Oh, maybe I should have called it Before Kibble instead. Oops. Oh well, before coffee is always before kibble. At least it is in our household.
Advertisements
Tag: cats
Down East in Maine: back after 28 years
Down East #1
Mid-summer in Maine and the campground is empty but for three other sites, although the tall fat fella in the white van with a hound dog drove out this morning. Perhaps he’s moving on? Another couple in the big sand colored tent drove by shortly after and it’s not even 8.30. Maybe I’m alone then? Is anyone else around? Time to explore, well, after the morning coffee on the rocks. Rocks on the coast, solid sit-upon boulders, smooth under bum, and slippery under paws (Harold’s).
I’ve been up for hours, the light wakes us around 5am, the lobster trawlers thunder by, deep and low in the water as I sit on those rocks with a plain coffee. The fog is so thick this morning that the boats are invisible even though voices talk back and forth over the rumble of engine and waves, tides and eddies.
McClellan Park campground is a little known hideaway right on the ocean with ten sites for campers and tents. The road down is winding and narrow through dense woodland but easy on the vehicle, just tight, there’d be no room for anything bigger than a Sprinter. We pull off to let a sedan pass on the way up, and the couple tells me to claim number twelve.
“It’s open, a nice little bit of meadow, and just the other side of the trees is the shore.” She’s missing a tooth up front in that cheery smile of hers, and her husband says something unintelligable. They wave me off. My new neighbors.
We camped in number twelve as directed with a hundred feet of mown grass, a ring of birch trees and the sound of the incoming tides on the rocks. The fire kept us warm although the wood Dennis, the caretaker, sold ended up being damp and green. That couple I’d mentioned though, they brought me some dry wood one morning.
“I was worried you’d be cold, that other stuff doesn’t put out much heat, does it? Here you go, your cat came by this morning. I saw him in the trees, shy isn’t he? Yes, I told Jerry we needed to bring you some wood, get you warm. It’s chilly today. They say it’ll rain tonight so cover up your stuff, won’t you?”
She’s in striped loose pajama pants, a pink checkered long sleeved shirt, and another purple layer over her shoulders, quite a colorful thick-set woman in her sixites. Her frizzled hair is held back by bright red plastic clips. Jerry wears work boots, pressed blue jeans, and a sweatshirt with Vietnam Veteran in bold white letters. His front teeth are missing, his tongue swallows his words, and his grin is like a ten-yer-old boys, all mischief and innocence. He’s about the same size too, wiry, compact, small as a pre-teen.
“You have to visit Jonesport, it’s pretty. My sister lives in Millbridge, that’s why we come here. We only live an hour away but love camping here each summer. Columbia Falls too, that’s a stop if you’re heading to Eastport. South of here, go see the ferris wheels on the beach. Jerry here was on stage for July 4th. He’s an Elvis impersonator.”
Millbridge is an odd little town in US 1, with very little by way of tourism, just a couple of stores, a diner and a mexican take-out, just what we want on the ocean, mexican food, right? I don’t find anywhere to get clam chowder, a sudden craving on these grey days. There’s a laundromat, library, bank, and a couple of churches, but no cafes or brew pubs that I can see. Bummer. I’ll not be staying here too long then. The supermarket undercharges me for the beer and I say nothing but feel guilty for a moment, and again as I write this. Oh well. I have worse regrets.
The shore is rough with a deep sudden drop from brown-stained rocks into swilling waves below. My brain imagines Harold slipping in and that fear that comes, knowing I’d jump in to save him. Probably kill us both. But I’d have to. It’s Harold. Fuck. “Get away from there!” I startle us both, he slips but not into the Atlantic.
We walk in the mornings, early, mid, late. We walk in the afternoons, every hour or so I jump up from book or laptop, “let’s go, guys.” All three pets bounce up, two dogs and a cat, and off through the trees we go, over the rocks, I sit on the grass to the east of this path and lean back. I can spend hours staring out over the ocean. This calm rejuvinates me, brings me back to myself, and reminds me of the Gower Coast in Wales. The grey skies with occassional bursts of sunshine. The salt on my skin. The damp air curling my hair. I wish there was a way to live on the coast like this, wake up each morning to stare out over the horizon and daydream in the cool breeze off the ocean. Can I? Make this a goal of mine? Why not? Or perhaps just drive along coastlines for the rest of my life? I could do that.
My brain ticks over, the lists, the stressors, all that needs to be taken care of in the next few weeks. Instead of tackling any of this increasing number of projects and the relevant details, I make another cuppa. This is the week before I move in finally to a rental apartment in Montpelier, start work, and then college. This is problably the last break for a while. It’s time to explore then, isn’t it? So we do. We do. Gratefully.
Mosquitos follow my everywhere but the DEET works well, not that I’d want to live with it on me year in, year out. But who cares about a few weeks here and there? Toxic crap I know but it works. When I go pee though, that was a problem.
McClellan campground costs only ten dollars per site and another five for a generous bundle of (green) firewood. There’s a shower, potable water, trash cans, and a friendly host who lives near by. Yes, come here. Yes, stay a while. Millbridge is within reach of a bunch of interesting smaller villages, one’s you wouldn’t normally come across on you trip across US 1. The camping has been here since 1946, Dennis tells me, but the State only just realized it, so came a knocking over winter, demanding a licence fee, a few changes, and less sites. Dennis just took down a couple of numbers but left the picnic tables and still mows the grass in those numberless places.
“There, done.” He grins, his eyes wrinkle in mischief, “And they left. Not so bad after all. It might help that the Chief of Police runs this place and threatened the guy, but what do I care? Oh, if this fog eases up, tonight we’re meant to be able to see the Northern Lights!”
The fog only thickened though so I went to bed by nine, curled up in the camper with Harold on the front seat, Rosie in her crate (door open) and Stevie the cat at my feet, looking out the sliding window, gazing upon squirrels. We sleep deeply.
Such utter calm and peace here, looking out over the Altlantic, I’m dreaming of a retreat, a time in a cabin on the waterfront, a deck, some shade, a place to swim, to walk the dogs, and days of peace to read, write, and create more. Yes. I’ll get right on it. Right after I finish my three years of the MFA.
Next though, it’s Down East/ Up North. Time to find the eastern most town on the United State’s coastline. There’s a brewery there.
Share this:
This #1
It’s not as expected, this apartment. It’s in a basement. To look out the windows, I have to stand up. The dogs see only fake wood paneling. The cat sits on the windowsill, unhappy to be trapped inside. I can’t breathe. The landlady shows us around, quite the good cheerleader, and nodding and smiling, I suppress a panic. What can I say? We’re outdoor dogs, even Little Stevie, or should I call him Cat Stephen now that he’s an adult? Go deep, I tell myself all the time, go deeper. That doesn’t mean into a basement.
In my twenties, I worked for a metal worker in Santa Fe. Taken by the piles of steel in the yard, the shapes and weight, the sounds of the mig welder and that raw sharp smell of the grinder, I walked in, scruffy as usual, looking the part already. Within a short conversation, my unskilled self had an internship with Flip. I worked with him mostly, but helped Larry, the tall twiggy owner, by spraying polyurethane and paint onto finished lamps, tables and gates, sniffing deeply in the afternoon thunderstorms. Flip, or Phillip to his parents, was a stocky thick set local, blackened by the work, and with a huge laugh that flew out of him like a startled rabbit, Flip had ways to box people on first impressions.
“You’re an outdoor dog. There are indoor dogs and outdoor dogs. You belong outside.” Flip chuckled, as he looked me up and down, both of us a similar age and height. “Yep. Don’t be fooled. You’ll not be happy with a desk job. So, anyway, if you can carry that angle iron, the ten-footer over, I’ll set it up for you to grind the edges smooth before I tack weld it to the rest of the framework. Got it?”
Yes, an outdoor dog. Still scruffy, I sit in this basement apartment and plan an escape. It’s been three nights. I can’t do it. This dungeon will kill my spirit, my energy and me. Each night, I close the computer, try to read, and hope for night to fall so I can sleep and start again. Count down to moving out. It’s four o’clock, the rain thunders against the window, the lights are all on, and for a summer’s afternoon, it’s a dark cold afternoon down here. Can I go back to bed? Please? Yes, it’s been three nights. I drove over 2450 miles from New Mexico to move here, into a ‘downstairs apartment with windows overlooking the lawn’ and technically, that’s what I have here but –
But. I see the lawn at eye level. Harold and Rosie admire the fake wood flooring. Stevie makes his escape and sits under a shed by the van. With coffee in hand, I head out with the dogs who run for the trees and lift legs with glee. The clouds hang low over the pines and the many other tall deciduous trees that I no longer recognize after a lifetime in the Southwest. Breathing deeply, I crouch down onto my haunches, sip coffee and watch the trucks and cars fly by on this busy highway. What have I done now? Oh shit. I wanted a challenge. This might be too much. Not a quitter, there has to be a way. A ladder up and out of this dark pit. The mozzies find me and after a shuffle to the van for another layer of pure DEET, I sit back down and consider the options. Harold and Rosie ask to sit in the van, a Dodge conversion van that I’d stripped out and installed with a platform bed, some drawers, stocked with clothes and a basic kitchen set-up, for three pets and myself to drive slowly cross country. It’s a better home than this. Can we simply move back in? Yeah, why not. It’s home. Fuck it. I’ll live in a van.
So what’s so bad about a dungeon? I mean, a basement? Claustrophobia. Depression. Panic attacks. Trouble breathing. Trouble eating. Eyes flicker. Heart races. Blood pounds. Clammy neck. Feet sweat. Trouble waking. Trouble sleeping. Lack of creativity. Lack of room to move. Lack of windows to stare out of as I write and sketch. Lack of light. Did I mention panic attacks? Oh, yes, well, more of those. I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t.
The coffee is done, time for more. Not one of the critters will come back inside. As I wait for the kettle to boil in this kitchen with no windows, I mentally write a list of my ideal place.
- Pet-friendly
- Walks and gardens for critters to explore
- Under $600
- Two vehicle parking
- Well-lit, sunshine, windows, all that good stuff for outdoor dogs
- Heat and internet included
- Space and quiet to write and draw
The basics.
Within two days, I’m offered a few places. One is so far out of my budget that I don’t bother checking. The other two appeal. Most of the boxed checked positively, and so with hope, I load up the van with dogs, trick Stevie into the dungeon with wet cat food and a taste of cream. Then we go a looking. Fingers crossed. Toes unstuck from fake floor, I clean myself up quickly but not thoroughly. The usual.
“Up the first street at the lights in town, left after four miles, across the dam and past the pond, drive 1.8 miles and I’ll the first home on the left,” says Carol.
The drive was refreshing, the lake tempting, and with hope in me, we parked outside a single story home in the trees on five acres. Yep. I could do this.
Yes. I can do this. Carol’s dog is a sweetheart, a shy timid Collie rescue called Jim. She’s a forthright, messy and friendly woman of a similar age to me. We get along great, easy conversation, but the room is small even though it has good windows facing south. Carol chats away as she tells me of the room she’d make for me, emptying this shelf, this table, this box, yes, the place is cluttered. “I haven’t had roommates for about six years though, so let me think about this again. Women of a certain age…”
Yes, she said that to describe me. Me! Really, I only just turned fifty dammit, and it’s already begun? Wow. Not a good wow.
“Up County Road, past the Corner store that is also a post office and a pub, head another few miles when it turns to dirt and you’ll see a log cabin set off the tracks a ways,” says Anne.
The road to Anne’s is through open agricultural land, farms, log homes, up and through the trees and past the store. I stop in and poke around the shelves, ones full of healthy dried goods, quality coffee beans, fresh veggies, and beer. In the back is a tavern that’s open four evenings a week with live local music. I like this place. They are looking for help. Hmm…
Anne’s on the deck sweeping off a few leaves. Her shitzu pup wanders over to meet mine and tails wag as Anne laughs, a hearty booming breath up to the skies. She’s a full soft woman of a ‘certain age’ like me, yes I said it, and we hit it off. She shows me her apartment. It’s a dungeon. Even worse than where I am now. I stifle the panic and climb up and out, staring at my camper van with longing. Yep, fuck it, we’ll live in the van.
“I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” I explain the fear and terrors that come with dark and closed in spaces. Hands twitch and heart races within my one and only clean tee shirt; humidity kills laundry. Fear does too.
“Well, would you like a coffee any way?”
In the kitchen, we prop ourselves against counters and keep chatting. It’s a shame that the apartment is down in the ground, not even one window to sit at except from the toilet. I know. I know…who could live like that? Not me obviously. Nor my critters.
Anne and I chat about writing, college, and animals. Her big dog died last fall. Her old cat soon after. After mentioning Cat Stephen, Anne shows me a cat door, mudroom for the litter box, and when we put away the now empty coffee mugs, she takes a breath.
“Do you need your own space? What about sharing this home?” She grins cautiously.
“Why? What do you have?” Messy hope slips against grainy hope to live in a nurturing home like this. If only.
Upstairs are two bedrooms in the roofline of this log home. One end of the house is hers, a master bedroom and a bathroom. The other corner has two small rooms looking out onto her twelve acres, a field full of apple trees, and there’s even falling down wooden shed in the meadow that needs help, perhaps for chickens she offers.
“I’m sorry but the curtains don’t close, it’s very bright in here. Too much for me. And in this room,” she shows me the other one, “this room was my crafts and books and storage. You could have both rooms, if you like. This could be a writing studio. If it’s not too bright.”
Looking out of the window, I breathe and imagine sitting up here with a desk and laptop, reading and writing, watching the dogs play in snow as Stevie sits in an apple tree.
“Yes. This is perfect. This.”
Share this:
Living The Dream: 8
As part of the ongoing Sunday installments of the novel. You can find the other chapters on here, posted each Sunday morning. Click on the image for a link to the whole novel if you can’t wait.
JULY: TOURISTS
“You look damn pink for a New Mexican.”
The man stared at me, taking in the fried shrimp color of my arms and legs, and the boiled lobster of a nose. “Are you sure? Don’t you come from the Midwest or something? We do.” He turned to his wife and introduced her. “Maggie, these two live here now and I’d thought she came from Ohio or something.”
His wife giggled nervously and pulled on her denim skirt, trying to bring it past her knees.
“I’m impressed,” she said, “but don’t you get bored in a little town like this? There’s nothing to do, no mall or movies or anything like we have in Lafayette.”
Her skin glistened with sunscreen and her tidy brown hairstyle wilted. She smiled though, enjoying the newness of everything even as she complained. Her white sneakers shone in the afternoon light. The sky, as usual, offered no break from the relentless sunshine and heat.
Summer. July Fourth to be exact. Oliver had it’s own Independence Day Parade. How cool is that?
The man stood next to Mark and asked about the festivities here. Mark lost his cool edge by admitting we’d only been here a couple of weeks.
“But you live here now?” The woman piped up, taking a gulp from a can of sweating coke. She held a pink plastic cowboy hat, and tilted her head so she could look up at him. All of five foot nothing, she had to lean back to see into Mark’s eyes and from where I stood, I half expected her to crash backwards against the truck. I have the same problem being five foot five to his six foot two.
Hundreds of motorcycles, a few sedans and more than a handful of trucks parked along every free space in front of the stores on the highway. Straw hats and baseball caps gave a minimum of shade to tourists wilting in the dry heat. Elm trees offered dappled cover to the lucky ones. Town was packed. I was glad we’d parked up the north end of town, as we’d be able to get out of here whenever we wanted. The Fire department had stopped all traffic. At each end of town stood one of four volunteers with a big red fire engine. Suddenly I wanted to wear a uniform like theirs. Although, perhaps not in this heat. The firefighter wearing full gear and even a helmet had sweat dripping off her nose and she wiped her forehead repeatedly.
Horns blasted. Whistles blew. The parade had started. Tourists cheered encouragement. I hopped up and down, craning over the heads of all the kids near by. It was in the nineties and dry, not a humid percentage to be counted. No clouds came to threaten us with those monsoons we kept hearing about. Not a drop in sight. Mark kept up the conversation.
“Yes, well, we moved here from Olympia, Washington. We’re building a place outside of town, in the valley out to the west of here. It’s a rough road or I’d offer to take you,” Mark said, lying through his bandana.
She asked all about what brought us here and when. The details. It was a good practice run for us. What to say, and what not. The city lifestyle they understood. The compost toilet didn’t go over so well.
“You what?”
“Shit in a bucket,” answered Mark helpfully.
She put her hand to mouth as if to stifle a scream of disgust, or to call down the wrath of some god for our disgusting heathen ways. I coughed and covered my giggles as they made excuses and wandered off to stand in the full sun. Mark held out his bottle of water to me and I took it. He wore his usual blue jeans and a faded green tee shirt that he’d found at a thrift store. His face looked the color of cinnamon and tasted of sweat and smoke. He’d grown a goatee and kept his curls under the bandana.
A cheer went up and I stood on my toes to look to the south end of town. You can see one end from the other; it’s that small here.
“There. The Fire Dept. is leading the way. You should join them, Mark. Make some friends and get involved. Right?”
“Why not you? You’d look good as an EMT.”
“But I hate blood.”
“There is that,” he conceded.
A fire truck passed us with a man in seventies style aviator sunglasses waving at everyone he passed. The sirens boomed suddenly and we all jumped, squealing in surprise. He grinned and threw candy at me. I caught a melted ginger sweet and ate it, smiling to myself. Mark nudged me.
“Got a new boyfriend already, eh?”
I laughed, glad that he wasn’t the jealous type by any means. I poked him back. Pointing behind him, I joked, “and you just want a little ass.”
A donkey strolled past us and Mark laughed, hugging me to him. The donkey had a blanket on its back with a poodle sitting upon that, and an older couple walked and talked to each animal, stroking ears and tapping tails. The donkey pooped as it walked.
Next along came tan or twelve young kids in costumes, ranging from Spiderman (he’s still cool?), to ninjas, Madonna, and cuddly Pooh bear and friends. Quite the gang, they took candy from the audience instead of throwing any. I’d already eaten mine and had nothing to offer the four year old in a George Bush mask.
A couple of old beat up cars drove past at two miles an hour with local twenty-somethings leaning out of windows, waving flags and laughing hysterically. People walked by, some brought dogs wearing stars and stripes, others brought goats, horses and even llamas. A motorcycle crawled along and in the sidecar sat a clown who didn’t smile. Very odd.
Lastly four or five middle-aged cheerleaders strode past in big boots and not much else, doing handstands and cartwheels. The tourists liked them a lot.
The parade was over.
After standing in the full sun, I’d wanted some cold water or a shower or something. Mark suggested we follow the crowds (such as they were) to the tavern and get a beer before heading home.
“It’s not like it’ll be any cooler back there, is it?” he reminded me with a grin.
“You’re right. It’s no better there, heat-wise. But at least I could get out of my tee shirt and lay in the hammock under the junipers.”
“Well, I like that idea too. Hmm, half-naked girlfriend in the desert? Or a beer at the tavern followed by half-naked girlfriend in the desert? It’s hard to decide.”
We walked with the donkey’s people. I wanted to ask a ton of questions even though my brain was fried but the husband, an old guy with long black dreadlocks said to get in touch some other time and gave me a business card. The Donkey’s card that is, Frodo The Burro had a local number. I pocketed it, thanking him.
“Did you win the bet?” a rather sun and wind weathered woman in brown leather chaps and sport’s bra asked Mark. He blushed and looked over to me for help.
“What bet?” I asked politely.
“Oh, we make a kitty of a dollar a guess as to how long the parade will last. I heard this one was eighteen minutes. One of the better ones.” She shook his hand, introduced herself, and studiously ignored me. As we came to the corner and crossed the road, she passed him a piece of paper with her address on.
“I don’t have a phone but come by some time.”
Mark glanced down at the paper. When he looked back up, she’d gone down some small alleyway. “She lives half a mile away from us, Jenny. That’s probably our closest neighbor. Should I tell her?”
I pulled him into the bar as he made to follow her. The door swung open and I pushed him through the crowds in front of us. A cheerful and very sweaty waitress headed over but I waved her off. She smiled briefly and then focused on a family of four behind us. We stepped up to the bar instead.
“A pale ale for me, thanks Mark.” I headed out to the porch for some fresh air.
I tripped over a dog lying in the middle of the doorway and almost fell off the porch. The mutt barely flinched. He raised his big brown mastiff head and stared at me, decided I wasn’t worth the attention and fell back to daydreaming. I found a corner where I could lean against the wooden edge and looked out over the parking lot. Filled to the brim with Harleys and the weekend bikers, I noticed a scattering of clean sedans and family wagons from out of state. That reminded me that I wanted to find the DMV next week and change my own plates. Get a New Mexico license. Post Office box. The list grew as I waited for Mark and my pint.
“You’re the new couple out down Gringo Gulch, right?”
I turned to see an older cowboy checking me out. I put out my hand and introduced myself. “Yes, in Pete’s place, I guess.”
“How’s it going out there for you? Hot, ain’t it?” He grinned widely and settled in next to me. His blue jeans were worn to a pale shade of gray. The black tee shirt was tucked in place with a leather belt. The cowboy boots were working boots and not for show.
“George. My name’s George Whitlow. Pleased to meet you, Jenny. I’d toast you but you’re without a drink.”
I grinned and explained my boyfriend was waiting at the bar for us.
“Don’t worry. Once the staff starts to recognize you, your pint will be already poured by the time you try to order. The benefit to living here in tourist season.”
We started chatting about the land and Oliver and what the plans are. Daniel lived out in the hills to the south of town, and he described the roads to get his place as being impassable in the rainy season. There was a short cut from his road to ours. I didn’t trust those short cuts any more.
“We keep hearing about these rains but I haven’t seen anything yet. Is it really that bad?”
“It can be.” He wiped his neck and talked of one year how the big rains flooded out his stables and he’d had to move the horses up hill, tying them to the trees and watching over them even as he got soaked himself. “I couldn’t risk them getting spooked and running off because of the lightening strikes.”
“So what did you do?”
“I pulled up my collar, pulled down my hat, and settled in for a long night.”
“Since it rains like that, how come our neighbor hauled in a few truckloads of water last week? Isn’t it about to rain again?”
“You mean Danny Dieselhead?”
I nodded. “Does he grow his own food?”
Daniel kinda laughed. “Yep, he likes to grow his own.”
Mark showed up with drinks for the both of us. I introduced them to each other and sipped the cold beer. It hit the spot perfectly. Good shot.
“If there’s so much rain, is this a good place to do rain catchment?” asked Mark.
“Yep, you’d need a huge tank or three to store it all for the times of year when there’s nothing. It’s been a rough year around here; the weather’s been strange. Very dry and windy. It makes the fire department nervous. They’ve banned fires and are on the watch for anything risky. No fireworks today, for one. That didn’t go down well with some in town.”
“Even if they know why not?”
Daniel laughed bitterly. “We’re a town of outlaws. We don’t like to be told what to do.”
A young woman in her early twenties came out of the tavern and walked up. She nodded at me and turned to our new friend. Her hair was long, black, and loosely tied in back. Her skin was like a milky coffee with a splash of honey.
“Dad? You’ve got to take us home now. Mom said.”
As part of the ongoing Sunday installments of the novel. You can find the other chapters on here, posted each Sunday morning. Click on the image for a link to the whole novel if you can’t wait.
Share this:
Van Life: Exploring the Northwest with two dogs and a cat in a van.
Time for another book, methinks. It’s a work in progress but I really wanted to get it out there. I’m still writing and working on the travel report from this summer in the van but as I’m about to head out again for another three months, I needed to finish up this first. I reckon while I’m on the road I can go back to edit, tweak, add and subtract as needed. For now though, I’m pretty happy with the book.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1540359441
Enjoy and pass it on! Thanks.
I forgot to download the cover but here is the back and front, better than nothing.
Other books are just as good though:
Share this:
Where next?
Trundling around Europe in the back of a Land Rover, it was never a question of ‘are we there yet?’ but more of ‘where next?’
Decades pass and the restlessness rarely leaves me. I crave another trip, another adventure, something new please. Engaged by curiosity, I lose interest in the familiar. I’ve read enough books about how that’s a lack of contentment, spirituality, blah blah blah but this world is made up of the curious. New inventions, new paths, new works of art, and yes, new books all come from a curious mind. Curiosity killed the cat is one of the most annoying and limiting phrases thrown at me over the years. Familiarity kills the spirit. My spirit that is. I’m not saying one way to live is better than another, just that for me, it’s different.
A map, a road unknown, a small town cafe, a bookshop, an empty beach, a mountain path, that appeals. The sense of what next? Where next?
This last year has been one of readying myself for the next phase in life. At thirty, I was deported, sent back to England with a hefty slap on the wrists and nine months in limbo. At forty, I graduated from professional clown school in San Francisco. Now at forty-nine, I wonder. I don’t know.
In preparation though, I sort through another drawer, pulling out old photos, cuttings from newspapers, ideas scribbled on paper as my mind whirled late at night with stories and events worth remembering. A basket for paper to be burned. A lockable truck for the goodies I still care for. It’s about half and half it seems, which fills fastest. One drawer down. Two.
I turn to the closet, well, cupboard and pull out all my clothes one by one. It’s a compulsion. A need to lessen the load. To look at what I own, and to question why. I find it releasing, a lessening of the the claustrophobia that lingers in my mind, threatening to make me hit the road and leave it all behind. I’ve done that once before. Walked away with only a backpack. Claire was left with it all. I’m sorry Claire, I didn’t think of how it would affect you when I left London like that.
After clearing out my parent’s home, I understand how hard it is decide what stays and what goes. How was I meant to pay respect to their belongings when Peter and I weren’t able to house all this stuff. A minimalist most of my life, it overwhelmed me. I refuse now to do that to my family and friends. Being a morbid bugger, knowing too well that lives have to end and usually surprisingly suddenly, I throw out old letters, old clothes, anything that weighs me down. I dread for my anyone to have to sort through my belongings because I can’t. That’s one reason I’m such a minimalist.
The other reason? A vagabond perambulator I am. Happiest wandering around, watching, chatting, reading and writing. Then setting up a temporary home in some simple cabin, here in New Mexico, in Guatemala, in Wales, in North Carolina and even Tennessee. It doesn’t take much for this scruffy english woman to relax and make a home base.
Perhaps then, this current discarding of belongings is to set me free once more? To allow me to take trips whenever I feel the urge, to rent out my own cabin in the mountains near Santa Fe, New Mexico? I don’t know. I really don’t know what’s next. I’m throwing out so many ideas into the world, acting as if each and everyone will happen, I keep moving forward. The freebox in Madrid takes my clothes, tools, furniture and books. I sell what I can, give away others, and burn the paperwork that holds me down.
Too many hats. I have too many hats. They’re my parents. I can’t give them away so I bring them with me. Yes, I do keep some things, a table from my great-grandfather, paintings from my gran, books of my dads, hats and photos from Mum. Peter’s cast-off clothes, the benefit of having a big brother.
But what is next? Where is next? West or Mid-west? North or south? I pick at my belongings, less and less is kept, and my closet is bare. The sentimental stuff of childhood in England is boxed and under the bed. The paintings hang on the wall above my bed, and the hats are above the front door.
Where next? Do we ever know? I’d say no but I’m ready for upheaval. For big changes. Hopefully that is. And yes, all the critters are coming with me.
Share this:
Kristie’s Story (in her own words)
These last few weeks have been pretty amazing.
I used to follow her around all the time but suddenly she keeps picking me up and cuddling me. I used to drive her crazy, always ready to pounce on her lap as soon as she sat down, on the bed, at the desk, outside, it didn’t matter to me. I wanted to be close. Now though, it’s Sleam picking me up and holding me against her chest, sitting down for ages at a time, doing nothing but loving me. She knows that the cancer is killing me. She’s spoiling me rotten and I love every minute!
There was a time before Eddie and I came to live with Sleam. I won’t go into details but I will say they didn’t like me and I didn’t like them, which is why I peed on their bed, a lot. That kind of backfired as they dumped me at the Shelter. I didn’t like it there, small spaces, and lots of strangers coming and going. I’d overheard people talking about Eddie, this black and white cat; he’d been there a year already and was running out of hope. He used to hide under the cages all day long, all on his own. Eddie didn’t play the game you see, the ‘customer service smile and purr game’. I got to hang out with him though, I liked him, he was my age almost, and a funny cat. Anyway, one day, this tall woman came in and lay on the floor and talked to us both as we hid under a huge cage in the corner room. Eddie went over to her, purred loudly, and then climbed onto her lap. I was amazed. I followed him. She took us both home. Life has never been so good.
It’s funny how much I love being held these days. I used to fuss and cry when she’d pick me, but Sleam would stroke me, once, maybe twice, and then put me down again. It felt good to be held though so I let her pick me up more and more. Now though, like I said, it’s her coming to me. My tummy hurts and it feels good to be held so I let her cuddle me. The other night I fell asleep on her chest. The dogs were on the bed too, well, not Harold, he’s happier on the floor-tiles.
I usually join him during the night but this time, it rained and Rosie and Ollie and even the annoying little kitten Stevie slept with me and Sleam. Stevie, I shouldn’t call him little any more, he’s bigger than me now I’ve lost all this weight. He was the one-pound weakling when he was found in a woodpile and came to live with us. He got so sick that Sleam had to hold him to her heart for days before he started drinking goat’s milk.
Anyway, the little tiger, Stevie’s learnt to be a great little mouser. Sleam’s home will still be rodent free; that was my job you know, keeping the kitchen clean of critters. Eddie, he went outside most days, hanging out in the yard, watching the birds, didn’t catch anything but he liked to hang out with the dogs. He even raised a few puppies. Eddie didn’t come back one night though; we’ve all missed him horribly. Stevie makes me think of Eddie, he wants to be a dog too, always playing with Rosie and following Ollie around the yard. Funny boys.
These last few weeks Sleam and I have a new routine. She feeds me junk food, oh my, oh my, I do love this food. Whiskas, Friskies, fresh salmon, ham, you name it, whatever I want she goes to Santa Fe and picks it up, even catnip!
I can’t keep the food down any more, but I try to hide how bad it is. Sleam hears me though, wakes up in the middle of the night, and simply cleans up my mess then strokes my head until I stop heaving. She picks me up and takes me to bed with her.
I hadn’t wanted to tell her about the cancer but her friend the vet worked it out. Sleam didn’t take the news well, but I didn’t expect her too. She rallied around though. Her job even let her have time off to be with me. I’m glad. She’d talked to the vet and they’d decided on a Friday to let me go but I wanted Thursday. I kept telling her, each time she held me, but she didn’t hear until she got to work one day. That voice in her head was me. Her boss told her to take the day off.
Yep, these last few weeks have been pretty amazing. Today, Thursday, the dogs sniff me, sleep next to me, they’re being gentle. I like being near them all. Even Ollie is cuddling me. He still steals my food but I don’t mind.
Stevie is outside in the tree, oh here he is, come to check on us. Rosie takes a nap with me whenever she gets a chance.
Sleam is writing. I sit in the sun and dictate to her. It’s a good day. I’ve had a great life – did I mention that? Life with Sleam and family has been wonderful. I know I’ve been loved. How good is that? I’ve known love.
