REVISIONIST HISTORY

How much of the past can be believed..... Let's face it, the past isn't always as simple as we remember. We all have specific (or non-specific) memories of events and the words that were spoken during them. AND unless we are a member of a reality show and have a video camera constantly following us around, we really don't have a way to prove, step by step, what exactly transpired. So being human, we put our own spin on things.

And sometimes this means that we don't communicate as clearly as we want to. Other times it means that the other person doesn't really hear what we want them to hear. Of course we want to say that they didn't listen well enough, but maybe it is that we didn't say what we thought we said.... or we said it in such a way that it wasn't understood the way we hoped it would be.

I know that this was a major issue in my marriage. In fact, it still seems to happen when I try to communicate with that now less than significant other. AND there is probably no one to blame or enough blame to go around and around and around again.

So maybe writing to that other person is one way to insure that he or she truly knows what we are sharing. Even then, it seems that things get lost in translation. So, should we give up trying to communicate? Or repeat ourselves incessantly each time adding a few different words or putting emphasis in different places in order to make sure our message gets through? That might help, but nothing really insures that down the road, a day or a week or a month from now, my words won't get twisted and turned into something other than I wanted them to be. Unless we can always carry around and be prepared to play back one of these:

I guess one of my favorite authors said it best (at least once or twice):

"I meant what I said and I said what I meant. An elephant's faithful one-hundred percent!” 

― Dr. Seuss, Horton Hatches the Egg

“Be who you are and say what you feel,
because those who mind don't matter,
and those who matter don't mind.” 
― Dr. Seuss

The Tsunamis of Life

Somewhere between the old and the new.

Displacement

To be displaced means to be dislodged, dislocated, moved, shifted, repositioned; moved out of place, knocked out of place/position.

Yes, knocked out of place about sums it up.

In terms of Physics : Displacement refers to "how far out of place an object is"; it is the object's overall change in position.

That works too. Right now I am sitting in a tiny apartment a 21.9 miles (34 minutes) away from my home. Of course, my home is just a mental construct at this time. It is not really there. Yet, how much I long to be back in it. I miss silly things. Sleeping in my own bed (not going to happen again, best get used to it). I miss the way my stairs creaked when someone walked up or down them (stairs are gone). I miss all the little quirks of the house that is no longer there.

Am I complaining? I guess in some ways, I am. Does this mean that I feel any less grateful for all that I DO have? No. But I have to admit I have been struggling lately. Feeling waves of emotions unlike any others. I guess it is grief. But I have felt grief before and this feels different. Maybe it is because it seems so wrong to be feeling it. I have my sons, my granddaughter, and a handful of close friends. I have food and clothing and a roof over my head. I have all that I need. AND yet, I feel lost.

When I stand within the framework of my new home, I look out and see the skeleton of the old. How many of us get to really live with a physical (or wooden) metaphor life? I can go to my property and stand between the past and the future.

The rooms where my sons and I spent years growing, changing, playing, studying, sleeping, arguing, laughing, living are disappearing. New rooms are appearing. If all goes according to plan, my sons will visit and a little more of our lives together will be spent in these rooms. Where the old house stands, I envision gardens overflowing with flowers and vegetables. I hope to utilize the land and the space that I have in a much more efficient and self-sufficient manner than I have before. I have always wanted to be a much more self-sufficient person. I hope to find a balance and a happiness within myself. I promise to feel the peace, love, and joy that our world intended. As I struggle to find peace within, I will create beauty around me..... That is my goal.

“Stuff”

I have had many opportunities in the last few months to learn many lessons. One of the biggest lessons of them all has been  the meaning and purpose of “STUFF”.

After living in my home for 23 years, I accumulated a lot of “stuff”. When Bill left, he left with a brown paper sack of stuff, and that left a lot of stuff behind. Stuff in the barn, in the shed, in the closets, on shelves, in drawers. 

Over the last few years I have tried to weed out some of my stuff.  I have donated many items to Goodwill.  However, stuff was everywhere. AND along with my stuff,  my sons had left momentos  at the house:  toys, stuffed animals, Match Box cars, report cards, school photos, love letters, yearbooks, rocks, feathers, boots, shoes, skis, a bag of sand from Key West.

After the fire, before I was really aware of what was and wasn't destroyed, people came in and removed whatever they deemed “salvageable STUFF”. They took this salvageable stuff to three different locations. To Oxford they took my books, dishes, glasses, knick knacks, books, and more books . To Brunswick, they took my linens and things. Off to Scarborough went my electronics.

It is amazing what one person can own. Juxtaposition that to what one person needs.  I always believed that  I did not need much to be happy. Years at CAMP taught me that. A summer on the Appalachian Trail, reaffirmed that. Living in a van on a beach in Texas, reinforced that. Yet, somehow, I now find myself overwhelmed with STUFF that I no longer want or need. Much of it  I would rather not see or touch again. 

The stuff that went to Oxford is now in storage in Auburn. There are 287 items there. Some of the items are boxes filled with stuff. In Brunswick, I have whittled the pile down from 30 plus boxes to about 10. I have 75 items in Scarborough. I have begun to acquire some stuff in Portland. I have five boxes of stuff in the back of my car that I have been traveling around with for a few days.   I plan to deliver them to  my dear friend Bonita who lived with me at the time of the fire.

I have visited my stuff a few times, and been able to spend a few hours with it. While the insurance claim is still in process, I have to have supervised visits. I guess someone is afraid that I might steal some of it. Each visitation has left me baffled at whatever possessed me to save some of that stuff. I do know that one reason is when my mother was still alive I returned home to find that all of my childhood toys had been disposed of. I was devastated. Barbie and Skipper had gone to the dump?!? I made myself a promise, right then and there, that I would never do that to my children! So, it seems I have overcompensated.  Just a tad?

As of last week, I am the proud owner of the most beautiful basement in the world. Up until now, I really disliked basements. The thought of a basement brought images of creepy, damp, and dark spaces full of spiders, other creepy crawly things, and lots of stuff. Our house in Portland had one. If anyone ever needed to hide something from me (I am a terrible snoop at Christmas), they knew it was most likely safe in the basement. The New Gloucester house didn't have a basement. 

Every one I spoke with while designing my new house espoused the benefits of having a full basement. The biggest  benefit: “You will have plenty of storage for your stuff”!

As George Carlin said in 1986, “.... your house is a pile of stuff with a cover on it”. I have recently learned how true that is. My new home will NOT be merely a cover for a pile of stuff. To that I am committed!

If any one wants some STUFF, let me know. I have some I am getting rid of...

As I reflect on the beginning of summer tomorrow @ 7:09 (EST) and all the rituals of summers pat, I realize that like most of 2012, my summer is going to be far from routine.  Ordinarily, as soon as my classroom is  locked at the end of our final day, I am off to Whaleback Island.  For those of you who don't know, Whaleback Island is on Lake Winn1pesaukee and  has been in my family since 1892 when my great-grandfather purchased it from the State of New Hampshire for $40.

For the last 54 years, I have spent most summer weekends there.  When my sons were little, we would pack up and go there for weeks at a time during the  summer.  There we would  settle into the easy  routine known as  CAMP.  At camp, we live by "island time".  Island time is  something one can understand only if they experience it first hand. It  involves waking up when you feel rested, eating when you feel hungry, sleeping when you feel tired, and mixing those three activities with  a lot of boating, hiking, reading, exploring, and sitting.      Much of our time there was spent with my "oldest friend in the world" and her sons either at her family's camp or one of mine.

I met Kath  during my first visit to the island when I was less than four months old and she was just celebrating her first birthday.  Except for during the occasional drama filled falling out, we have remained friends ever since.   In our teens we might often be found in a little skiff scouring the lake for "boys".  How comical this became to us once our summers were filled with  endless hours supervising the boundless activities of 5 active boys, while we chatted incessantly, and planned many ways to save the world.  The men in our lives would cruise in on Friday nights and cruise out on Sunday evenings.  This would sometimes be a pleasant distraction from our routines. When my two boys moved on with  their own lives, I would continue my island stays alone. Each summer I would adjust to the solitude at a rapid pace. Sometimes Kath would be around and we would be able to spend an hour or two together.  New routines were established.

This year has been far from routine.  On January 29, 2012 my life was sort of turned inside out.  I lost the home that my family and I built board by board, nail by nail in 1990.  On Monday, June 10, 2012 ground was broken for the new home that will be built for me, one that will be much smaller and far more traditional.  So, I visited the island this past weekend  to take the annual sigh of relief that  school was over.  But, I  only stayed for two days.  I will probably visit family there periodically throughout the summer. The old routine is being put aside.  Aside from the first 28 days of January, most of the year has consisted of  putting things aside so that I can try and figure out the next steps.

 I want to take this opportunity to tell friends and family how grateful I am for all of the support you  have  given me over the last few months.  Although certainly not as devastating as the loss of a loved one, this has been a difficult loss for me.   I am ready for new beginnings .

I wish you all a summer full of long joyful days.  Cheers!