Just short of a cloudburst

It's thundering, as I write this. The weather is at just my favorite, when a cold front moves through and a storm brews in the near distance. The air is charged with energy, and it energizes me. I feel it tingling along my skin, prickling along my scalp, and my creativity surges. Words and images ricochet in my mind and I have to scramble to capture them. I feel content, yet restless, like a tiger in a cage. I'm grateful I'm alone so I can release some of the energy in my writing. 

 I just took this photo. I liked the look of the white clouds against the bluing clouds behind them, and wanted to share it with you. The crows were cawing in a mad caw-caphony as the thunder rumbled through, and they are now suddenly silent. I think the storm will pass us over, though it's possible another will mosey along and drench us in a little while. My aching limbs cry of rain and drama, and through the discomfort I welcome it. I love this weather.

Heaven Help Us All

Blogital Daughter vanishes again... Isn't it just the way it always goes? Hubby finally returns to work, I get back on my writing track for a week, only to be interrupted again.

What's my excuse, this time?

Well, my mother-in-law is expected to arrive in Stuttgart, Saturday afternoon, for an indeterminate length of time. Maybe a week. Probably just until she causes enough trouble to instigate another blow-out between her and my husband.

She's coming from Greece, where she lives, to say goodbye. While I have the utmost sympathy for her grief that her oldest son and his family are moving to America--I really do, I understand the separation issue all too well--I have no doubt she is going to be selfish about it and manipulate the issue to be entirely about her. It's just her way. After talking to his mother yesterday, my husband called me from work and said, "My mom's really sad. And now I am, too."

I don't think she'll persuade him to stay here, but the danger is there. It's right and natural that he should feel anxiety and grief about leaving. But we can't stay because of her, can we? The last time she stayed with us, they had an explosive argument. This is nothing unusual. It happens every time. At the end of that argument, my husband took me aside and said, "I really hope this America thing works out. We have to get out of here."

And besides, there are two other brothers left in Germany, and the youngest of them has a set of twins, not yet a year old. The middle brother is newly engaged, though my M-i-L doesn't know it yet.

In some ways, I'm more relaxed about this visit of hers because it's the last here in Germany, and her next visit will be on MY turf. But I'm a little nervous, as well, because while her inevitable theatrics will probably solidfy my husband's decision to go through with the move, she might play her cards just right (unlikely, but still a possibility) to influence him just enough.

So, that's what we're in for beginning Saturday afternoon. After today, I probably won't be around much until she leaves again. Check the sky periodically for SOS smoke signals, then send help immediately.

How do you let go of the past?

When I was between ten and thirteen years old, my best friend and I were inseparable. We did everything together. We slept over at each other's houses every weekend, sometimes several days in a row, if our mother's would let us, during summer vacation. We tried to wear the same, or similar outfits. "I'm wearing the red shorts with the white stripe. Are you going to wear yours, too?" "Yeah." "Good."

We both loved unicorns and the color purple. We wore purple eye shadow, purple nail polish, purple lipstick. This was back in 1980-1983, when those colors were okay to wear on our faces. We both bought knockoff Walkmans from Mr. D's dollar store, for $5, when Walkmans first entered the scene.

I remember putting those headphones on for the first time ever and absolutely reeling with the sensation of music flowing right to the center of my head, to swirl and dance there. I was standing in Katie's yard in my new bathing suit, the sides cinched up high past my thigh to my hip bones, as was the fashion. Katie's new bathing suit was quietly "borrowed" from her older sister, and quite a bit more risque than mine. We felt adult and poweful, filled with the potential of our budding sexuality, even though we both had to still pull down our bras in the front as they crept upward, not held in place by much of anything.

Before I met Katie, there was another girl I was acquainted with. Marci and I weren't really friends. We bumped into each other occasionally, living in different neighborhoods, and hooked up now and again to play together. I had problems with Marci. She was bossy and a little mean. As an only child until I was ten-and-a-half, I didn't learn how to assert and defend myself until well after I had married at age 28, so dealing with Marci was often painful and I did not pursue her friendship very often.

When Katie and I were in seventh grade together, I ran into Marci at our middle school. It had been some years since I'd seen her last, so being the nice girl that I was, I thought things could be different now. Hanging out with Marci didn't seem to be as difficult as I had remembered it to be. In fact, I was rather enjoying her company. I introduced her to Katie, and the three of us became fast friends.

It didn't take long before Marci began doing things alone with me, or with Katie, rather than as a threesome. Soon, the close friendship I had with Katie began to deteriorate. Marci had started telling me Katie was saying bad things about me, which I refused to believe. I wondered why Katie wasn't calling me anymore, and when Katie finally returned one of my phone calls, I surprised to hear that she was angry at me. She said Marci had told her I'd said something terrible about Katie. And it wasn't true. I repeated the things Marci had told me Katie had said about me. They weren't true, either. By the end of the call, we both decided we weren't going to hang out with Marci anymore, much less believe anything she said about the other, that we would tell each other anything she might have said.

I hung up thinking our friendship was saved, and very much disturbed about Marci. She was still mean and bossy, and now she seemed to be deliberately driving a wedge between me and my best friend.

Shortly after that phone call came my thirteenth birthday. It was the summer of 1983, and we were entering eighth grade, our final year of middle school before starting high school. I don't remember why, but for some reason I was celebrating my birthday alone with my parents, without Katie. I think Katie had told me she had other plans. My mom had taken me to the hair dresser to get one of those curly perms that were so popular in the days of HBOs erotic aerobicize ladies. My hair wasn't quite long enough to allow the perm to hang correctly, so I looked more like Li'l Orphan Annie than I did one of those sexy aerobics women.

As I floated around my house in the cloud of ammonia that emanated from my head, waiting for something to happen, there came a knock at the front door. When I opened it, I was surprised to see Katie and Marci standing there together. They were very rude to me, cold, teasing me about my hair.

That Katie and Marci were together was not according to plan. It worried me, and judging from their behavior, I could only assume Marci had said something really devastating to Katie to turn her against me. When they turned to leave, I closed the door behind them and cried, confused and deeply hurt by their nastiness. My mother comforted me, telling me she was sorry about Katie, but she had never like Marci and maybe now I would understand I was better off without her. It was a lesson hard-learned.

When school started a few weeks later, I deeply mourned the loss of Katie's friendship. I tried many times to find out what had turned her against me, but she wouldn't talk to me at all. In fact, it confuses and bewilders me to this day. I'd made other friends and developed new interests, and it wasn't long before Katie was replaced by a new best friend. But even through high school, even after the death of Katie's father and the note my family and I had sent her in sympathy, Katie refused to give me the time of day.

Though I wasn't a bit surprised, it was small consolation to see that Katie's and Marci's friendship did not survive long into high school. By that time, I had a large circle of friends, was active in choir, piano, theatre and enjoyed discovering the world of boyfriends and staying out late and sneaking into midnight showings of Rocky Horror.

I never heard from Katie again, but I still think about her. About fifteen years ago, a mutual acquaintance told me that she was getting her teacher's certificate, possibly in special ed. I begged our friend to please pass on my good will to Katie, half hoping I would hear something in return. I never did.

I wonder what Katie is up to now. Her friendship was so profound to me that even at nearly 36 years old, I have trouble entirely letting go of her memory. For some reason, she's been on my mind a lot the last few weeks, and I've even considered writing a note to her mother to say hello and to please pass on my greeting.

Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, it occured to me that the time is drawing near that I might finally be able to forgive Marci, who was obviously a troubled young lady. The severing of my friendship with Katie has left a hole in my heart for nearly twenty-five years, and think it's mostly because the reason behind it has never been resolved.

Should I contact Katie's mother? Would I be beating a dead horse? Is there a deeper reason why Katie has been on my mind so much for the first time in many years? Is it time to reconcile only long enough to communicate what happened and put old ghosts to rest? Is she as troubled as I sometimes am over what happened?

What would you do?

It's getting closer... when you know it's time to get out

My husband has been home since last week, so I haven't been able to write. Now that he's out swimming with our son, I'm taking advantage of the alone time to sit down and write a quick post before starting the laundry.

So, we're getting closer to V-day. Well, it'll be V-day for me, and I suppose it might be a little selfish of me to view it that way. But nevertheless, things are progressing pretty quickly now. Last Sunday, I suggested my husband take advantage of his week home from work to go through our stuff with me. He refused to talk about it, and the subject was dropped. But as the week moved on and our position became more secure, by Wednesday my Dear Hubby (DH) began going through his mother's stuff that's been stored in two of our three lower-level rooms for the last six months. He sorted through it, and through some of our own displaced possessions, as well, and we decided what to try to sell together. Which of our own things to sell. Not to sell his mother's. His mother's things will be transferred to his brother's place in Heidelberg, to the delight of the brother and his current female partner.

The subject of DH's mother's stuff is a touchy one in general, since all are in agreement that she should have taken care to rid herself of it or should have shipped it to Greece long ago, before she officially moved out of her Stuttgart apartment and left Germany for good. Instead, she just packed it all into boxes and made two of her sons cart it, carload by carload, to occupy half of the lower level of our house. It's an endless assortment of household things that should have been thrown away, along with her electronics, and exercise bike and a couple of pieces of furniture. But this kind of presumption and imposition is typical of her narcissistic and careless behavior, and not at all surprising in spite of the bad feelings it incurs.

The next two days were spent sorting through our son's toys, most of which will be left behind. Our son was very good about letting go of his belongings. Part of it was he's very easy going. Part of it was that most of those things are simply too young for him now, a big-big six-year-old about to start big-boy school in the fall. But just as I suspected would happen, my nurturing child was very reluctant to let go of his stuffed animals, even the ones he hasn't looked at in 18 months. So, the stuffed-animal pile is bigger than is convenient. He also, not surprisingly, was reluctant to let go of a good half of his books. Just like Mommy. I'm tempted to quietly slip some of those animals and books into the trash pile. He'll never miss them.

Next come the boxes of things I've already sorted through, and with DH's help to bolster my courage (he's not the type to hold on to things), we should be able to reduce those three boxes still further.

So the gist of all this is, DH is finally committed to leaving. We've been emptying our house out little by litte. He's even suggested that my son and I leave for Chicago in the first half of July. DH will follow about the middle of August, after he's settled our affairs here, to be there in time for our son's first day of school.

It's possible that I'll be back home in Chicago in less than three weeks. Hard to imagine, after all that's passed.

Thinning Out

We're getting ready to make the big move to America, and while my husband still refuses to verbally commit to moving (he still says, MAYBE we'll leave), he's cancelled our apartment damage insurance, for example, and has given the thumbs up to my sorting through all our stuff and putting it into piles of To Keep or To Toss. We have around twelve unopened boxes from our last move, and I've gone through all of them and reduced the To Keep pile to three boxes--not including my son's things. The To Keep pile will be further reduced, I'm sure, especially once I enlist my husband's aid. And everything else that's in the house will stay behind.

Yesterday, as I was going through one box and called my husband at work to ask if he wanted to keep a certain computer game, he made the most decisive verbal commitment to the move I've ever heard from him. He said, "Before we go, we can go through those things together." Naturally, I skipped lightly over those words, "before we go," as if it were the hundredth time he'd said it. But my heart soared when I heard them for the first time, yesterday.

It's been very difficult thinning out my life (though I wish thinning out my SELF would be so easy). I've always been a keeper of things. Papers, books, pens, little mementoes. Part of it is that common conviction that SOME DAY I'll need this again. Part of it is an unwillingness to let go of something of the past. And still another part is a childish irrationality that an inanimate object will feel lost and rejected when I throw it in the trash. This deep and well-hidden sense of animism is probably more indicative of myself than of an innate sense of common soulfulness among all and everything. But it's still there, left over from childhood, that little girl who was secretly certain that the rock held in her hand possessed a form of soul...

So how do you get rid of all these things that, if they possess no soul of their own, at least claim and harbor a portion of your own? It requires careful, steady ruthlessness, that's certain.

But even so, it's difficult.