“It’s unbelievable that they want almost $400,000
for those new houses that are on top of one another,” my mother says upon
passing the latest phase of Avalon Lake Villas. “For that kind of money—“, but
she pauses for a second too long.
“What?” I glance at her while she tries to
thread frayed thoughts together. “It should give head?”
She laughs out loud and adds, “Well, it should at
least do the laundry. And maybe the cooking. For that kind of money, it should
come with a—“
“Cabana boy, one who doesn’t speak English?”
“How about one who doesn’t speak at all.”
Though we are, by now, in tears, laughing heartedly
at one another’s spontaneous ad-libbing we continue building on the scenario
between heaves for breath. Its miles before the joke peters out. And, I don’t
know about her, but I come to see that we’ve crested a new plateau, this Mother
Dearest and her wayward lass.
She’s been thinking about buying a new house,
my mum has, when her old one sells. A solid block home that won’t blow away
during the next hurricane. This is what she’s thinking. And, I can see it means
something to her. That this will be the first house that she chooses by herself,
for herself. This is a big deal. Because here’s the thing with being 75 years
old, married to a man who is no longer capable of serving as your husband: Life
seems dwindling and overwhelming, pointless sometimes, even. It is good to have
something to look forward to.
I’ve not had a house of my own--not ever. And,
I haven’t officially had a home for more than five years. Every now and then I
ponder whether I’m ready to settle down again. Once, about this time last year,
as my stalwart Celica plunged through the mountain passes rising from the Salton
Sea through the Anza Borrego Desert towards San Diego, I thought I felt a
twinge of homesickness escape my sub consciousness--a momentary longing for a
place all my own, where I can unpack my sparse belongings from my ever
shrinking car and plant something under the kitchen window. Someplace I could
always come home to. Just a…shack, or some such minuscule dwelling with more
outdoor living space than indoor. Nothing fancy—just a place to hang my
proverbial bonnet.
And then, it passed. It passed when I set sight
on the great expanse that is the Pacific Ocean and was reminded that there’s
still so much of this world I haven’t seen. Reminded me that I had chosen to
live liquid.
This is the second time I’ve done this living
out of a suitcase thing, this transient walk-about-ing. The first time, it took
me three year before I succumbed to the urge to nest. It’s taking much longer
this time ‘round. In the meantime, I share the dream that is home with those
who are already themselves homeowners.
I house sit for wonderful souls in picturesque
sacred spaces where I write and I walk and I rarely speak a word. I visit my fledgling daughters and their
growing families where walls and roofs are barely enough to contain the
heartfelt joy of familial reunion, or my parental pride that I share with no
one. I stop in to see long found friends and bask in the rooted comfortableness
of their chosen settlement over pots of tea and bottles of wine, each encased
by overdue conversations.
And, I help where I am needed for this stage of
my life, it would seem, is more about the love I give than it is about the love
I receive. Thus, I garden. Meaning, I leave behind me a wake of color wherever
someone welcomes my spade. Acres by now, of color crafted fauna and unfurling
foliage housing bugs and birds and snakes and things. I cook. Not for all, but
for some. I clean. I clean, and I clean,
and I clean some more. Then, when the dirt’s all gone and the piles well
organized, I find that which requires mending and proceed fixing until the
repairs are done. I’m Betty-freakin’-Crocker and Good Housekeeping personified.
Yes I am. All because I have no home with foundation footers staking me to a
square of Earth deeded in my name.
My mom, she’s got two. Homes. Until the second
one sells, though, we’ve decided to embark on a few trips in the RV. She’s game
to sleeping in the back of the JEEP with my hatchback tent, the ol’ gal is.
But, I’ve got this friend who would never let me live it down for putting
myself at risk of being mauled by bears, let alone endangering my sweet little mutter.
Here we are instead, feeling like a snail lugging a massive shell through
Florida’s pretty-as-a-postcard hill and lake country in her mobile home,
humming Satin Doll together, me from behind the gyrating wheel, and her slumped
happily in the passenger’s seat. Where the miles traversed will land us is
anyone’s guess.
We pull into the campsite and begin the process
of getting acquainted with the rig. We don’t bump into each other once, which
I’ve always believe to be a ‘sign’. Right up there with finishing one another’s
sentences.
Never in my wildest imaginings did I figure I’d
be living under the same roof as my mother again. She accepted me—way back
when—in her most tender moments. Alone, sitting out on the stairs on the front
porch, painting her toes nails bright red, lost in thoughts about the USO dance
she would be attending that night. Lying in bed, midday due to her working the
night shift with tears streaming down her face because she had dreamed of a bad
childhood memory that was triggered by the most recent assault from her
unreceptive step daughter.
Assuredly, the woman thought her days of
cohabitating with the likes of me were long since gone. Not only did I remind
her of her deadbeat ex, but I had opposed her on her choice of step fathers. Yet,
here I am helping her to accept the next chapter in her story and to actually
want to live her life again after a decade being the sole caretaker for a
husband with Alzheimer’s. And there she is, letting me.
She sits across from me at the upholstered dinette,
quietly working on her word puzzles. I glance at her from above the glow of my
Samsung’s screen and feel gratitude that we’ve been given this second chance to
understand who it is we are as women beyond our roles as mother and daughter. I
think of those in my life’s web who have lost their children, or parents, or
spouses, who were never granted this opportunity. Because that’s what it is.
Not so much a redo—the past is, regrettably, irrevocable. But, certainly a new
beginning, a brand new chapter in our respective and collective lives where she
becomes a resurrected protagonist in mine, and I, a foil in her’s.
Granted, I am a firm believer in the reality that
every day is chock full of opportunities, of choices unmade. For years, she and
I have not been one another’s priorities and now, we are. That’s odd in so many
ways--so, very unexpected. It’s delightful, really.
Because we two are learning to laugh together,
something I don’t have strong memories of our doing much of throughout my
childhood. And having arrived at the age of retrospection perhaps a wee bit
earlier than I would have had my life taken a different course, I hold laughter
in the highest regard for it has been my savior more than once. More than romance
and more than friendship, both of which have been sorely inconstant, laughter
has been the shining grace that’s wrestled me from the mud sucking clenches of
the miserable, self annihilating, suffocating doldrums. As cliché as it is,
laughter truly is the best of meds and I’ll take it over a happy pill any damn
day.
From the looks of things, so would my mum.
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