Good-bye, Waycroft. (Part 2)

I opened the back door and stepped into the living room. Our empty living room. The sofa, the Hoosier cabinet, the new rug... all gone. I lost my breath. I walked into the middle of the room and felt the tears coming. The house that had been my home for more than 30 years was now a shell. As I walked across the floor, I heard the echo of my footsteps.

I wandered into the kitchen. The cupboards that once held bags of flour and canned goods were vacant. Countertops that once collected items from everyday living were bare. I ran my hand along the fridge - also empty. My mind raced back to our elementary school days when report cards and spelling quizzes covered the refrigerator, top to bottom.

In the dining room: no table, no china cabinet, no dishes, no chairs. All of that was now perfectly situated in my mother's beautiful new house. After our parents separated, our mother began having Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at her house. We invited anyone who might not have had a place to go and, as everyone passed the sweet potatoes and turkey and dressing, a new kind of family was emerging. Right there. In our dining room. Now, all that was there to remind me was the green tiffany lamp hanging in the center of the room... just like it always had.

I turned my eyes to the left and saw the vast space in front of the fire place. The old den looks huge now that the big leather sofa and flat screen television have found new residences. As my eyes followed along the blank walls, I remember every spot that we had put the Christmas tree. The far corner by the front door. Directly in front of the center windows. In the other corner, by the fireplace. My heart was breaking.

I ventured upstairs, blinking back tears and fighting against my knotted stomach. Luckily, the movers spared me the last insult as I found my old bedroom still in tact, although I know that is momentary. But I glanced across the hall. The only thing that remained in my mother's bedroom was the indentations on the carpet where her antique brass bed used to be. My sister, Kristen, and I used to lay on the bed and look at each other through the bed rails, pretending like we were locked up in a jail cell. As I stood looking at the empty floor, I remembered the many nights of nightmares and sickness that prompted me to stand in that exact same spot, whispering to my mother, "Are you sleeping?" (She never was, ironically.)

The house felt so quiet. But, a new family was just months away from moving in. A mother, a father, a little boy, and two young girls. Soon, the voices of children would fill these hallways and rooms. If there was ever anything to stave off my breaking heart, it was the knowledge that this house would be a home again. And soon.

I am old enough to understand that nothing lasts forever and I am old enough to be happy for my mother who is over the moon in her new house. I want her to be happy, more than anything else. Leaving Waycroft is simple and bittersweet. I will remember this place in my head and heart.

As I pulled the door closed behind me, a tear slid down my face and a smile emerged. After all, life just goes on.

Here's to the next chapter...

Good-bye, Waycroft. (Part 1)

Saying good-bye is heartbreaking business.

---

Truthfully, my mother had awaited this day for years now, but the prospects of moving had only become a reality in the last few months. She had been handed an unexpected gift: her dream house (owned by a friend of hers) was suddenly available. Ma couldn’t believe her luck. The possibility of this new house brought out a light in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in entirely too long. Finally, her day had come. The Mayflower trucks were on Waycroft Drive, emptying the home we had shared as a family for more than 30 years.

Instead of heading to Waycroft, I went to work. I tried not to think about what was happening in the old neighborhood. Ma called me a few times at my office. I could hear the excitement in her voice, ringing behind every word.

“It’s almost 11 and they’ve already got everything on the trucks! Just a table or two is all that is left!”

I forced a smile. “Well, good. I’ll bring lunch to you guys at the new place in an hour or so.” Deep down, I knew what was coming and I knew I wasn’t prepared. This was new.

After lunch was over, my sister, the professional horticulturist who so kindly drove into town the night before, went back outside to work on the courtyard and pond. My mom and her friend, Ginger, continued to direct traffic around the new house. Brass bed? Oh, yes, in the spare bedroom to the right. The leather sofa? Sitting room in the front. Dining room table? Under this chandelier, please. My mother was absolutely glowing.

Then it happened.

In between the placement of a chair and a table, I caught her attention. “I’m going to head to my house. Get out of these heels and grab a change of clothes. I’ll be right back.”

Then my mother said, “Oh, could you stop by the old house and grab a few things for me?”

“Sure.”

And then she rattled off a list: the vacuum cleaner, a dust ruffle, the kitchen garbage can. “No problem, Ma.”

She squeezed my hand. I kissed her forehead and quickly left. On the drive to my house, I couldn’t get passed the knot in my stomach. I left home when I was 18 and headed off to college. I never really returned home after that save for summer breaks and a few months post-graduation. I’ve owned a little house on the outskirts of Salisbury for nearly seven years now. My sister, Kristen, moved to Philadelphia more than three years ago. And, since our parents divorced seven years ago, Ma has been the only one in that house. She’s been the last one standing on Waycroft Drive.

On the drive to my old house, I was on auto-pilot. Driving this route was second-nature; I must have done this a thousand times in the past seven years. Six turns. A couple of miles. My new house to my old house. Over the bypass. Next to the graveyard. Down a country road snaked between two large cornfields. Passed the golf course. Oh, yes, I could do this drive blindfolded. I pulled in the driveway. Still just going through the motions. I was surprised that I felt a bit numb walking up the porch steps.

All that changed with the turning of a key.

Into The Breakers

I have long held the belief that salt water cures all.

Chicken pox? Take a dip in the ocean. Sinus trouble? Swim for a bit. Sore throat? Minor cuts and abrasions? The ocean will see you now. A broken heart or a worried soul? Well, yes, those too are cured with a few moments at sea.

. . .

We made our way over the dunes in the hot August sun. My sister and her friends were already there. Thomas and I plunged across the lava-like sand; sweat was already running down his face. He's a fair-skinned Irish boy and I'm a well-tanned Eastern Shore girl. In spite of his sensitivities, he loves the ocean almost as much I do. We found the girls and set up our makeshift camp: a rainbow umbrella, a chair, a towel, bottles of frozen water, and an ample supply of sunscreen.

My sister wanted to go swimming. The sun was beating down on us with the kind of intensity that threatens to destroy, not just burn. The thought of the coolness of the ocean on my skin ... we practically ran to the breakers. We had heard in the news that a tropical storm lingered off the coast of Bermuda, about 800 miles away. Even when storms are far out to sea, we can still feel and see its effects: this day was no difference. The current was stronger than usual and the waves were higher than normal.

As we swam out, I could see where the ocean was white-capping. Soon, I was diving under occasional three and four foot swells. We laughed and swam; we dove and did flips into the rolling ocean. The cool water ran over us and I could taste the sea water as it dripped down my face, through my hair. I watched my little sister, now a grown woman, grin ear to ear after surfacing from a plunge underwater. Thomas and I exchanged a few salty kisses that were more comical than romantic. There, in the sunshine, as I dove under a large wave, I felt free...

. . .

We retired from the ocean after a long swim. Thomas took up residence in the shade while I dropped my body onto a towel in the full glare of the summer sun. I dug my feet deep into the warm sand. I looked up at the Atlantic, and, just like clockwork, a thousand thoughts flooded my mind. This happens every time. Staring at that horizon makes my mind tumble and fall.

The past few days have been especially rough for me. I was looking to run away and so we did. We got as far as Ocean City and the Atlantic. For me, there has always been (and probably always will be) an irresistible draw to the ocean. She is wild and dangerous; she is beautiful and subtle. She reminds me that, although I am just a piece of a larger puzzle, I am lucky. After all, not everyone gets to bask in her glory and breaking waves whenever they want. I am beyond fortunate to live in such an amazing place.

My broken parts are on the mend, I feel certain. A few more trips and I may consider myself healed.

Fuel To Burn

Ten years ago, my grandmother asked me if I had ever heard of the Pilchard murder. No, I said. She directed me to a marble top desk in her living room. In the second drawer from the bottom was a stack of old newspapers, yellowed and fragile. Within moments, I was devouring the chilling tale of the Pilchard murder... a series of events that read like a Hollywood movie only this was real. It was wrenching and sad, but interesting and complex as well. As I read the words from that awful winter of 1940, something in the very core of me felt electrified. There was this burning to write, a desire to narrate this story. The intensity of the fire stayed; the research and the emotions became fuel for me.

Recently, I stumbled upon another story that has reignited that old flame. In the winter of 1968, a prisoner shot and killed two men while making an escape from the Salisbury courthouse. While this is the sum of the story, it too has several layers of complexity. I awake each day eager to write this story, to find a new piece of the puzzle. While I don't really want to make a habit of writing murder mysteries, this particular story has reached me in a way that nothing else has in recent months.

So, here's to writing. Like this again.

And may all these poor souls find peace.

"Running On Faith"

I don't know if I have any faith left in me.

This is a hard admission for a girl who was raised to believe in and respect something higher and greater. I spent my hours in a church pew, staring at a vaulted ceiling while the red velor cushions itched at the backs of my legs. I remember the lessons, well, some of them anyway. Be kind and loving. Be tolerant and respectful. Honor your parents. Don't hurt people. Don't judge. I've always understood that faith is a good thing.

But I have spent my first thirty years doing a lot of hard running and wistful thinking. Broken hearts and broken bones; my scars remind me of the narrow misses. I seem to be hard-wired for movement and most of the folks I know with any amount of faith seem better at sitting still. I don't know if I ever had it or if I just lost what little pieces I had along my way.

Am I running from faith or towards it? I simply do not know, but what I am certain about is that all of it will catch up with me sooner or later. I wonder when this body is going to give out. I wonder how long I can keep running while checking over my shoulder at every turn. Faith doesn't dwell in those kind of anxious moments, not for me anyway.

Sometimes, as I lay in bed at night, I pray. In the absolute darkness, I clasp my hands in front of my chest and whisper. I don't know who exactly is listening, but I hope that I'm heard. Maybe that is the first step of faith.

Me, Shiloh, and Neko Case

A few evenings ago, I was driving down a back road in Wicomico County, headed home from my mother's house. It was approaching dusk. Shiloh, my basset hound/golden retriever, was riding shotgun; Neko Case was singing on the radio.

The corn was nearly thigh-high. I am always amazed at how fast it grows. In a few days, it'll be hip-high. The sun was setting on the edge of the field, slipping down behind a row of shadowed trees. I imagined crickets chirping. It was so peaceful... I wanted to pull over and just stay for a moment.

Shiloh rested his head on the open window sill, letting the air rush over his face, closing his eyes on ocassion. Sniffing constantly. I envy his serenity.

Neko Case was singing, "I'm a dying breed who believes... haunted by American dreams." Being haunted is a curse and a blessing. Or at least, this is what I've decided. Ghosts will stop you cold but then force you to run.

I leaned back in my seat. Felt the wind rush through the open windows. Listened. Thought. Over the past few weeks, my mind has been unsettled. I've been pulled tighter than a drum and the stress has been evident all over me. At the end of the day, I'm just looking for one simple thing: a little bit of peace. I try to put some ink on paper, hoping that my peace is in the lines and in the spaces between the letters. It helps, I won't lie, but once in a while, there's just not enough ink.

Shiloh turned away from the window and I rubbed his head. As I pulled to a stop at an intersection with another back country road, I heard the crickets and a frog. And there, in that little moment, I smiled.

Still

I'm sitting on my back door step, writing this under a sky that threatens to storm. Occasional flashes and distant growls. The wind rushing through the leaves sounds like rain or like faded applause. My old yellow dog is uneasy and whining nervously. Across the open field behind my house, in the distance, I can hear the fire station horn blaring, cycling up and down the tones. My thoughts are swirling, but mostly, I keep coming back to one: try to be still.

An old friend once told me that I am always moving, pacing, doing, running. "You're never still, you know." She smiled at me when she said it so I couldn't take offense. But this struck me.

I asked her what she meant. She said that as long as she has known me (more than 25 years), she has never seen me stop. "You're always into something, moving towards a goal or something. You just go, go, go. And that's alright for the most part, but you know, at some point, you gotta relax. You gotta learn to breathe."

Stop. Listen. Breathe.

But the truth is... I don't know how to stop moving. I've heard that sharks must move or die - they need that continual motion in order to keep water flowing over their gills, in order to breathe. Maybe I am built like that. Maybe this never-stopping is how I keep breathing.

"Don't you ever get tired?" she asked.

I thought about it. Sleep is a relative stranger to me. When I was young, I used to try to keep awake as long as I could because I was plagued with night terrors and nightmares. That part never really changed. These days, I sleep, but just enough. I grow tired just like anyone else, but the fatigue gets shoved aside because I can't stand its slowing effect.

The sky is rumbling again, but the wind has stopped. An insect is chirping in the field. I've been sitting here for more than twenty minutes. My mind is a mangle of thoughts that I can't get straight. And that old feeling is rising up inside me again...

I'm leaving.

Letters from Curacao

Night has fallen in the Caribbean. I am exhausted but entirely happy. The warm breezes remind me of just how far away from home I am. This morning, we left Baltimore under a deep blanket of snow and an uncomfortable cold. Tonight, I sit mere feet away from a softly lolling Caribbean Sea.

The tree frogs have started an evening chorus, small pleasulant chirps not quite in unison.  Palm trees sway, creating a rustling backdrop for the frogs.  All I can do is listen. 

It has been a long day of traveling. My eyes are growing heavy. I am already dreaming of blue water.

Android Test

Testing Blogger app for my Android...

Location : 1903-1969 Autumn Grove Ct, Salisbury, MD 21804,

Running in the Rain

I feel certain that the neighbors think I've lost my mind. Secretly, I fear they may be right.

I awoke this morning to the sound of the rain, lightly tapping on the roof and window, sliding down and dripping into pools below my bedroom window. The morning carried that bluish-haze of not-yet-morning; I just listened.

Shiloh, our bassett hound/golden retriever, was whining. He is, as we say, "weather sensitive" and this morning meant two different things for us. For him, it was a terrible punishment; for me, it was a sweet punishment. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and Shiloh looked at me with those sad, big brown eyes. "It's ok, boy, it's just the rain." I rubbed his head and he whined again. He is not easily pacified.

I grabbed my running gear, iPod, and headphones. This was the first test for my waterproof jacket. I was counting on it to save my beloved iPod. On second thought, I grabbed a set of dry clothes... yes, I was certain I'd need them. Shiloh followed me to the door, tail tucked between his legs. "Come on, Shi. It's ok. Really. Just rain." I smiled at him, but he was inconsolable.

The drive to the old neighborhood took a few minutes. The rain was coming down pretty steady; the temperature gauge said it was 45 degrees outside. Cold. Wet. Run. It started to sound like a bad plan, but I tend to follow the worst of my ideas. I turned up the radio to drown out the wipers and it was an old country and western song. It was awful and it made me smile. Soon, I was pulling into my favorite running haunt: the old neighborhood.

This is the part where I began to question my sanity.

I stepped onto the road. The rain was coming down, not in sheets but not lightly either. Just sweet and steady. Music filled my ears; water was seeping through my running tights. Stretch. Stretch. Deep breath and the cold filled my lungs. Was I drowning? I exhaled and an evil smirk stretched across my face.

Run.

The first thing I lost was my hood. It flipped back and exposed my dry head. I tried to pull it on again but it just kept slipping off. Forget it. Without any cover for my poor head, I knew I'd have to cut this one short. Damn it. Well, I decided, if it will be short, then it will be fast.

I lowered my head and pushed my legs faster. Rain drops were collecting in my hair, slipping down my neck, and sliding down my back. The chill on my spine was unnerving and satisfying. I kept moving, stretching my stride and splashing in puddles. I could feel the water beginning to bleed into my shoes. Rain trickled into my eyes. I ran faster.

The second thing I lost was my mind. As I rounded the corner in the back of the neighborhood, I realized that this was absolutely crazy. What am I doing? Wait, I know what... but why? Why do I do things like this? Then I remembered and that evil smile stretched back across my face.

"Come on, girl. You can finish this." My lungs were burning and I was soaking wet, rain dripping from my hair and my chin. And I was freezing. The folks who lived next door to my mother drove past me in a pick-up truck. I couldn't even lift my eyes to see them. I am insane. And they probably think so too.

God help me.

I finished my run. My body was cold and numb - fingers, toes, thighs, forehead. But I felt alive. I walked a few paces, spitting and stretching. It was a bad idea, running in the rain. I knew it before I did it, but I couldn't help myself. This is how I'm built: crazy ideas with forceful and relentless follow-through. Once I was full of self-destruction; now I temper myself with days like this.

A raindrop fell from my hair onto my cheek and slid down to my chin. That was enough.

Hello New Year

The new year came in and I barely noticed. We were laughing, drinking, dancing... the room was spinning so fast. The music was loud and I felt each note in my bones. Surrounded by friends, cameras flashing, catching us in wild poses and making strange faces, smiling with ear to ear grins, we could not stop laughing. Someone dropped a wine glass. We kept dancing. My focus was slow and uncertain. I heard my name and answered with a glass raised in the air. Everything was out of control and I was at ease.

At the countdown, I was in my Thomas's arms, smiling up into his sweet face. Nothing else mattered. I kissed my husband and hugged my friends. More loud music. Another round of drinks. Camera flashes. Laughter. A deliciously spinning room. I know how to navigate my way through this sort of madness.

Flashes of images and disjointed phrases comprise the remainder of my memory for the night. The sun came up before I went down for the count.

In the haze of the next morning, I only had one resolution. Find my camera.