The Sounds of Silence

I’ve always been more comfortable alone or with one or two other people than I am in a group. 

I always said I prefer it that way, which is true, to a point. 

For the past 2-1/2 years, for the most part, my son has been unemployed, which means he has been here every day, all day. Now, he’s employed again, and since he works the graveyard shift, he stays up all night and sleeps most of the day, which means the house is very quiet and empty, aside from me and three cats. 

The house is too quiet. 

I can’t play music because my work involves listening to sound files. 

I can only pop in and out of Facebook so many times an hour and still get my work done. 

I can only drink so many cups of tea and make the resulting requisite trips to the bathroom. 

Something I’ve learned these past two weeks:  There are only so many conversations you can have with your cats before you start to question your own sanity.  That greeting card of the old woman with her 30 cats doesn’t seem not quite so funny anymore.Now, I have three talkative cats, but there is only so much a cat will say to you.  Basically, it boils down to “Feed me.”  “Pet me.” “Pay attention to me.” “Stop ignoring me.” “Why are you working when you should be feeding/petting/paying attention to me.” 

I’ve been “on loan” in my job to a different department since October and this is my last week on loan. Next week, I’ll get back to my normal work, as well as taking on a second job temporarily, which means I’ll be working 60-hour weeks for awhile and have less time to pop in and out of Facebook, wander the internet, talk to the cats, etc. 

Hopefully, that’ll make life feel less empty and quiet. 

Either that, or I’m going to have to get more cats…

A Rock in a Stream

I used to be a fun person.

Okay, maybe not “fun” per se, but at least “more fun” than I am now.

More willing and able to take chances.

I can pinpoint the day it changed; it was the day that ended with me driving home late at night covered with bruises and a stunned, deer-in-the-headlights look in my eyes that didn’t dissipate for several days. Going into the reasons behind that is pointless at this point; suffice it to say my world view, my self view, and my willingness and ability to trust my own instincts underwent a profound shift and I’ve never quite managed to put it all back on its previous axis.

After that day, I became more distant, more reclusive, more of a hermit. I gave in to that part of me that feels more comfortable at a distance from the rest of the world and stopped forcing myself to step outside my comfort zone. And you know what? I got very comfortable with that place. It’s where I live, after all.

Periodically, I step out of that comfort bubble and make myself look around, like the groundhog on February 2, sticking his head out to view the sky and the world and decide whether it’s time to venture forth or time to bury himself again for a few more weeks.

A few more weeks, a few more years; it all starts to blur together after a time.

But life keeps moving forward, despite an inability or unwillingness to move with it. Like rock bisecting a stream, life just finds its way around the obstacle and keeps moving on. And once in awhile, because of a storm upstream somewhere, the current increases just enough to undermine the foundations of that rock and shift it a little.

Things are shifting right now, but I’m not sure yet whether it will settle back into comfort and status quo or change its axis once again.

Time will tell.

Snowbound…

There is something about snow that just changes everything – the way the world looks, the way it sounds.  There is that whispery hiss as it falls, the occasional muffled thump and rustle as a branch bends too far from the weight and dumps its load of white crystals, bouncing back with what seems like a sigh of relief. Sounds carry across the cold air differently than they do when it’s still or when it’s raining. 

We don’t normally get a lot of snow here, maybe a few times a year, usually a few inches, but we are in the midst of a winter storm now and there is currently approximately 8 inches of powdery snow coating my deck, my driveway, my car.  The birds try to eat the suet we’ve left for them and can’t seem to hang onto the cage that holds it, perhaps too cold or frozen for their feet to handle, and they’ve yet to discover the black oil sunflower seeds we’ve filled the feeder with. 

I walked outside this morning, before sunrise, when the world was still suffused in blue and white, the sounds muffled, no marks yet on the road 1000 feet or so below our house.  No school today, either because of the holiday or the snow – it’s hard to tell, because my own children are grown and no longer wait eagerly for the announcement on the radio on snowy mornings that says they get to get out and play in the snow instead of trudge through it to get to the school bus. 

On the other hand, there is all this pristine whiteness, just waiting for someone to walk through it, mar that perfect, undulating expanse of white with their boot prints to build snowmen and forts. No sound of children’s laughter drifting on the cold, crisp air. 

I’ve said it before – I love snow, as long as I can stay inside and look at it, as long as I don’t have to be out in it.  Right now, we are effectively snowbound, a happenstance brought about by forgetting to move the car to the bottom of the driveway that becomes impassable for anything but a four-wheel-drive or a car with chains with this much snow. Normally, this much snow would wreak havoc with our power, leaving us surrounded by the cold with no way out and only blankets to keep us warm, but this time, the power has stayed steady, so I can enjoy it, and think about those years past when my sons would have been out there, laughing and yelling with the pure joy that children find on a day like today. 

Today, I sit at my desk and do my work, my gaze continually drawn to the window and the white that coats everything in sight, and I can’t help but smile.

Today, at least, I love snow.

Sourdough and Memories

One of my most vivid memories of my mother growing up is when she’d bake bread. She had a sourdough starter in an old crock and periodically, she’d bake bread and rolls.  There always had to be plenty of loaves, because the first one would disappear in minutes after it came from the oven, spread with butter that would melt in an instant and gobbled up almost before it had cooled enough to touch.

There’s nothing … absolutely nothing … like the taste of home made bread, hot and fresh from the oven, and it will always make me think of her.

In her later years, she had a “Herman” starter – a sweeter version of sour dough, and it seemed like every week she would send a loaf of some sort of sweet bread home with my son after he took her on her errands and shopping for the week. Once upon a time, when my sons were young, I had a Herman starter I’d gotten from a friend, but it eventually got pushed to the back of the refrigerator and forgotten, so it’s been years since I baked anything but soda bread and buttermilk biscuits myself.

My son and I have been talking for months about finding a starter, and eventually found a San Francisco sourdough starter at the local co-op. We know that while it will start out as a San Francisco sourdough, with time it will become a Kings Valley sourdough, as the local yeast gradually replace those imported from California, but that’s not the point.  We want to make bread, and I want to introduce them to the kind of bread, the kind of memories I have from my own mother.

It’s a little like having a child. You have to keep it warm and safe, remove a little and then feed it once or twice a day. Never use metal because it will retard the growth, only glass or plastic and wooden spoons or spatulas, and always leave room for growth and an opportunity to let off the gas that builds as it grows. We’re following the “old” rules and not refrigerating it until it’s well established, which will be at least 30 days … up to 90, according to some sites.  Because I’m frugal, I hate the idea of throwing things away, even that cupful of not-really-sour-yet starter, so we’ll be eating biscuits and pancakes rather often for awhile. Not like that’s any real hardship, huh?

Fresh baked, hot from the oven … and the memories that come with it.  Seems pretty much perfect to me.

What Comes Next

It’s a new year and feels like a new start, somehow. I didn’t plan it this way, but it did all seem to fall together in such a way that it’s headed in that direction. Last year was difficult, to say the least, so this year will hopefully be an easier one, but that’s all still firmly in the unknown category, so why does it feel different already?

Maybe it’s because plans are already set in motion that will ensure that things change. 

Maybe it’s because no matter what blew up last year, after the initial shock and panic wore off, we found a solution and dealt with it. 

Maybe it’s simply that when one thing after another goes wrong, you reach the point where you can either sit and cry and feel sorry for yourself, or you can smile a little wryly, deal with it as best you can, and then move on.

That’s the key, isn’t it? Moving on, moving forward, not staying in one place.  Not stagnating.  Or, for those of us native Oregonians who know the drill, not sitting still long enough to let the moss grow. 

All I really know is that after years of ups and downs, the long-distance relationship is once again firmly in the “down and out” column.  The roof leak that we ended the year with has been patched and emerged unscathed (and dry) after two bouts of rainfall.  The reforming of the hoarder mentality is moving forward on track and the house is coming into shape in a visible manner, though I still maintain it’s fun to find things that have been packed away for years and wonder why on earth we kept them, or to have to have a firm talk with ourselves about the merits of keeping them, still. (For the record – more fall into the former than the latter category, which is good.) 

And a little over a week into the new year, I’m still feeling optimistic about the changes yet to come, keeping enough of the old and familiar to make life enjoyable, while still leaving open the opportunity for change.

 It’s all good, right?

Love Letters

I’m in the ongoing and protracted process of cleaning out years of accumulated stuff, boxes that have remained packed and tucked away since moving nearly 12 years ago, boxes tucked away in corners, under desks, in closets, as well as the remainder of my mother’s accumulation of stuff that got added to my own when I could no longer afford to pay for the storage unit where it had remained for over a year after her death.  

We have a new housemate moving in at the end of February and space must be made, but there are other reasons for cleaning out, paring down, simplifying life and stuff.  There’s a rule now – for every one thing that comes in, five must leave.  My donations to Goodwill, Arc, Vina Moses and various other charities will be massive in the next two months, all those things we cannot sell or trade. 

So I’m sorting, one box at a time, one room at a time, and finding… memories. 

Today, I found several letters and notes from former lovers, former relationships.  Old greeting cards can be easily tossed into the recycle bags, but these letters, as I sit and read them, mean so much more. They remind me of better times, of sadness and laughter, and people who are still important to me in their various ways. 

At the end of one letter is something poignant, though… something that made me think (not for the first time) of what might have been if I’d been able to be the person this man needed me to be. Still friends to this day, but I can’t help but think of what might have been. 

“We have grown together in the past… let us therefore grow together now. And know that my heart smiles at the thought of you … my friend.”

“Singer” – if you see this… know that my heart, indeed, still smiles at the thought of you, as well.

Moving Forward

The year 2011 was a difficult year for me, in so many ways. It actually started at the tail end of 2010, when my job was outsourced and me along with it, bringing with it an approximately 30% cut in pay and leaving me wondering how I was going to pay the mortgage, let alone buy food and the other necessities of life. After the initial panic, we revamped the budget, cut out a lot of things and moved forward on January 1, 2011, with an attitude of “We will do this.” 

On January 30, I transferred to a new position, one with hourly pay instead of depending on production. I’d actually been making more with the production-based work, but with the new position came better benefits and a reduction in the stress levels inherent in working in a production-based system where you may or may not have work to do on any given day and often had to work 7 days a week just to get your 40 hours in. 

The tight budget continued. I applied to have my home mortgage “modified,” which brought it down to 44% of my monthly income instead of 50%-plus it had been – NOT what I’d been led to believe would occur, but it was less than I’d been paying and gave us a small bit of breathing space. 

In the spring, we discovered the creepy horror of moisture ants nesting in the wall below one window, which began a still ongoing trail of repairs (in that way of home repairs where one thing leads to another and another…), with the intention of bringing the place up to  meet the requirements of my local credit union so I could refinance and get away from the “helpful” big bank that had not lowered my interest rates when they modified my mortgage but rather simply extended the length of my loan (again, NOT what I’d been led to believe would occur, but they don’t tell you the terms until the end of the trial period). 

One repair led to another, from replacing wallboard and insulation after removing the ant nest, to replacing leaky gutters that had led to the initial problem in the first place, to repainting the house, replacing plywood “skirting” with cement board to bring it up to the credit union’s requirements for refinancing, to replacing a window broken during the painting project, to replacing shingles that had begun to curl on a roof that needs to be replaced completely but will have to wait until the refinancing. Etc., etc., etc. 

The well pump and heat pump went out the same time, as well, leading to more delays and more expenses on an already tapped out budget, but we kept going, kept tightening our belts, kept cutting back on “necessities” we realized weren’t necessary after all. 

With just a dozen feet left of cement board to hang, a bit of new trim left to be hung around windows, the end was in sight.  We have our health – those yearly exams that come with turning 50 all coming up negative for another year. We have each other. We have family, we have love, and I have sons who will drop everything to help if the need arises.

The year ended with coming home last Friday to find a leak in the roof – right at the edge of where the new shingles had been placed, as if the old ones decided to give up the ghost. A tarp was placed to stop the leak while the rains continued, and now my sons will go up today to replace another portion of the shingles and finish the cement board so we can put the attempt to refinance into motion with the start of the new year. 

Sometimes, it feels like we will never get ahead.  The plan is to refinance, or failing that, apply for a second modification, and failing both, will put the place up for sale and cut our losses, move on to something with less work, less money pit potential, perhaps closer to family. 

So I wake up this morning, not feeling overwhelmed by the knowledge that I’ll be doing more overtime than ever before (as long as they will let me, of course), not feeling afraid of what will happen next, but perhaps fatalistic about what tomorrow and next week and next month will bring. Perhaps positive. I really can’t say right now, but we do have a direction, which is a good thing, and it’s a new year, I have a job I know isn’t going anywhere with a company that is actually doing very well in this unstable economy we find ourselves in. 

And I move on.  

The year 2012 will be better. I know it will.

Reflection…

I have been working a lot of overtime lately (a LOT of overtime), and I’m physically exhausted. More than that, though, I’m emotionally and mentally exhausted.  

My job isn’t physical, it’s not about moving or lifting, bending or carrying. It’s all about using my brain, deciphering puzzles, finding mistakes and correcting them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my work, even on the days when I’m bored out of my mind, but it takes its toll on my creativity, my ability to do anything but sit and stare lifelessly at Netflix in the evenings until I fall into bed at some ridiculously early hour only to start it all over again a 0-dark-30 the next day. 

I normally work Sunday through Wednesday, 10 hour days, and have a three-day weekend every week.  For the past three months, it’s rare that I have even one day off a week, but I have bills to pay – for broken windows, well pumps that decide to throw bits of their impellers up 300 feet to clog the filters and reduce the water pressure to a trickle, and heat pumps that decide that it’s time to start breaking down with its own midlife crisis.  I can relate – it works hours and hours every day, year round, heating and cooling, and it gets tired, too. 

And I am. I get up in the morning and I start to work and I feel this overwhelming sadness that has nothing to do with SADD and everything to do with just wanting nothing more than to stay curled up under the warm quilts with my cat and let the day slide into morning and afternoon and catch up on some sleep. 

Next week, I can’t do overtime, because you can’t do overtime on a week with a holiday. So I will (theoretically) rest and enjoy Christmas with my sons. Nothing fancy, just a big pot of some delicious soup, some bread, and a spice cake for dessert, but it will be quiet, and it will be family, and I won’t be working, all of which will make it a very special day aside from the simple fact that it is Christmas, the day when we celebrate the birth of our Lord.

This year, for me, it’s not about the gifts, or the big fancy meal.  It’s simply about quiet time to reflect and relax and be surrounded by the people I love and who love me without conditions or reservations. They are the reason I work, the reason I put forth the effort, and it’s days like that that make it all worthwhile. 

Wishing you all the happiest of holidays, the peace of the season, and health and comfort in the coming year.

Simple Pleasures…

There is a huge skylight in my kitchen ceiling. 

I can look up at night and see the stars and the moon, the kitchen lit up when the moon is full as if there were a light shining down from the sky, or dark enough to require shuffling to avoid tripping over a cat when the sky is cloudy or the moon is new. 

I can look up and see the rain falling down, or the snow, or the hail, and know the frustration when the latter hides the view. 

I can look up and see the blue sky on a foggy day, high above the fog that blankets the hillside as viewed through my living room or bedroom windows. 

In the summer, when it’s hot, we sometimes hang a bright beach towel across the opening to keep out the heat, but in the winter, it’s open to the sky. In the daylight, we don’t need to turn on the lights because that window gives us all the illumination we need. 

I like to stand, the edge of the kitchen sink pressing into the small of my back, my head tipped back to look out the skylight and watch the sky, day or night, mesmerized by the play of seasons and weather painted across its clear surface. 

It’s the simple things, after all, that make day-to-day life worthwhile and make me smile.

A Lost Art?

I find myself thinking rather a lot lately about manners as they pertain specifically to the lost art of the thank you note or simply saying thank you.  I’m just as guilty on occasion of this lack myself as the next person (mostly because I often forget what I’m doing from one moment to the next), but I wonder how and why that singular lack of manners became the norm rather than the exception. When I was young, and when my children were young, the thank you note was a given for any gift given from a distance, in particular. Saying thank you by phone was better than nothing, but that short note of thanks and the implied thought behind it were important. 

I’m not trying to say bring back the paper-wasting, postage-needing handwritten note (though I do think, on some occasions, they are still necessary – and it would definitely be a boost to the floundering US Postal Service).  What I am saying is that in this time when we all have text messaging on our cell phones, email and Facebook to reach out and touch another person with words of thanks, the whole process should have become that much easier and, hence, less likely to be forgotten or ignored. 

Alas, that’s not the case. 

In all honesty, it brings out my Grinch side, my “Bah, Humbug!” side in my feelings about giving gifts, and frankly, it’s not a feeling I like.  Being me, I’ll get over it (in a week, or a few weeks, or a month) and go right back to my normal giving nature, because in the end for me it’s the joy of giving and how that makes me feel that’s important, not the expectation of gratitude on another person’s part.

Today, however, I’m disgruntled about this trend, and somehow doubt I’m the only one.