Goin’ Down the Road

Much activity since my last big post in March: house-hunting all around northern California, kitchen counters installed (complete with defective sink that spits boiling water droplets back into one’s face), nerve ablations in my twisty spine, massive deaccessioning of long-loved belongings, a garage sale, pottery classes, yet more hours in the dentist’s and periodontist’s chairs, elementary school field trips, the sudden demise of my two-year-old icebox and also of both toilets, and the puzzling together a schedule of house painters, flooring installers, movers, stagers and others who (rightfully, I have little doubt) command jaw-dropping sums. And let’s not forget the steady solo care of my Ember.

Pix from the past few months:

In these trying times, each new challenge competes to outdo the one before, in its pursuit of ever-higher pinnacles of difficulty. I’m not talking about those nice, worthy kinds of challenges, with a reward at the end for reaching a dreamed-of objective: “I climbed Mount Everest,” say (speaking of pinnacles) or, “I found a way to reverse climate change.” No. Not that.

It’s gotten me thinking about straws and camels. No one ever told us what happened to the struggling beast after its back broke, as the dead grasses continued to pile on. With that in mind, I’ve decided my goal is simply to get through these next months without ending up a crushed ungulate.

A while ago my brain got so overloaded that I couldn’t recall not only the correct year, but what century we’re in. “Wait: is it 2123?”

Luckily for you, I’ve been way too busy to post details of all that’s gone haywire. Last month and again last week, my Albany realtor told me, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a client with such bad luck.” My well of patience for unnecessary things has long since run dry. 

The worst part is that I’m not alone in stumbling through times way harder than necessary. Whenever I start to sag under the pressure, I realize how easy I have it. I’m not a refugee, for example. I can’t even imagine. I don’t have to contend with poverty, or civil war (yet). Though my body is definitely breaking down, I’m not facing anything life-threatening. I have support from family and friends. And I don’t live in Florida, where, for at least one despicable leader, “the woke mind virus represents a war on the truth.” Everything I write here is with acknowledgement of my relative great fortune, which I haven’t done anything to deserve. 

Having no idea where I’ll lay my fuzzy grey head at night in the coming months and years is among the things that have worn me down. I’ve investigated myriad possible destinations:

• Oakland, Albany, El Cerrito, Crockett, Benicia, El Sobrante, Hercules
• Grass Valley, Nevada City, Auburn, Colfax, Cedar Crest, Smartsville, Penn Valley
• Santa Rosa, Calistoga, Forestville, Cazadero, Sebastopol, Guerneville, Monte Rio, Angwin, Circle Oaks/Napa
• Chico, Winters, Woodland, Davis, Sacramento, Dixon

The thought of settling in most of those made my soul shrivel. The greater Santa Rosa area had potential, but after numerous trips north I realized it’s too far from Ember and my Chico family.

Plan B: closer to Chico. Back into the running went Grass Valley/Nevada City in the Sierra foothills. I lived there for seven years in the ‘90s and couldn’t get away fast enough, but whatever. After a couple weeks of intensive house-hunting, however, I learned I can’t get a doctor there for a variety of uninteresting reasons (thanks for the warning, Marianna). So the area fell off the list again.

As move-out day crept ever closer, my destination grew hazier. My mind whirled in dizzying loops over and over again, always ending right back where I started: no idea where to go. It’s not a blast to make a choice among less-than-happy options. Everywhere was either too expensive, too provincial, or too far from Emmy. I must say that worry, fear, confusion, anxiety, grief—a veritable panoply of emotions that nobody wants—just ain’t good for a person over time.

I wish I were better at going with the flow. My issue is that despite paddling as hard as I can, I’ve been washed from the current into an adjacent backwater, where I’m spinning among the cattails as the river of time races on without me.

Ultimately, after pursuing leads from my friend Syd in Nevada City (whom you’ll surely remember from my New Zealand posts a decade ago), I eventually cleared some healthcare hurdles, so I was back to full-on local house-hunting. In Grass Valley, TJ was stalwart, doing drive-by assessments of promising new listings, hosting Emmy and me overnight on little notice, and even touring each place with me, always spotting crucial issues I’d have missed. And as for Small: I don’t know what I’d have done without her. And my daughters, always standing by me.

But week after week, each house I saw set off flashing red “Depression Danger” alarms when I pictured living in it. Shoddy construction, low ceilings, small dark rooms, weird layouts, dirty shag carpet… “Murder houses,” my daughters call them.

Then there was the matter of street names. Even if it had been the greatest property on Earth, how could I ever live on, say, Rest Eze Way? Or could you really expect this one-time copyeditor to reside on a typo street like Silk Tassle Way? (I’d have to write my return address as Silk Tassle [sic] Way.) Or how am I supposed to feel at home on a road sharing its name with a wannabe cowboy who believed dollars trickle down?

And so it continued. Housing inventory remained exceptionally low. By the morning of Friday, April 21, there still wasn’t a single new listing so I had to cancel Ember’s and my planned visit for the next morning.

Checking Zillow every hour or so throughout that afternoon didn’t help. Or did it? It appears that Zillow doesn’t like to disappoint, so when search results are empty it consoles you with a few random listings outside your criteria. This one caught my eye for some reason.

It had been on the market only for hours. Since it was out of my price range I’d never have seen it without Zillow’s considerate algorithm. It was the only house out of the many hundreds I’ve viewed online that seemed cheerful and suitable. There’s even a treehouse bedroom, for Heaven’s sake.

At 7:00 that night, as Ember’s piano teacher was helping her polish the lovely Victor’s Piano Solo, I was pacing the sidewalk as I talked to TJ and the local realtor, scrambling to set up a viewing appointment for the next day. Though the listing was brand-new, it already had offers and a steady stream of other prospective buyers.

First thing the following day, Small encouraged me to go for it. A few hours later, TJ welcomed us and joined us on our tour.

We three really liked it, with its high ceilings, roominess, and character, and its flat, wooded acre (yeah, wildfire danger, but no quakes).

Per my realtor’s advice, I slid my offer in just under the wire two days later: one of half a dozen. With a bidding war, my chances were slim. The hours slothed by as I waited for the verdict. I knew if this didn’t pan out, I’d have to move everything into storage instead, and float around somewhere for who-knows-how-long.

But wonder of wonders, though my offer wasn’t the highest, the sellers chose me. Sure, the following weeks of inspections and negotiations weren’t a blast, but they’re over now, and my fuzzy grey head does have a place to plunk down at night, starting this weekend.

So much to do with a move, especially after being in one place for so long, and especially if you’re as acquisitive as I. Back in February I’d started sorting my tchotchkes, packing what I couldn’t part with and hauling the rest to the basement to await its destiny at the May garage sale. Often, cherished junk would float back upstairs and get reabsorbed into daily life, while hundreds of other precious items quickly flooded the basement rooms like water into a sinking ship.

If it weren’t for my friend Susie the Trash Queen, my house would still be jammed with objects of dubious value. But man, did I hate that garage sale. I won’t even start on that. All I’ll say is: why did I ever think I could live without that New Jersey turnpike ashtray, and the scores of other things I sold for a dime and now want back?

For those of you who may have a move in your future, I suggest you don’t use my system of organization. Because of the long lead time, I had to pack things from least used to most, gathered from random rooms, rather than nestling like with like. So no “kitchen” or “bedroom” boxes for me. Rather, each one has a bit of this from here and a handful of that from there.

Where should the movers deposit this box, for example, with its boots, whisk broom, roasting pan, microphone, and toothpaste? A sensible person would have assigned each box its own singular destination.

Unpacking will be a nightmare.

Increasingly of late, I’ve also had to tear open and disembowel sealed boxes to retrieve things I hadn’t needed for months. An hour after Ember’s latex-free bandaids got shut away, she had a painful encounter with my wastebasket. Earlier, I’d carefully divided plates into piles of “to pack” and “use.” That night at dinnertime, I discovered I’d accidentally packed them all.

Another long-term task has been taking down picture hangers, curtains and hardware, unneeded funky built-in things, and generally prepping for the painters, who start on Monday. Above Ember’s bedroom there was an inspirational stick-on quote left by a previous tenant: Every day holds the possibility of a miracle. This is how it looked when she was almost finished removing it:

By the end of spring break a couple months ago, Emmy was ready to be done with school. I reassured her that she’d be surprised at how fast the rest of the semester went. Indeed, here we are. Time’s up. Our days in Albany are over.

The night before last, Jason came to fetch his little one. We three hung for a few hours, and Em and I had some lovely last-minute cuddling. After Zachary’s deep-dish Chicago pizza, we loaded up a dozen or more boxes of what Em has accumulated, including her three guppies and their accoutrements.

There was no putting it off any longer. Into the truck they climbed, and I watched her little face get littler as they rolled away. I went inside and fell completely apart for the rest of the night.

Later I’ll appreciate the good things about being on my own again, but for now I am so heartbroken I can barely breathe. It’s not always a joy to love someone as deeply as I do this child. The sadness can be crushing.

Like all worthwhile people I’ve ever met, Ember can be quite a challenge. But as I told Eleni, even during the hardest stretches, not once did my adoration of that kid falter. For a year and a half, my life has been entirely dedicated to this feisty, spirited little bug. I guess taking care of her has given me a sense of purpose. When I’m settled, I’ve gotta figure out additional purposes.

Now that I’m alone, the house is way too quiet. Without all the distractions of having a child in situ, big waves of panic about what lies ahead keep crashing in.

Shortly before she left, Ember treated me to one final Albany performance of Victor’s Piano Solo. It was haunting, as it echoed off the bare walls.

I’ve been reassuring Em that life is a series of chapters, and though it can be hard when one ends, there are all the others ahead. True, I guess. But for now the silence is heavy as ghosts of memories flit through the empty rooms I’ve inhabited for 25+ years.

My next post, once I start to resettle in Nevada City, will be in honor of the small and complicated person whom I adore and admire. How lucky I’ve been to have had this experience with her.