain peculiar simply for the story they tell. Neither the door to the guest room nor its closet door stay closed. At some point, a former owner removed many of the original glass doorknobs on the second floor doors, installing reproduction antique door knobs instead—and poorly. If it’s my lucky day, the latch bolt on a door may actually catch the strike plate and hold, but several minutes later, it will slowly swing open once again. Most often, nothing can make either stay closed. Because there are many doors in the house that have a personality of their own, we’ve decided we’ll deal with them all at once, replacing the malfunctioning reproductions with period appropriate salvaged hardware which is functional. But not yet—not while the house is still testing our mettle, our willingness to learn how to do things the right way, our patience in understanding what actually matters.

It doesn’t matter that the center window of the trio in the guest room is painted shut. Thankful that there are windows on either side which open to allow a pleasant breeze to fill the room when the weather allows, I’ll attempt to deal with the stubborn window later. That would be when or if we hire someone to repair all the troublesome windows in the house—windows that sport several layers of varying colors of lead based paint. There are windows whose latches have come loose or don’t latch at all, windows with sash ropes that have worn thin and snapped, or have weights that jangle and thump when in operation. Windows with old, wavy glass have sadly cracked from all that jangling and thumping. In a house with 45 windows from the attic to the basement, unless water or freezing air is intruding, they, also, will have to wait their time. What does matter is the perspective the windows provide. I spend countless minutes staring out most of them at one point or another during the day. I admire our neighbor’s massive, ancient silver maple through the north window. The central window features our purple leafed Norway maple and the quiet intersection out front. On the right, the scene across the street is of an old house with an attached barn across an empty lot. It’s as beautiful in the starkest of winter days as it is when the trees that line the street are leafed out in summer, or blazing with color in the fall. 

What else matters? The condition of the walls and ceiling — especially understanding how to care for them. Unlike several other rooms, the guest room’s ceiling is in fairly good condition. There are only a couple of long, thin cracks that appear to have been skillfully patched. To some extent, that makes sense considering the turret space in the attic just above is useable, but not easily accessed. Perhaps the lack of foot traffic has helped preserve the ceiling. Of course, the opinion of an old house novice like myself isn’t reliable. More likely, the weight of the enormous roof on this corner of the house is more efficiently distributed because of the turret and that has helped keep the plaster more intact. There must have been a roof leak in the turret at some point however, because it damaged one corner in the guest room. Unfortunately, someone did a poor job of repairing it. One wonders about a decision made to spackle over existing wall paper instead of removing it and reapplying plaster. There was no way I could rectify this other than sanding the area down and hoping it wouldn’t be too noticeable once I’d painted the wall. I suppose that relegates me to “owner not being responsible” status, but it’s something to be readdressed later. Read: when we have someone come to repair all the plaster. Although I have researched how to do this myself, I need to purchase the correct tools and work up the determination. There would be enough time to think about that later.

I removed the rest of the old wallpaper covering the horsehair fortified plaster walls in pieces that ranged from small shreds to good sized sheets. In one section, I discovered signatures of the men who had done the wall papering from the very beginning. A father and his parter, then his son years later, from 1889, to 1948, then 1974. I was tempted to leave my find uncovered, but decided to take photos instead. After leaving the signatures visible for a while to appreciate them as I worked, I finally sanded, primed, then painted over them. While doing so, I apologized quietly and promised to make a print of the photo to frame and hang in the room. I’ve still not done that because the photos do it little justice. I hope the time we spent talking about the uniqueness of finding the signatures counted for something. My husband managed to locate the father in a photo of his graduating class taken at the old high school, a short block away. To think that we could see a bit of that young man’s history from his signature on our walls matters. 

To finish the walls, I applied a patterned wallpaper of light blue and cream — something not too stuffy, but not too modern. Curtains from the dining room in our previous house were repurposed as more of a decorative touch after I thought long and hard about how to anchor the rods to the walls. I wasn’t going to let plaster be my nemesis, but I didn’t want to damage it, either. I installed roller blinds that don’t quite obscure the sunlight that streams into the room at 4:30 on summer mornings. A new jute rug added texture to the room yet allowed the beauty of the wood floors to be appreciated — floors that were originally a honey color, but had been refinished and stained a dark molasses. An old sofa fit perfectly in the window alcove, making it ideal for reading or a nap. Over time, I’ve moved things from elsewhere in the house to this room until everything has felt as I believe it should be. Welcoming.

On most days, as soon as I’m up, I’m drawn to the guest room. I look out the windows to appreciate freshly fallen snow, or a pretty spring day after flowers have begun to bloom. At dawn, it’s the best place to appreciate the brilliance of a fiery sky as it changes subtly with each passing minute. When winter temperatures drop into single digits, this is the room whose windows display the best ice crystals. Forming on the interior of the storm windows, they keep me enthralled with fleeting creations of feathers and butterflies, fern fronds and flocks of birds in flight, all frozen in the frigid air. Our first winter when I was often unable to venture outside, I took many photos of the ice crystals as well as the changing scenes through the windows — some of which captured my husband. “I’m going out for some exercise and fresh air,” he’d say, or “I’m going to drop something off at the post office,” only a couple of blocks away. I recognized the excuse to get away from his desk or to enjoy being out in the first real snow of the season. If I couldn’t be out there myself, then I could rely upon him for a first hand experience once he returned. In the meantime, I’d snap a bird’s eye view photo just for the memory of another event of many our first year here.  

I remember how much our resident feline, Lizzie, preferred the guest room to others for months after we moved in. She kept me company as I worked on the room, so perhaps she had decided her moral support was payment enough for occupancy. She made use of the shelf over the radiator on warm summer days, or curled up in the coolness under the skirted bed. The sofa appealed to her as well, perfect for her marathon naps. In winter, the warmth of the radiator drew her to the area beneath the sofa, or back to the radiator shelf to sit in the thin morning sunlight. On chilly days, she buried herself between the pillows on the bed so well, I couldn’t find her. Clearly, there’s a sense of peace in this room or she wouldn’t have made it hers from the start. After I ruined my knee that Fall, I stayed in this room for several days, unsure of how comfortable I’d be in our bed with my leg fully wrapped and braced in a temporary cast. Lizzie kept me company around the clock, making sure all was well.

At some point late that winter, she decided to stop using her litter box which is conveniently tucked into the entrance of the service staircase. I think about the uselessness of this space in this century, but I’m thankful it can serve some practical purpose. Unfortunately, the guest room became Lizzie’s alternative spot to take care of her business. She left her odious calling cards beneath the bed and all over the rug. I didn’t want to close the room off because being able to see into the room gave me so much pleasure. Even if I had, the faulty door knob prevented it. Out of desperation, I moved Lizzie’s litter box into the room, hoping that it and the variety of cleaning products I used would help her get the message. Finally, it worked. It struck me as extremely odd that her behavior would change so radically about a room she had clearly enjoyed. Cats tend to sense things, and she’s especially perceptive. If I hadn’t sensed peace in the room myself, I’d have sworn there may have been a ghost who decided it preferred a room that stayed largely unoccupied and undisturbed.

I appreciate that about the guest room as well — its order. The bed is nearly always perfectly made, the pillows plump. Nothing is out of place. When the rest of the house has been affected by any of the projects I’ve taken on since our arrival, the guest room is an oasis of calm — perceived ghost or not. I may not have made the first room in the house mine, but I did put my heart into making a comfortable place to stay for people we care about. It will help us add our own stories to those created by the craftsmen who worked on this house as well as its previous owners.

That is what truly matters.

]]> https://kellementology.com/2022/02/09/i-began-with-the-guest-room/feed/ 9 3689 https://kellementology.com/2022/01/17/when-pigs-fly/ https://kellementology.com/2022/01/17/when-pigs-fly/#comments Mon, 17 Jan 2022 22:33:36 +0000 http://www.kellementology.com/?p=3615 Early in January two years ago, I thought — no, believed that before the year had drawn to a close, we would be well on our way to living life much differently from what we were familiar with. Although daunting, nothing could cloud the excitement of moving to another country. I’d lived in Spain as a child, and so the idea was a familiar one. With enough research and careful planning, it seemed as if anything was possible. When the time was right, I believed pigs truly could fly. Since then, I’ve learned that not only can they fly, but in ways completely unexpected

Never one to underestimate the power of expecting the unexpected, I am a constructive pessimist. In other words, I plan copiously. The possibility of something going wrong is very real, and so I think about what that might be and prepare accordingly. The bonus is, that creates room for flexibility. Because we were in the early planning stages of our move, I was very much searching for what we had to know to make the move as successful as possible. I wasn’t close to being ready to worry about what might go wrong. There would be plenty of time for that later.

At some point in February while sifting through the legalities of woning property and starting a business in the UK, I found data that had escaped my fine-toothed comb. The vacation rental market was saturated. If we couldn’t count on the annual income the rental would provide, then the entire idea was lost. Our visas depended upon being able to run that business or living there year round would not be possible. We would have to remain residents of the US, own two properties, and have to split our time between them each year. Although this is a choice many make, we were not interested in that lifestyle, and questioned whether we could afford it even if we did want it.

After more than a year of planning, instantly, I gave up. Our disappointment was profound. It seemed that both of us had believed in the possibility of living elsewhere as an escape. For me, it was an escape from the monotony of one day becoming the next, of running out of house projects to tackle, of not having a garden large enough to do much of anything with. For my husband, it was an escape from the pressures of work. 

I ruminated. What about France? We’d only visited once, but spent most of our time in Paris. As lovely as Paris is, it wouldn’t afford us the comfort of the countryside I longed for. Or Spain? The Spain I remembered from childhood wouldn’t be the same. Even an idealist like myself understands nothing can really be the same after fifty years. Besides, the Mediterranean climate I had spent most of my life in was a part of what I wanted to escape. I wanted four distinct seasons. No, the move was more about an attachment for a particular place — a place I felt deep in my bones that I belonged to. It wasn’t something easily replaced.

I soothed myself by searching for other places to live. I had always enjoyed looking at real estate and so I continued doing that with a different goal — one more easily attainable. One that would allow us to live more simply without having to run an additional business, and without the complications of visas. I set my sites on New England and specifically Maine. We had friends there and had visited a couple of times while on vacation. I remember thinking more than once, “I could live here.” 

On February 23rd, I found a listing of one of two houses I was interested in among the few on the market at the time. It seemed almost too good to be true. Surely, there had to be something wrong with it. The listed price was affordable, but a little more than we had decided we’d spend, and the kitchen, although functional and clean, was in need of an update. Still, the position of the house on a quiet historical residential intersection, its elevation from the street, the yard that surrounded it, and most importantly, the short couple of blocks walk to town all were very attractive.

I contacted an agent recommended by our friend and told her about ourselves. I remember the odd combination of exhilaration and anxiety while I was writing the email. Was I actually going to do this? Evidently so.

Less than two weeks later, the agent had made an appointment to see the house. She recorded her walk through of the whole property while accompanied by our friend. The email our friend sent afterward was succinct. “You need to get on a plane.” On March 11th, about a month after giving up on our dream to move to England, that’s exactly what I did.

Before my flight, I told our agent I’d know as soon as I stepped into the house whether it was the right one. My flight arrived in Portland, Maine late the night before my 10:30 am appointment, so I stayed in a hotel near the airport. The plan was to rise early and arrive at my destination with enough time to drive through town and around the neighborhood. I had an hour and forty-five minute drive to get there, but it wasn’t complicated.

Everything seemed to be set until I realized I’d forgotten a warm scarf, knit hat, and gloves. There was snow on the ground and it was cold enough that I wasn’t going to be comfortable without those accessories — or better said — necessities. No problem! I learned that L.L.Bean was open 24 hours each day and that all I had to do was stop on the way to my destination. Surprisingly, the store was open and I was able to purchase what I needed. In no time, I was on my way. 

Two agents introduced themselves as I approached the property — mine and the seller’s. I don’t remember much of anything between then and when I entered the mud room because I was caught up in the strangeness of the experience; I had actually flown across the country and was looking at a house that could be our next home. It looked exactly as it had in the photos. In fact there was something uncanny about that. It was if I’d been there before. I attributed it to studying all the photos so closely, and going through the 3D tour offered by the seller’s agent a ridiculous number of times.

After entering the kitchen and removing our boots, mine completely inappropriate for the amount of snow piled outside, my agent asked, “Well?” She had remembered what I told her. “Yes. It feels exactly right.” And it did. There was nothing on the walk through I saw that was a surprise, or a concern. I knew I wanted this house. 

Before my short stay was over, my husband and I had purchased the house. The escrow was set for less than 30 days. I flew home, and on April 19, my husband and I flew back together to sign papers and receive the keys. The house was now ours, empty and waiting for us, like a slate that had been wiped clean of everything but its history.

Situated in said Rockland and bounded and described as follows, to wit: Beginning at a stake and stones on the Northerly side of Limerick Street, and at the South East corner of John S. Coburn’s land, thence South 49 degrees [31] Easterly said Limerick Street two hundred Eight feet to a stake and stones in the Westerly line of Lincoln Street, thence North 30 degrees East by said Lincoln Street three hundred and fourteen feet to a stake and stones on the Southerly side of a reserved Street two rods wide, thence North 66 degrees West by the Southerly side of said reserved Street two hundred and thirty eight feet to a stake and stones at said Coburn land, thence South 23 degrees 30 West by said Coburn’s land two hundred and fifty there feet to the [bound] first mentioned together with the right of using in common at all times said reserved Street [.   ]the same [.   ]conveyed to the county of Knox by John T. Berry by his deed of Warranty dated August 30, A.D. 1876 and recorded in Knox County Registry of Deeds Vol 45 Page 153. 

We talked about our furniture, took crude measurements, and drew a floor plan. I took many photos. Before we had returned back home, I knew what each room’s purpose would be and which pieces would be placed in them. The bog boots I purchased on our visit were purposefully left in the kitchen near the back door, awaiting our return along with a penny I’d found. 

Our house in Southern California went on the market as soon as we could get it there. While the stress of that debacle went on, I prepared for our cross country move. I now knew pigs could fly, but keeping them in the air was going to take a special kind of stamina. Our realtor was relentlessly demanding. The fact that we chose not to have the entire house staged became a source of contention. What had been staged looked like a ridiculous attempt to fit her online portfolio which featured coastal properties. Keeping the house in the staged condition she expected it to be in was nearly impossible. Each time there was an open house or showing scheduled, removing our pets temporarily was challenging. Somehow, I just never got the memo about arranging for a spa day for our dog, or booking a reservation for our cat at a cat hotel while I leisurely shopped at the local mall.

When our house hadn’t sold in the record time our next door neighbor’s had, the realtor soon became someone I wanted to avoid. Her associates were much more pleasant to work with. If I had to hear how “old-fashioned” (read not “Beachy”) my decor was one more time, I swore I was going to scream. In the end, I had to tell her we were vacating whether the house had sold or not. She explained that empty houses took longer to sell. Honestly, I didn’t care. Selling our house was her job, and she was going to be paid quite handsomely for what would amount to less than two month’s work. My job was to make sure everything was ready for our move. 

I sought bids with three moving companies and sorted through the intricacies of whether to pack our belongings ourselves, pack partially, or pay to have the company pack everything. I begged friends to adopt my beloved potted plants, many of which were quite old. The decisions made to donate items not worth shipping were not easy, and in the end, we still ended up with items I question having moved, but not many.

In the meantime, we plotted our course across the country based on the shortest route covering about 500 miles each day. Our son and I would take turns driving the Mini in three hour shifts. When I had my driving break, I’d search ahead for lodging that allowed three adults to a room accompanied by a dog and a cat. This was not nearly as challenging as I expected it to be and to a large extent gave this constructive pessimist a new perspective. Life actually could be lived by the seat of one’s pants. Still, I filed the information away for emergencies or the YOLO experiences those much younger often wax on about. 

The first week in June 2019, we arrived intact but exhausted. Three thousand one hundred eighty eight miles stretched diagonally from the most southwest beaches of California to the opposite pine clad northeastern corner of the US, and we’d just completed the distance. In a rented Chrysler van and a Mini Cooper, three of us wedged ourselves among far too many potted plants and spice jars, personal paper files and technology we weren’t comfortable shipping with the rest of our earthly belongings, and we left the city we’d lived in most of our lives in the rear view mirror. Add an aging Tabby, and one very particular English Bulldog, and I’d say it was a bonafide adventure. We were trading an annual 266 days of sunshine and twelve inches of rain in an extremely good year, for four distinct seasons and an annual average of 57.5 inches of snow.

I remember the way the air smelled when I stepped out of the car and onto our new driveway that day. The pungent spice of evergreens and flowering crab apple trees scented the light breeze, everything verdant and fresh. The day was gorgeous and sunny. We’d have a day to ourselves before the moving van arrived with nearly 14,000 lbs. of our possessions meticulously packed into it.

Inside our new home, there were groceries left on the kitchen counter and in the fridge, courtesy of our friend who had so graciously accompanied our agent on the day in March when they visited the house. We had definitely arrived.

Our former home sold less than two weeks later. Now, everything was complete. We were most definitely “From Away” as Mainers describe people like us, but we weren’t seasonal residents like many others who have made Maine part of their lives during the more mild months of the year. We were bonafide year ’round residents. 

For many months, our flying pig took up residence in our kitchen window. It was a reminder to me that putting effort into what truly matters pays off. This wasn’t something I didn’t already know, but the drastic change of lifestyle and sheer distance between our new life and old was enough to have been questioned as rational. But we make decisions in life — some great, and others, with little thought at all.

We had made the right decision about our move to Maine. In fact, it has been the best decision ever.