Where I Live: Should I Just Start Over?

Birthplace to re-birthplace: heading west, 2021

If our relationship in this life was born in a mid-January, it’s poetic justice, I guess, we should find a nice place, in this one, 2021, in the city where I wanted to go before we first met. A cross-country trip. We only need launch it from the darkest month of a global pandemic.

There’s speculation we may never reach herd immunity, but it’s not unreasonable to hope for a shot at normal society- such as it is-by summer. I thought, maybe late spring, as the Maine snows thawed, when the muddy season ended, we’d make our way across the great outdoors and begin some new friendships in earnest. I’d taken the advice of a friend in Eugene, an ER nurse who attempted the single Zoom dance party. Ha! I remember streaming Live to Facebook, when we were all still nearly locked-down, as though we could start an un-self-conscious thing, a party ritual weekly keeping up spirits while we waited to see: should we even go outside? I was a four on a scale of five, caution-wise, your quiz might say, so our move-in couldn’t be marked with party invitations. And who knows just how that’d have gone, but if any number of our Rome friends came- and it seemed a cinch, another half dozen people only needed be discovered before they, too, were invited to drop by, and get-togethers? We took the two bedroom apartment, anticipating the most get-togethers in our life, in our proudly humble digs.
So, we got together to play one game of Cards Against Humanity- the one genuine party- with sisters Dixie, Charlie and niece Ciara, nee Victor Clark, last we spoke. She wants to embrace being far-out in any way that might offer freedom.

The Cards? Her idea, and like the last time she’d played with our other mutual friends, the Parsleys, this time, many great laughs. I think I could still remember some of our card phrases, especially if I dipped into the journal, but we had pizza, and we’d fortunately all been out of the flow, they from school (one cafeteria worker, one student, one concerned Mom), and we, limited to one trip to Publix that felt like the surreal acrobatics of The Matrix combined with the stress of seeing your fellow humanity as potential biohazards of possibly devastating if not fatal scale, and having given away a kitten to a friend in a new relationship with a man who wanted a black cat for Halloween run and ritual, we otherwise worked at home. Trips anywhere felt a bit like a scuba expedition during a dicey tide. Humanity’s cards might be against us, held secret in every hand.

There were only ever nine visits to that apartment, and then, add one worker in the front door frame, and the pest control lady a couple of times, and a fellow doing that before her. Our bubble, sustained by stoicism, floated by the others online, and a hand full of friends actually called and talked, as they occasionally each do, and so much as the whole thing sucked away my resources to do more than survive, there were at least as many genuinely happy days there brightened just by the sight of one another.

Now, it was time to plot the exodus of most all our belongings there, out the front door, repaired promptly to shut properly, just a week after Georgia elected two Democratic Senators and a few thousand people elected to see how far they could take vigilantism in the name of their President, the surprise flash mob to beat them all, the day Congress and the Vice-President traditionally certify state ballots. It had been amazing, soothing ourselves watching numbers, sort of hoping we could bet on them to mean our country was not, in fact, primarily insane, over the weeks watching the teenager from Maryland clip the electoral map to show poll results, never thinking how he listened to “W.A.P.” like the masses. Our BTS tickets were for a show on hold, but we took their music, and a generous playlist of 1960s music, on our excursions to attempt playing tennis. A key person flowed over into other business, so learning Korean has remained on hold not long after it’d begun, but it’s on my Deer Lingo. I opened it a few minutes the other day, thinking I might finally be ready to surprise myself, learning a new language.

But our holidays came and went so quietly, you’d think of it as a spirited reveler, coming to see a friend who’s quarantining or possibly quite ill. So, no lack of Love, no disrespect intended, but the reunion was so quiet, like a gift left on a porch after no one hears you knocking. Despite ideas tossed around, I followed her whisper-soft to sleep as a good song played on my laptop, and midnight of a new year came in like a weary traveler, off the road, collapsing on the couch before any change of clothes.

My birthday was the single holiday, in its stay-at-home format, that felt celebratory, and I owe that all to my openness, bringing the goodness of people I know and the savoring of each well-wish, the sheer pleasure of celebrating your life with the wishes of others. I'd bought and saved myself this 1969 Amazing Spider-Man, issue 71, too.

The silk scarf that came from China that day would wrap around my throat one snowy day to come in Russel, Kansas. I hardly knew then whether to hang it up on the wall or wear it, but its blue herons flew in patterns, as sure an heir to good luck as we less-avian.

I took out the ultra-cool camera Angela Dawn bought for our gift. I made the most beautiful captures of the sunset over Redmond Chase, from our westward living room window and downstairs doorstep. I’m glad I have the colors photographed, because I’d never watch one that beautiful from there again.

We pulled out the tiny bit of weed we’d rationed since November to pep us up to put on four Elton John songs and attempt a suddenly-introduced birthday set. I hoped we could see for once to chat and converse, and that went modestly well. A woman who’d once texted us her naked boob while we lived on the West Coast had a laugh and commentary well-wishes, and she’ll always remind me how much that’d pleased me. There’s a mystique, especially in those earliest home Internet years still, I guess, in living somewhere that’s partly, purely imaginary. We played again. This and the five songs by Lennon, McCartney and Young the week before had surprised me, how we might be presently without polish, but there was something in there that made me really like those songs coming out of us.

After observing John Lennon’s death December 8th, a couple of weeks before McCartney III arrived, I found myself, first inspired by a love of Sir Paul’s tunes that drove my online friend in New York, Carly Hall, to deliver “Live and Let Die” and “Maybe I’m Amazed” in memorable fashion. She generously tried our mostly-unrehearsed (blame ADHD?) arrangement of “Bennie and the Jets” after that- wow! I got to be part of a great performance, answering back on guitar and vocals as we listened to each other. Heck, listen! https://www.facebook.com/100015168963237/videos/1024230571425899/.

I knew to look up John’s work, sure: we covered “Watching The Wheels” just because it’s great and our spiritual sister in distant Cave Spring, Bean, loves that one, sold on the Chris Cornell cover newly out. I found myself wandering through Paul’s RAM again and from there, a journey across mostly his 1970s hit music. I was largely drawn to songs on Wings Over America, the live album, and the Rockshow concert film about it. Not everything, but there were usually my favorite versions of the hits, except maybe “Let ‘em In.” That one’s studio version especially resonated with me across the road-humming miles of nights in the Mid-West. As I realized how many brilliant Lennon songs go back to his first Plastic Ono Band record, I also found the contest-winner video for George Harrison’s very best solo hit song, a Top Ten 1971 single off All Things Must Past, called “What Is Life?” It went with me to Del Taco for her favorite bean and cheese burritos, and with me for curry and Paradise Garden from Jasmine Thai around the curve from us.

I rarely took any of my now-always solo jaunts from Redmond Chase without those songs, though I did put on some Tom T. Hall as I went through the car wash. Finally! After two years!
Now, it’s all dirtier than ever, from the ice and snow, but that doesn’t stick out in Boulder, Colorado.<

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As we stopped playing tennis, and most of the time, instruments or singing, we both got through work, and I took to reading while she enjoyed a couple of lesbian couple vlogs after a stretch of Pregnancy Announcement videos- something to do, post-election. We’d stopped walking the nearby trail, too, as her allergies, and often mine, just seemed to disagree with the fact that fall ending should herald clear breath. I nudged the Oregon apartments, where we’d been on the wait list since summer. Corvallis did respond with two places coming available. We meanwhile pursued the most affordable place in Bangor, Maine, as we’d begun casing that area as a pandemic-light, very-different region with the promise of New England to explore, in September. We began our hoop jumps, and I announced we were, in fact, applying to a new place, on Facebook. I didn’t specify where, when talking to anyone but Mom, Charlie, Dixie and Elisa.
We mail back the application, and our response informs us we’re #61. So, the Sunday I spent calculating direction distances from The Terraces to Stephen King’s House to the clubs we might play downtown, the parks we might enjoy and the nearest tennis courts, even previewing UMaine campus and comparing orders at local McDonald’s in Rome and Bangor, was just another diversion. Hope is that way. You sometimes date a good bit before you find someone to move in with.

It was the morning of January 15th, and I couldn’t simply sleep, like the human indoor cat I now was. She’d visited my apartment by that date when she was friends with my roommates- my college buddy and my sister, both engaged, then not, but, my roommates, aware I worked out my notice with Red Lobster, the weekend before our first kiss. I hadn’t had the Internet back then- I suspected it might make in-person communication seem more awkward one day, that its facility might lead to people not so good at being-in-person with others, and besides, didn’t have the money- but I had begun preparing myself. I still had enough for Greyhound fair, if I didn’t pitch in for whatever apartment bills came due as I left. That seemed enough. We’re not talking about a guy with much, just a Beat sort of dream, who let go of his sense of self somewhat and grew satisfied to be nice without thought of reward or relationship, discover comforts in being a loner.

It was January 15th, 2021, and I was as close to being that guy again as would ever make sense. Now, having a job that would go with me, and some savings, and rent history and credit, I was ready to treat myself and the woman who became my wife so quickly to less elemental exposure. I always thought I’d find the next job, and I wondered if I didn’t belong working outdoors, but I can now tell you, Georgia didn’t prepare me for what landscaping might be like in February in Boulder. I wanted to toughen up and be independent, be less domesticated and live for insights, free of status. I don’t quite know how I thought it’d work out, but you sometimes know a place sounds right, decide you’re up to the challenge of exploring, and the drama of pursuing survival in that way lifts your steps into a realm where you notice the stories. The intention had been to see if western Oregon or coastal Maine (near Canada, cool!) might provide a place to save for a year. Why not stay around and know the place, at least that long? But further research over the years had always pointed again to Boulder as The Promised Land. Yes, California had seemed enough like a foreign country that didn’t require a travel visa, to call us before. Now, for so many reasons I found attractive, and in so many details I still can only imagine, the city ringing the foot of the Flatiron Mountains, if we could only meet the requirements, had more progress and romance than anywhere we’d never lived. So, instead of studying the past- even California had involved a search around Ventura Beach, as well as Encinitas-I thought I’d at least see what was open in Boulder.

I found a pair of very competitive listings. I called one, to be told that was surely wrong, but what range was I looking for? Park Mesa was a little different, and I wondered if the ad wasn’t a shady bait, and I damn sure didn’t expect to go from looking and emailing to calling by lunch time. I didn’t go to bed before noon as I’d ‘planned.’ I discovered a cashier’s check would be enough to take the listing off the market, most of which would be refunded me if our application fell through. I took the bait! (Pictured: Bernie Sanders, in Inaugural Mittens, in the North Parking Lot of 640 S. Lashley Lane, Boulder, CO) I was at Heritage Bank for the first time in ten months, setting it up, and following the instructions to the letter down at the Post Office, in front of the new Roman trail I’d not see again. My newest favorites from McCartney, Lennon and Harrison played- I remember “Don’t Make Me Wait Too Long” and “Meat City” as I marshaled the wakefulness to fulfill my mission by 1:45 pm or so, then pick up Jasmine Thai. Just as well it wasn’t spicy at all the last two times- weened me off the goodness of it, surely as packing made our home into simply the apartment we were departing.

It didn’t seem real! We laughed, amazed, “let’s wait and see, but sounds kinda like…” we surmised. That Monday, we had to get in touch: what else might they need before we can call it a deal? Pay stubs? Then another, bigger cashier’s check? It was all documented, and at this point, I think we were primed for risk. If it hadn’t been for that music, and Steve Gerber’s Howard the Duck #14-27 (I skipped #16- I want to own it again- and left #28 until I can ask Mary Skrenes if she would sign one by mail) over Christmas, and practicing “What is Life” and “Nobody Told Me” and digging on “Junior’s Farm” before I even penetrated the lyrics- what a great 70s rock sound, live!- our good nature, Atypical on Netflix, some cat petting, and then my Comixology collection of The Defenders, right up to Gerber’s run- I’m not sure how we’d have passed for happy-enough. The news went from celebratory the day after a light-hearted birthday to rather grim and wild, but by Martin Luther King, Jr. Holiday, we had it all together to announce to our friends online: our next destination is Boulder.

I did read most of David Kampf’s They Laughed At Me, but the main character’s in such a dark personal place, flirting with his own barely-sublimated rage, I had to satisfy the author with a review quickly to promote his advertising efforts, after our podcast interview (his first!). I gave the book four stars of five, but I do intend to finish reading it, just as I intend to dig back into Jake Soboroff’s account of the separated families. There’s a lot of creative work suspended in its seed idea forms, but I couldn’t get back to any of it until we completely uprooted our lives!
So, this is more of a mental journey. I should’ve checked for an actual trailer hitch, earlier than I did, to save some stress and, looking back now, gaining one more vital day to drag out the trip, which the cats did not, in fact, make hellish. I didn’t realize T’Challa is the one prone to talk for the first thirty miles of any road trip, so I drove us first, after loading up January 26th, to the vet’s, uncertain of the Benadryl gambit they’d suggested. Our black cat benefited most from a pheromone spray, and for good measure, the three babies all got Calming Collars, too. I spent any moment of every day from Jan. 18th to Jan. 26th, loading, planning.

Maybe I could’ve turned our three day journey into a less-stressful four day one. For this travel diary, I will take us nearly 3000 words from the one setting, the town where we were both born, and close out one part, here, leaving three more.

By four in the afternoon, we drove towards Paw Paw's hometown, Menlo, Georgia- Population, 556. If you were one of the very few I saw: Mo, Bean, Dixie, Charlie, Victor, Stacy, Bryan, and Mom- and you’re probably not the two fellows from UHaul, where a comedy of errors ensued, along with a solid hitching- we had those moments! I think there’s a short story told in my notes, but for here? I want to tell you how you each crossed our minds, traveling nearly 1500 miles. Leaving you was sad, even after we arrived, since I fell sick and it was much like an energetic ‘homesickness’- but the road here, we were in the moment, in that ineffable way that drives people to travel, in some form. I’m just as far from the rest of you, basically, as I felt I was before, which is to say, you’re welcome to come along, every word I release, and in the songs, thank you, we share!
I only want to say, when I sat down on the back of the four-by-eight open trailer, and took the time to calmly dismantle my hunter’s/ office chair for storage, as I should’ve before, I felt the last residual of the burning fury I’d felt, at every disappointment that ever came with being again in Northwest Georgia. I enjoyed the sun, the task, her company. After a nap, on a foam mattress we gave up on trying to drag down and somehow stuff in the trailer, I found that peaceful reserve. I stayed with its stream, like an ambitious paper boat floating surprisingly far from the hands that fashioned it. When we stopped looking for things to pack- when we stopped remembering what I’d left in the kitchen- we set out around three p.m. Yes, why, asked my Chinese friend, in a forty-five minute conversation like none we’d ever had alone (usually her daughter’s with us), was I going out ‘during this special time,’ as she diplomatically put it? I had sane-sounding reasons to offer, and a reservation in Metropolis, Illinois. The estimates suggested we could take on about a quarter of the trip, then spend another day on half across flat Kansas, and then another quarter into Colorado.

With calm certainty, I took the extra time to visit the clinic in East Rome. We double-checked the first highway out of town, which clearly took us past Mom’s house, where we’d stayed before she finally found her a man to come stay with her, and maybe, didn’t quite need us the same. I didn’t have a clear picture, I admit, of the beginning, until I was on the road through the towns where my Grandfather White grew up. Curves were everywhere. Speeds were chosen cautiously. But a time of passive past tense receded as the inclinations grew, magnificent shoulders over wilderness, winding away from our place of birth to our new one.
1:57 PM 2/10/21 Be Chill, Cease ill