Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Day 12
Day 12, May 23, 2000
I look out the window and wonder, “How did I end up in Northern Nevada?” Aside from the obvious answer, (by car), it is a question that probably doesn’t interest anyone but me.
So how did a forty-year-old Texas native end up in Northern Nevada? Well, via California, of course. And that’s overlooking the fact that I’m not yet forty. Not for another twelve days, anyway. But I digress…
In December of 1995, I uprooted myself and my 15-year-old son, and moved from our lifelong home of Austin, Texas, to California’s Bay Area. I was seventeen years from retirement from my government job, and already at the top of my career path. The thought of seventeen more years of the same-old-shit was horrifying—far more awful than a drastic change in scenery and lifestyle. And so I left. My husband of eleven years and our then-seven-year-old son stayed behind. Despite the heartbreak of leaving behind one son, his father and I divorced amicably and my next life began.
The Bay Area introduced in me a sense of culture shock like nothing I could’ve imagined. No one person in particular seemed friendly or happy. On the road, we were isolated studies in rage in our respective cars, barely moving in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. The morning traffic reports were laughable. Unless you had a helicopter, your daily commute could only take one or two paths; the traffic reports were there to tell you they were both impassable. And so we sat. Mad at each other, and mad at ourselves.
Arriving at work, the real stress began. My relatively staid and stuffy government job had done nothing to prepare me for the high-tech businessplace of California’s Silicon Valley. Our weekly staff meetings would start off with a report of who’d been fired since the last staff meeting. It didn’t pay to become attached to anyone; they might be gone by Friday.
Still, I worked hard and did very well there. Thriving on stress and impossible deadlines was a plus. Throughout the changes in management, the reductions-in-force, and the casual firing of anyone who didn’t quite cut it, I received bonuses, promotions, and the occasional public recognition for a job well done. At the end of the workday, exhausted and beaten, I’d re-join the traffic for the endless crawl home.
After four years of relative success in California, in the fall of 1999 my husband Jim and I decided to sell the house and move to Northern Nevada. Our vacations in the Reno area had been wonderful ones; the climate and the people were both nice, and housing was abundant and affordable. We arrived in Reno debt-free and income-free.
I had been dealing with a technical recruiter in the area, and had a couple of good prospects. The prospects didn’t pan out and neither did the recruiter. A pleasant enough lady, but not—it would seem—overly motivated. She never did find me a job, and I’ve since lost touch with her. No loss.
By mid-January, 2000, our new home in Sparks was completed. We closed the deal and moved in. February was a blur of visitors and unpacking. By March 1 I had a job in the computer operations area of a small casino. The money isn’t good, but it’s better than nothing. And thus my 39 years have been summarized and sanitized, bypassing the details of my dysfunctional family, my long-lost half-siblings, and my three marriages.
Today finds me those twelve days from my 40th birthday, home sick with a very unpleasant sinus infection. One thing I know to be true: no matter how much you wish otherwise, sinus infections are rarely fatal. And that’s a good thing. To know something, I mean. It wouldn’t do to have lived this long and learned nothing at all.
The opportunity to sit here, Kleenex box at the ready, and reflect on what I’ve lived and learned, is too good to miss.
I’ve learned to watch birds. To simply sit and enjoy the luxury of leisure time with a pair of binoculars and observe the feathered set. For so many years, birds were ill-defined airborne lumps, flying overhead and exhibiting a malicious glee when they scored a direct hit on my windshield. Now I appreciate them. I appreciate their grace, their diversity, their beauty, and yes, their malicious glee when continuing to score direct hits on my windshield.
I wonder how they survive, spending every waking moment avoiding death by predators and, at the same time, trying to ingest enough food to fuel their fierce metabolisms. Their lives are distilled to the very essence of survival, and yet they seem to enjoy themselves. They soar on currents for the apparent thrill of it; they bathe and splash in the marshes behind our house. They sit on the fence and taunt my dogs.
For me, though, their greatest gift has been the gift of looking upward. You can’t spot a soaring hawk if you’re shuffling along with your head down. Describing to a friend the three red-tailed hawks I’d seen one day, he commented, “The Indians believe if you see a hawk it has a message for you.” “Yes,” I replied, “I believe that message is ‘look up!’” And so I do.
1965
It was dark in the dirty-clothes hamper. The laundry in it smelled funny and the space was small but gave no comfort. I could hear the banging and yelling elsewhere in the house, and it seemed so far away. The terror that shared the house with me had not yet found my hiding place. I wondered whether he’d find it this time. Wondered if my shallow shaking breaths would betray me. Eventually the noises stopped, and I tried to sleep with my knees drawn up close and my head on a makeshift pillow of questionable cleanliness. The hamper remained my room for the night.
I must’ve slept, for I awakened to a new set of noises. This was different, and I could hear my mother’s voice calling for me to come out from wherever I’d hidden myself. The panic in her voice was unmistakable. Before I could reveal myself, however, she found me. Even the imminent threat of a “whippin’” wasn’t enough to keep me from looking, terrified, over her shoulder to see if he knew where I’d been. The first miracle I can remember is that he didn’t see—didn’t know where I’d hidden, and thus my special place was secured for the time being. I would use it many more times.
There was something I wanted more than anything in the world: a baton. The kind of baton that pretty girls in short skirts and bloomers twirled while a marching band kept time behind them. Eventually, I was given a baton. It was inexpensive, simple, and had white rubber caps on either end. I learned to twirl it—badly. More often than not, I’d end up with bruises on the insides of my elbows and forearms; a testimony to my five-year-old’s lack of coordination.
One night, against instructions to “put it away”, I’d left my baton on the couch. It was hot and humid and the windows were open in an attempt to cool off our second-floor garage apartment. He came home, stripped to his jockey-shorts, and lay down on the couch. It wasn’t long before his vodka-soaked snores filled the small living room. But now a dilemma. My baton is where it isn’t supposed to be, and I want it back. I climb onto the couch, straddle his knees and whine for him to please, please move.
When he finally does move, it is with deceptive quickness. His left hand grabs my arm and I am held aloft, feet swinging; his right hand snatches the baton from underneath him and it flashes silver above my head… beside my head, and up and down my arms and legs. Though quick, his aim is poor and I get off with only a few new bruises. The baton and I are dropped abruptly on the floor, and he resumes snoring. He will never remember this; I will never forget it.
Another night, a different house. My mother, working two jobs at the time, has collected me from the babysitter’s and it is already full dark outside. As we approach our front door, I notice that it is open, and the screen is ajar. I glance at my mother; she has noticed it, too. Instinctively, we slow our steps, and yet we arrive at the front door all-too-soon.
The television is on, and it is far too loud. My ears hurt. He lies, facedown, on the hardwood floor. Is he dead? I hope so.
But no, as my ears adjust to the television’s mindless roar, I can hear that he is snoring. Beside him is a huge puddle of vomit. Unwillingly, I inventory his dinner, then run, retching, from the room. My own room is the converted attic; the stairs are dark and I’m afraid to climb them alone. I seek refuge in our only bathroom, the one off my parents’ bedroom. It is not far enough away to prevent me from hearing the screaming and shouting which has commenced in the living room. Someone has turned off the television; without it providing background noise, their argument echoes clearly throughout the downstairs, and I know that the neighbors can hear, too.
I skulk out of the bathroom, and around their bedroom doorway, inspired, by now, to flee up the dark stairs to my attic bedroom. It is no good. They stand nose-to-nose in the center of the living room, shouting obscenities at each other. My presence becomes a catalyst and he pushes her—hard—against the wall. The distance is several feet, and my mother seems almost to fly… she hits the wall—WHAM!—her glasses askew … there is blood on her face, but I do not stay. She is screaming for me to run, and the dark stairs become the least frightening thing of all. I escape up the stairs and lay sobbing on my bed… please, God, if you’re there, don’t let him come up the stairs… pleasepleaseplease…
The next morning, the living room has been cleaned up and no one speaks of the previous evening’s activities. It was, after all, just another night at home.
Visiting my grandparents… mom takes me in and we sit down. There is iced-tea, water, and milk for me, served in my favorite glass. I try hard to watch Lawrence Welk as my mother pleads with my grandparents for assistance. Our money is gone; he’s taken it and spent it. We are out of food. My grandparents, rock-solid on this one issue, sit rigidly and explain that as long as she stays with him, they can offer no help. Mom is crying, now, and asking if they have no compassion for their granddaughter; this isn’t her fault, after all. They look at me and their gazes are hard. Sorry, Betty. If you want anything from us, you’re going to have to leave him first.
We leave their home, and I don’t understand all that’s happened. My mother’s jaw is set in a rigid line, and her face is streaked with tears. I don’t ask her about it. I don’t want to know.
2000
The scenery here is breathtaking. Each morning, I awaken to a pastel-perfect desert sunrise and the unceasing calls of redwing blackbirds. I reach first for my binoculars, though my bladder urges me elsewhere, and inventory the waterfowl in the marsh out back. It is breeding season, and the marsh is teeming with squabbling, courting birds. Apparently no one has explained to them that they are seabirds and there is, of course, no sea here. Their beauty is soothing and exhilarating; their unlikely presence in this desert marsh a daily miracle of which I never grow tired.
June will be a busy month, this year. The first week, my dearest friends will be flying in from Texas to celebrate my birthday with me. The second week, my younger son arrives for his six-week summer stay. The third week, my mother and step-son arrive for a visit. Our beautiful home will be filled with laughter and the sheer joy of living. We’ll eat too much, drink too much, and revel in the easy closeness that is borne of years and years of friendship. I’m very much looking forward to it.
Each day is new, and yet somehow the same. My morning commute consists primarily of a two-lane road through beautiful countryside, with the snow-capped Sierras serving as the backdrop. I might see anything on the drive into town. A coyote, perhaps, or a jackrabbit. One morning I saw a small cottontail rabbit vying with a groundsquirrel for some tidbit of food; a Disney scene come to life.
I look out the window and wonder, “How did I end up in Northern Nevada?” Aside from the obvious answer, (by car), it is a question that probably doesn’t interest anyone but me.
So how did a forty-year-old Texas native end up in Northern Nevada? Well, via California, of course. And that’s overlooking the fact that I’m not yet forty. Not for another twelve days, anyway. But I digress…
In December of 1995, I uprooted myself and my 15-year-old son, and moved from our lifelong home of Austin, Texas, to California’s Bay Area. I was seventeen years from retirement from my government job, and already at the top of my career path. The thought of seventeen more years of the same-old-shit was horrifying—far more awful than a drastic change in scenery and lifestyle. And so I left. My husband of eleven years and our then-seven-year-old son stayed behind. Despite the heartbreak of leaving behind one son, his father and I divorced amicably and my next life began.
The Bay Area introduced in me a sense of culture shock like nothing I could’ve imagined. No one person in particular seemed friendly or happy. On the road, we were isolated studies in rage in our respective cars, barely moving in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. The morning traffic reports were laughable. Unless you had a helicopter, your daily commute could only take one or two paths; the traffic reports were there to tell you they were both impassable. And so we sat. Mad at each other, and mad at ourselves.
Arriving at work, the real stress began. My relatively staid and stuffy government job had done nothing to prepare me for the high-tech businessplace of California’s Silicon Valley. Our weekly staff meetings would start off with a report of who’d been fired since the last staff meeting. It didn’t pay to become attached to anyone; they might be gone by Friday.
Still, I worked hard and did very well there. Thriving on stress and impossible deadlines was a plus. Throughout the changes in management, the reductions-in-force, and the casual firing of anyone who didn’t quite cut it, I received bonuses, promotions, and the occasional public recognition for a job well done. At the end of the workday, exhausted and beaten, I’d re-join the traffic for the endless crawl home.
After four years of relative success in California, in the fall of 1999 my husband Jim and I decided to sell the house and move to Northern Nevada. Our vacations in the Reno area had been wonderful ones; the climate and the people were both nice, and housing was abundant and affordable. We arrived in Reno debt-free and income-free.
I had been dealing with a technical recruiter in the area, and had a couple of good prospects. The prospects didn’t pan out and neither did the recruiter. A pleasant enough lady, but not—it would seem—overly motivated. She never did find me a job, and I’ve since lost touch with her. No loss.
By mid-January, 2000, our new home in Sparks was completed. We closed the deal and moved in. February was a blur of visitors and unpacking. By March 1 I had a job in the computer operations area of a small casino. The money isn’t good, but it’s better than nothing. And thus my 39 years have been summarized and sanitized, bypassing the details of my dysfunctional family, my long-lost half-siblings, and my three marriages.
Today finds me those twelve days from my 40th birthday, home sick with a very unpleasant sinus infection. One thing I know to be true: no matter how much you wish otherwise, sinus infections are rarely fatal. And that’s a good thing. To know something, I mean. It wouldn’t do to have lived this long and learned nothing at all.
The opportunity to sit here, Kleenex box at the ready, and reflect on what I’ve lived and learned, is too good to miss.
I’ve learned to watch birds. To simply sit and enjoy the luxury of leisure time with a pair of binoculars and observe the feathered set. For so many years, birds were ill-defined airborne lumps, flying overhead and exhibiting a malicious glee when they scored a direct hit on my windshield. Now I appreciate them. I appreciate their grace, their diversity, their beauty, and yes, their malicious glee when continuing to score direct hits on my windshield.
I wonder how they survive, spending every waking moment avoiding death by predators and, at the same time, trying to ingest enough food to fuel their fierce metabolisms. Their lives are distilled to the very essence of survival, and yet they seem to enjoy themselves. They soar on currents for the apparent thrill of it; they bathe and splash in the marshes behind our house. They sit on the fence and taunt my dogs.
For me, though, their greatest gift has been the gift of looking upward. You can’t spot a soaring hawk if you’re shuffling along with your head down. Describing to a friend the three red-tailed hawks I’d seen one day, he commented, “The Indians believe if you see a hawk it has a message for you.” “Yes,” I replied, “I believe that message is ‘look up!’” And so I do.
1965
It was dark in the dirty-clothes hamper. The laundry in it smelled funny and the space was small but gave no comfort. I could hear the banging and yelling elsewhere in the house, and it seemed so far away. The terror that shared the house with me had not yet found my hiding place. I wondered whether he’d find it this time. Wondered if my shallow shaking breaths would betray me. Eventually the noises stopped, and I tried to sleep with my knees drawn up close and my head on a makeshift pillow of questionable cleanliness. The hamper remained my room for the night.
I must’ve slept, for I awakened to a new set of noises. This was different, and I could hear my mother’s voice calling for me to come out from wherever I’d hidden myself. The panic in her voice was unmistakable. Before I could reveal myself, however, she found me. Even the imminent threat of a “whippin’” wasn’t enough to keep me from looking, terrified, over her shoulder to see if he knew where I’d been. The first miracle I can remember is that he didn’t see—didn’t know where I’d hidden, and thus my special place was secured for the time being. I would use it many more times.
There was something I wanted more than anything in the world: a baton. The kind of baton that pretty girls in short skirts and bloomers twirled while a marching band kept time behind them. Eventually, I was given a baton. It was inexpensive, simple, and had white rubber caps on either end. I learned to twirl it—badly. More often than not, I’d end up with bruises on the insides of my elbows and forearms; a testimony to my five-year-old’s lack of coordination.
One night, against instructions to “put it away”, I’d left my baton on the couch. It was hot and humid and the windows were open in an attempt to cool off our second-floor garage apartment. He came home, stripped to his jockey-shorts, and lay down on the couch. It wasn’t long before his vodka-soaked snores filled the small living room. But now a dilemma. My baton is where it isn’t supposed to be, and I want it back. I climb onto the couch, straddle his knees and whine for him to please, please move.
When he finally does move, it is with deceptive quickness. His left hand grabs my arm and I am held aloft, feet swinging; his right hand snatches the baton from underneath him and it flashes silver above my head… beside my head, and up and down my arms and legs. Though quick, his aim is poor and I get off with only a few new bruises. The baton and I are dropped abruptly on the floor, and he resumes snoring. He will never remember this; I will never forget it.
Another night, a different house. My mother, working two jobs at the time, has collected me from the babysitter’s and it is already full dark outside. As we approach our front door, I notice that it is open, and the screen is ajar. I glance at my mother; she has noticed it, too. Instinctively, we slow our steps, and yet we arrive at the front door all-too-soon.
The television is on, and it is far too loud. My ears hurt. He lies, facedown, on the hardwood floor. Is he dead? I hope so.
But no, as my ears adjust to the television’s mindless roar, I can hear that he is snoring. Beside him is a huge puddle of vomit. Unwillingly, I inventory his dinner, then run, retching, from the room. My own room is the converted attic; the stairs are dark and I’m afraid to climb them alone. I seek refuge in our only bathroom, the one off my parents’ bedroom. It is not far enough away to prevent me from hearing the screaming and shouting which has commenced in the living room. Someone has turned off the television; without it providing background noise, their argument echoes clearly throughout the downstairs, and I know that the neighbors can hear, too.
I skulk out of the bathroom, and around their bedroom doorway, inspired, by now, to flee up the dark stairs to my attic bedroom. It is no good. They stand nose-to-nose in the center of the living room, shouting obscenities at each other. My presence becomes a catalyst and he pushes her—hard—against the wall. The distance is several feet, and my mother seems almost to fly… she hits the wall—WHAM!—her glasses askew … there is blood on her face, but I do not stay. She is screaming for me to run, and the dark stairs become the least frightening thing of all. I escape up the stairs and lay sobbing on my bed… please, God, if you’re there, don’t let him come up the stairs… pleasepleaseplease…
The next morning, the living room has been cleaned up and no one speaks of the previous evening’s activities. It was, after all, just another night at home.
Visiting my grandparents… mom takes me in and we sit down. There is iced-tea, water, and milk for me, served in my favorite glass. I try hard to watch Lawrence Welk as my mother pleads with my grandparents for assistance. Our money is gone; he’s taken it and spent it. We are out of food. My grandparents, rock-solid on this one issue, sit rigidly and explain that as long as she stays with him, they can offer no help. Mom is crying, now, and asking if they have no compassion for their granddaughter; this isn’t her fault, after all. They look at me and their gazes are hard. Sorry, Betty. If you want anything from us, you’re going to have to leave him first.
We leave their home, and I don’t understand all that’s happened. My mother’s jaw is set in a rigid line, and her face is streaked with tears. I don’t ask her about it. I don’t want to know.
2000
The scenery here is breathtaking. Each morning, I awaken to a pastel-perfect desert sunrise and the unceasing calls of redwing blackbirds. I reach first for my binoculars, though my bladder urges me elsewhere, and inventory the waterfowl in the marsh out back. It is breeding season, and the marsh is teeming with squabbling, courting birds. Apparently no one has explained to them that they are seabirds and there is, of course, no sea here. Their beauty is soothing and exhilarating; their unlikely presence in this desert marsh a daily miracle of which I never grow tired.
June will be a busy month, this year. The first week, my dearest friends will be flying in from Texas to celebrate my birthday with me. The second week, my younger son arrives for his six-week summer stay. The third week, my mother and step-son arrive for a visit. Our beautiful home will be filled with laughter and the sheer joy of living. We’ll eat too much, drink too much, and revel in the easy closeness that is borne of years and years of friendship. I’m very much looking forward to it.
Each day is new, and yet somehow the same. My morning commute consists primarily of a two-lane road through beautiful countryside, with the snow-capped Sierras serving as the backdrop. I might see anything on the drive into town. A coyote, perhaps, or a jackrabbit. One morning I saw a small cottontail rabbit vying with a groundsquirrel for some tidbit of food; a Disney scene come to life.
# posted by Aunty Social @ 8:26 PM 
