Dec
19
2007
I don’t think parting is so bloody sweet. As my airport shuttle pulled away on this cold, bright day, I waved at my small, door-framed mother until she was only a teeny pinepoint, as my father once said. My driver was a compact pistol of a woman about my age, with hair dyed as black as an old bluegrass star’s. By the time we pulled up to the airport, we were talking about IUDs.
For fifteen minutes I stalked Terminal C in search of a toasted bagel with cream cheese. I finally found a vendor, waited in line for ten minutes, placed my order, paid for it, and walked away to my gate. Without my bagel.
By cell phone I checked in with Katie, who reported that she’d made it through the night without falling on her butt. She did, however, topple out of her wheeled office chair, on account of overreaching.
I settled into my aisle bulkhead seat, which I’d secured by getting up at 4:30 a.m. and fighting with the Internet for 45 minutes, and we were about to leave the gate when things like a missing pilot delayed our flight for two-and-a-half hours. Luckily they let us off the plane. I found an electrical outlet and started working on this:
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For the next six hours I sat next to a talkative 81-year-old who was oblivious to my diversionary tactics. I opened up a book. She said, “What are you reading?” I turned off my light and covered my face with my shawl. “Oh, are you taking a nap now?”
[Art by none other than Mark Bulwinkle]
Oct
03
2007
As I try to figure out good ways to plow through these first weeks of life without Lulu in residence, I thought it might be enlightening to ask people about their own experiences:
BS (mid-fifties-ish), California
“At first it was hard but soon I was just happy to have my house to myself again. I’m just glad she’s not still living with me … and hope she doesn’t move back in!”
AR (59), California
“I shouldn’t say this — this is embarrassing — but when I got home from taking A to college, I walked in the door and collapsed on the floor sobbing.”
J at the Y (early-sixties-ish), California
“I didn’t go through that because my daughter went to community college. What was hard for me is when she got married. I lost my playmate.”
VC (93), West Virginia
“It was hard. It was good too. I don’t rightly remember. That was a long time ago.”
Mom (79), Delaware
“Frankly, each of you I missed but I thought, ‘They’re where they should be.’ I didn’t think about it any more. You can’t stop and wallow in it. When K [ed. note: third and youngest child] went to college, you and your brother were all hyped up about that new psychology ‘empty nest’ stuff and you both called us the night she left … you were really worried about us. But by the time the third one was gone, we were glad. I cleared all K’s furniture out right away. It’s not a death. It’s the nature of things. It would be different if you’d been going off to prison…”
October 8 P.S. I just got a voice message from Mom in which she said, among other things: “Remember you asked about what it was like for me when you went away to college? What I said was true: I was glad that you’d gone off. But now I miss you. I want you to be here.”
Me (just a child, really), California
“I’m so glad you asked. It’s like the homesickness I was prone to as a kid: waves of dark that scare you because you can’t see out. It reminds me of West Virginia hollows in the summer: you wake up barely able to see through mist so close you’re breathing it. As the morning warms the fog thins. In early evening it comes back at you, building like dread, rising from the grass until you’re enveloped again. And then it’s night.”
Too melodramatic, you say? Welcome to my clichéd interior landscape!
I wonder if childhood homesickness predicts adult difficulty with separation.
I’m realizing that it’s more than just missing Lulu. It’s my stupid thoughts that aren’t worth the brain-room they’re printed on:
- “Well, now you’ve gone and done it. You were supposed to grow up and get married and have children and watch them grow and have a nice little getaway in the mountains and, right about now, start enjoying your Happy Golden Years with your own beloved Mr. Right with whom you’ve blissfully shared your whole life. But no… it’s too late for all that.”
- “You should’ve played more with Lulu. You should have paid more attention to her. You should have sung her more songs, like that woman over there is doing with her son.” Then my thoughts turn vengeful: “Well, savor every moment, Mrs. Perfect. Because before you know it he’ll be gone…”
- “You were a terrible parent. Like those times you were driving and lost your temper. You must’ve traumatized her. Remember the day you were heading home on that winding country road outside Nevada City and some jerk practically drove you off the road? ‘You’re such a dick,’ you yelled. ‘Great driving, dick-butt! Mister Dick Butt!’ Lulu, all of three, asked, ‘Mama, who is Dick Butt?’”
Sep
29
2007
I guess one of the things that makes it difficult when a person leaves your daily life—a breakup, a death, even a child’s leaving home—is having to go through things a first time without them.
This morning I had to go through my first spider without Lulu. If she’d been here she’d have appeared by my side with a camera in her hands and glee in her sadistic eyes. She seems to think it funny when I go face-first into a web. She’s happier still when I learn that the web is occupied.
But she wasn’t here this morning. I had only two choices, then: to put myself into physical and psychic danger by getting really, really close to the horrific creature just so I could take a picture for her, or to get to safety. I did what any sensible person would do.
As you can see when you look at the enlarged version of the picture, the spider—let’s call her Esther—could do with some electrolysis. She’s not unlike most other spiders of my acquaintance in that regard. But her coloring is a bit unusual: garish and unnatural, like the hair of an octogenarian who’s not quite ready to stop being a redhead. From behind, she looks demure and ladylike, four legs tucked under her as though at a tea party. It’s the front of Esther I don’t like. There’s a certain thrusting aggression in her comportment, no less fearsome when her many eyes, mandibles and fangs are hidden.
Let me show you one more picture, with an iPod Nano for scale:
Lulu: You want I should mail Esther to you?
