We are here in the Big City, staying at my Dad’s house in central Phoenix for the winter. It took a few weeks for me to shift from the fear that we’d never get back in the RV, to enjoying and appreciating living in a real house, with great water pressure, three bathrooms, a big kitchen with a real stove, two ovens, a microwave and, my favorite, a toaster oven, a washer and dryer, recycling, and lots of space to spread out. And even though my Dad hadn’t lived in the house for the last year, there is an ample supply of plastic wrap, toilet paper, and scent free laundry detergent to last for the duration of our time here.
When we moved into the house at the beginning of December, it was familiar, odd, uncomfortable, and homey, all at the same time. This is the house I lived in from ages fourteen to eighteen, until I left for college. Except for a few overnights, and the time last year when we moved in for a week while the RV was being repaired, I hadn’t lived in the house since. But my parents did, so I was a frequent visitor. And, Marika lived here with them for five months while her kitchen was being remodeled. So it is familiar and comfortable for her too. Still, it has been odd to be settling in, while, at the same time, I’m going through things for throwing out.
Some moments I feel like I am in a movie. I’ll be washing the dishes while listening to the oldies station on the 1970’s under-the-counter radio that has a dial and no programmable buttons, and a song from the ‘70s comes on and I flash back to me at sixteen, listening to that same song in the living room on the family stereo console.
I remember my grandmother’s greasy fingers as I peel potatoes at the same counter she did, and think of the years of potato latkes that my mom and I, and then Marika, too, fried in the extra wide fry pan on the stove. But when I lit the Chanukah candles in the family menorah for the very ever last time in this house, I was crying so much I could barely sing the prayers.
I am memorizing the random house sounds: the rattle of the pipe after you flush the middle bathroom toilet, the rumbling motor of the electric garage door coming down, the clink of the brass handles on my father’s dresser drawers.
And slowly, I am emptying shelves and boxes, readying the house for a spring sale. I’ve been taking it a room at a time, with the larger picture clear in my view. December was all about going through my Dad’s office and taking care of the executor papers, the house deed transfer, and filing his 2019 taxes. I also emptied his desk and filing cabinet drawers. He saved everything, neatly organized in folders by year and topic, many labeled in my mother’s neat handwriting.
Much of it I just tossed, but it has been fun to go through the contracts for every house I’ve lived in, and read the operating manuals for appliances from the ‘50s. I read the holiday newsletters that the family co-wrote every year, all of the saved birthday cards, father’s day, mother’s day and anniversary cards. I touched every paper in the green metal strong box: my father’s parents’ birth, death and marriage certificates, my mother’s passport photos, and the note I wrote my father after his mother died, telling him he was a good son.
Some of it makes me smile, feeling the connection to what was important to my father. Sometimes I cry from a sharp memory, and the realization that, despite his later years of stubborn crankiness, my father was quite a great guy. But when I lit the Chanukah candles in the family menorah for the very ever last time in this house, I was crying so much I could barely sing the prayers.
I had a rare, two-day meltdown when the bathroom leak we thought we had fixed happened again. But I cried and slept, stayed in my pajamas, and ate all kinds of comforting carbs. Marika took tender care of me, and we got it repaired. And last week we put a brand new ac/heat unit in so that we can have heat in the house.
This month is all about clearing out my mom’s office. It is pretty much as she left it when she passed ten years ago, though I did go through her files and photos and papers back then. I still need to find a place to donate her various aids for the visually impaired, including a magnification screen that enabled her to write checks and read the mail.
The majority of the room is taken up by the twenty boxes I left here in 2012 when I thought I was moving to the Central California coast. I’ll be going through every box, choosing, once again, what to keep and what to let go of. I’m excited to see what things I chose to save back then, that I may have forgotten.
While I’ve been sorting through house things, Marika has been taking care of all kinds of medical things. She is benefiting from physical therapy sessions for her hip twice a week, had a MOHS procedure to remove a cancerous patch on her cheek, and had a laser procedure to remove the scar tissue created by her cataract surgery a few years ago. And she’s lost fifteen pounds on a new diet.
I’ve been riding my bike every day, though I often have to wait for the temperature to go up, and the air quality numbers to come down. Sometimes I ride on the quiet neighborhood streets, more often in the nearby school parking lot where I can let my mind and imagination wander.
One morning I was thinking how stuck I felt in the city, with no end in sight for leaving. And I noticed that, as I rode, I kept my eyes looking ten to fifteen feet ahead. Even though I was so familiar with the circular route around the lot, knew where the bumps and undulations were, I watched for hazards, as if it were my first time.
I challenged myself to just watch the road a foot ahead of my front tire. But I kept looking further, not trusting what I knew. After three circles around the lot, I was able to keep my eyes on the road just in front of me, trusting I’d know when to turn, where the speed bumps were.
It helped me come back to embracing being here, now, living in the house, and trusting that this, like everything, is temporary. And I realized that this is how we usually do things – staying in a place for three to five months. Yes, this is different because we’re in a house, and we’re not volunteering, but, really, it’s just another adventure on the road.
I also know that I need to have something to look forward to, to really know that we won’t be here forever. And so I made a call to a second possible camp hosting job on the Oregon Coast for the summer, just in case our preferred job doesn’t happen again because of COVID. And we’ve picked out new fabric to reupholster the RV sofa and dinette cushions. We’re also looking for someone to paint the dark interior cabinets a lighter color. It’ll be like a brand new RV when we move back in this spring.
These are the practices that work for me, that give me the ability to remain present to the work at hand, and still have my eyes on a down-the-road prize. Mix in some delicious meals, laughs with friends, and so much gratitude, and you really can call it home, again.
