Missing My Mother--and the Contest Winner

Margaret, Me, Jane and Mom circa 1972 at Ball State University

Today was a wild and crazy Mother's Day. I spent most of the morning trying to sort through my books and scrapbooking supplies. We've decided to move from the house we've rented in Vienna, VA, to a condo in Tysons Corner, a nifty 7th floor loft. I think the new place will be good for us.  We can walk to Tysons Corner (where David's store is) or to the Galleria. There's a Harris Teeter 24-hour grocery store on the first floor. Once the Tysons Corner Metro stations are operational (sometime in 2012), we'll be able to go to either Dulles or Reagan on the train--and taking the Metro into DC proper should be a snap. Anything, anything! to avoid the dreaded DC traffic!

But this is the second time I've downsized in two years, and my third move in the same, so perhaps I can be forgiven for getting a bit weepy. My son called to wish me happy Mother's Day, and I felt so far from him and so discombobulated that I finally did wipe a few tears away before I went back to my sorting.

And somehow David and I lost track of time. We needed to leave Vienna at 1:30 for me to make it to Reagan in time to make my plane. Somehow, while we were packing and discussing what to keep/give away/sell/ move to the stores/ move to storage/ and send to Florida, we stopped watching the clock. When we noticed it was ten 'til two, we went racing to the car, threw my stuff in, and hit the streets.

"Don't worry," said David. "It's Sunday. There won't be any traffic."

I don't know where HE'S been living the past two years. The only times I've never seen traffic in DC was one morning at 5:30 a.m. Oh, yeah, and the day we got five feet of snow. Of course there was traffic. It was like driving through a molasses drip in January.

We were both in a lather when we pulled up to the US Airways curb-side check-in. US Air has decided that you, dear paying customer, must operate the check-in computer on your own. And just to make that nearly impossible, all the directions have been worn off the machines. There are slots, and a bar code scanner, but what does any of that mean? Hmmm? What do you put where? By the time I got my boarding pass, I was frantic. I kissed David goodbye and sprinted for the gate.

Hauling my heavy backpack, my purse, and the bouquet of roses David had given me for Mother's Day, I made it to security. I was waiting my turn in line when I heard them announce over the airport loud speaker: "Will the owner of a black Blackberry left at the US Airways curb-side check-in, please come back and claim it?"

They were talking about David's Blackberry.

I started calling him to confirm that it wasn't his--and wondering what to do if it was. When I finally got him on the phone, he laughed and said he'd realized it was missing and swung  back by to pick it up.
By now, I was drenched in sweat. I made it to security where the TSA agent demanded that I remove the scarf from around my neck. I have NO idea what they thought I was hiding in my scarf besides my aging neck.

The plane was boarding as I walked up to the gate.

My sister Jane picked me after I landed at the West Palm Beach airport. "Something strange happened. I got an email yesterday. It was addressed to Mom."

"Wow," I said. Mom's been dead two years now.

"The email came from you," said Jane.

Over the weekend, I sent out my email blast announcing my upcoming signings. I'd forgotten that my mom's email address was still on the Constant Contact list. Since Mom's email account is on Jane's computer, Jane saw the email message addressed to Mom, opened it, and realized it came from me.
"I just can't bring myself to delete her name from everything, every list, every place it might appear," said Jane. "I miss her."

I know what she means. I still have Mom's email address on my computer address book, her phone number in my phone, and her mailing address in my Rolodex. It's like I'm pretending she's still here. But, of course, she's not.

After Jane went to work, I took a walk on the beach, drank a glass of wine, and opened my computer to write my weekly post. That's when I saw that Jane had posted this photo of the four of us--the three of us Campbell girls and our mother--on her Facebook page.

I remember the day the photo was taken. It happened during a hard time in our lives. My father had left us, and we were on welfare. I don't know how we found the courage to smile, but we did. And a friend snapped this photo. We were all so young, so broke, so frightened, but we had each other.

Once again, I'm sitting here crying.

How can it be Mother's Day when my mother isn't here? I think about that kid's book with the little bird looking for his mother. He asks the dog, "Are you my mother?" and the cat, "Are you my mother?"

Eventually he finds his mother.

But I won't. Mine is gone.

CONTEST WINNER

Sarita, you won the copy of Pumped for Murder by Elaine Viets. Email me at joannaslan@aol.com and share your postal address so I can mail it to you, please.

Mastering the Art of Moving--A REAL Labor Day Trick for Me

“The trick, of course—and it is a hard one to master—is to think of home not as a place we go to or come from, not as something inherent in the world itself, but as a place we carry inside ourselves, a place where we welcome the unfamiliar because we know that as time passes it will become the very bedrock of our being.” Verlyn Klinkenborg, NYT

Last Tuesday we arrived at our new home. Boy, do I feel beat.

How discombobulated my life is. Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by walls of brown boxes taller than I am. Awash in a sea of beige newsprint, wrinkled and smooshed, packing paper. Out of these cardboard containers tumble precious items, junk, necessary equipment, assorted odds and ends I can’t explain. Over and over, I pick up things and wonder: “How did this get here? What should I do with it? Why did I bring it along? Will it fit in here? Should I keep it or dump it?”

How fearful I am behind the wheel as I struggle to figure out exactly which road will take me where I want to go. All around me, other cars hurtle toward their destinations with the surety of creek water parting to avoid a stationary rock—that’s me!—in the midst of the flow. I grip the steering wheel white-knuckled, praying my Missouri license plates will buy me a crumb of driver’s compassion as I dither desperately trying to choose the correct lane, exit, or ramp.

How tired and ill-at-ease I am. Bursting into tears at the worst possible moments. Trying to be jovial, upbeat and positive, but sure that I am fooling no one. My body contends with a seeping sort of exhaustion. I fight the urge to lie down, pull the covers over my head, and sleep away the days. I’m not sure that it’s sleep I need so much as order. With order comes a sense of mastery that makes all activity less burdensome.

I keep wondering, “What on earth have I done? Why did I put myself through this? What did I hope to accomplish?” And yeah, I know the answers. It's all good. It will just take time.

There have already been moments of stunning clarity when I think, “Ah, this could be home.” And other joyous times: A small jolt of triumph and exhilaration when meeting my friend Emilie Richards for coffee in a nearby town made me nearly crow with joy: “I did it! I drove here! I navigated the beltway!” A sigh of contentment when I opened our mailbox and found items addressed to me, in this new home, postal offerings that followed me here. A stifled laugh when I awakened in the night and walked into a closet rather than the bathroom. (Fortunately, I was cognizant of the difference!) A shared moment of excitement when David and I saw the red fox pup who lives with his brother and mother behind our house. The little guy was sunbathing and grooming himself. After he'd licked his fur to his satisfaction, he ran over and pounced on his brother. How we laughed as they tussled with each other!

I try to take each day as it comes. Right now, after unpacking some of my office, I feel weepy. The sheer volume of stuff overwhelms me, weighs me down. Before, it was tucked away neatly. Now it’s all spread out, cluttering surfaces, and shaking a metaphorical finger in my face as if to say, “Why didn’t you sort this earlier? What were you thinking?”

I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I was on auto-pilot. Maybe we’re all on auto-pilot most of the time, and a move such as this forces us to be very, very present. Takes all our energy to cope with new surroundings, smells, flavors. Since all those senses are stimulated non-stop, and I’m struggling to cope, no wonder I want to go curl up and take a nap.

Tell me, how have you coped with moving? What kept you going?

For me, this is a Labor Day to remember!

Better Five Fires Than One Move

That’s an old Chinese proverb. And you know, the Chinese were onto something. I’m sitting here staring at the detritus of my life/my world as a crafter and I think I’m going to be sick.

Yesterday, I spent two hours sorting through—hang on—eyelets, brads and hooha’s. Yep, I have three craft supply cases full of tiny embellishments and fasteners. Unfortunately many months ago, one of them tipped over and all my bits and bobs went everywhere. In order to get the cases shut, and to pare down my belongings, I had to sift through them. My back cramped after hours of picking through itsy-bitsy but PRICELESS stuff. (I emphasize the word PRICELESS because I simply must believe these are invaluable. Otherwise, I would have thrown my hands up and said, “Fugget about it! I’ll buy more!)

Today I will sort papers. After I go through my stacks of paperwork, that is. Who knows what promises I’ve made that I’ve let slide on through disorganization.

The hardest part? I want to stop and craft. Seriously. I keep thinking, “Just let me work for a while on this…or that…and then, I’ll get back to it.”

Sigh.

I keep telling myself that I will emerge from this purge a leaner, meaner crafting machiner. That never again will I feel swamped and out of control.

Honestly, who am I kidding?

Oh-kaaayy. Back to the boxes.

But first, a decision: What has to stay out? What can’t I do without? What has to be packed last and unpacked first? Hmmm? Gee, that could keep me dithering all week!

The Place Where We Were a Family

This week the “For Sale” sign went up in our front yard. A small caveat, “Coming Soon!”, warned folks we aren’t quite ready for prime time and looky-lou’s. What a bittersweet time this is. My son is home from college, leaving half-empty bottles of Gatorade around the house, getting calls at all hours, and constantly asking what there is to eat. My husband is distracted by phone calls from real estate agents, vendors, music institutes, and would-be employees. My sisters phone me with news about my mother’s tests, indicating she has cancer of her lungs, and how we are in a holding pattern until the doctors test her (some more) to decide how to proceed. I sit for hours winnowing through boxes of old documents, speeches I wrote for the executives of Diamond-Star Motors, ad copy I created, ad campaigns and focus groups that I ran, and bits of books and articles which never went anywhere.

On Saturday, David and I finished cleaning our newly remodeled garage. First I photographed the growth chart we made with black marker on one wall. We used that space to note Michael’s first bubble with bubblegum, the one and only baseball game his team won, and finally, “College Bound” which we stopped the car to add the day we set off to take him to school. Grumbling, he agreed to be pulled from the backseat, to stand against the wall, and to be measured against other years’ growth.

The next occupants of this house will find a freshly re-done garage, now insulated, dry-walled and with a painted floor. Plus a new built-in set of shelves. But no growth chart.

And of course, our house will soon be nearly empty of clutter. We tossed enough stuff to fill our SUV twice with items to take to Goodwill. I rummaged through my son’s old Beanie Babies, his crib bumper, and a doll that belonged to my mother. Those things I kept.

When the garage was done, we moved to work in our basement. We have 4,200 feet of livable space, with a lower level walk-out. On this walk-out level are three rooms: my office, a spare bedroom/storage area, a big screen tv viewing room, plus a large open area that used to have a pingpong table, weight set, pool table and pinball game. I worked my way through old storage boxes, looking sadly at Michael’s fingerpainting efforts, his cards to me saying “Mom, I love you more than Dad does!” and photos of pet chameleons which never lived long. We found an old jewelry box that belonged to David’s mother. I insisted that rather than dump the contents we stop and take it to a jeweler. We did. Good thing. There was an old garnet pin inside, which easily could have been taken for costume jewelry. David also unearthed a beautiful strand of pearls, larger and creamier than the one he bought me years ago.

So far we’ve replaced our roof, added bigger gutters, painted the front door, tiled two areas formerly linoleum covered, cleaned the carpets, had paint dings fixed, replaced the old laundry sink I hated with a sink/cabinet combo. I took a break while writing this for David to pull three ticks off of me. Ticks I am sure found me yesterday while we were planting lemon yellow marigolds and red salvia around our mailbox. Or while I planted the window boxes that sit merrily on the banisters of our deck.

About the time I planned to take a break and write, the real estate agent called. She had a young couple who were driving around and asked to see our house. The couple has three kids. David, Michael and I played “beat the clock” finishing up getting the house presentable.

As the couple walked through, I had to restrain myself. I wanted to tell them, “You think this is just a house, but it isn’t. It’s a place where a happy family has lived. A place where we raised my son. Where we laughed and loved and played together. It could be happy for your family, too.”

But I didn’t.