Written last night:
I cannot think. But I can feel: My left toe hurts! My right knee's stiff! My hair is lank. I’m dusty, droopy, and — don’t tell me — I know I stink. I’ve unpacked boxes, dusted drawers, wailed and waited and wondered … when is this all coming together?
Oh, yes, today was moving day. The pod was late, made movers wait, nothing to unpack, but getting paid. Pod people called me, they called Patrick (Thank you for being there with me, Patrick!) Pod finally came but an evil Lexus stole the Loading Zone parking space … Oh my!
It did come together, finally. It’s all over but the unpacking.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 17, 2016
Last day in the hotel
Written last night:
Last day at the hotel!
Living in anonymity has its good points: No one cares. “Do not disturb” keeps them away. Sleep to noon. Eat chocolate and sweet potato fries and have two glasses of wine if you want. But soon they get to know you, ask how that leg feels today, how you slept, are you here for a job? They’ll print your insurance form when you ask for help, give you another key, change your departure date, even say they’d let you stay at their own house if only it were closer. The waitress from last time we were here tilts her head, remembers Clark, pats my shoulder.
After this, I’ll travel lighter: jeans and something black, a dress that can't wrinkle, T-shirts. Exercise clothes take up space. Get the weightless kind. Small suitcase should suffice. Tiny watercolor kit. Soap.
I spent (spent!) the morning collecting papers for the DMV to transfer Rosa to California legally. Thanks to Patrick for motivation! Never before did I really grasp the difference between title and registration. I mean, I understood, but took it all too lightly. Now my heart will be thumping until I see that paper that says title; it’s in the POD. Should be.
Patrick needed a ride to get his truck. We had lunch, great sandwiches (Sacramento has so many delicious places to eat.), sitting in the hot sun. I drove. I drove! The streets are revealing themselves to me.
I love the give and take of mutual family support. I’ve been on the receiving end lately, so it’s great to be there when someone else needs a key or a ride. Clark and I were on our own a long time. He would love this kinship too, was looking forward to it. I’m enjoying it for him; in a way it’s his gift to me.
After Patrick guided me back to (what is it? I-50?), I decided to follow the GPS to Target for a few essentials. And Target here is the same as in Tallahassee, or Columbus — probably anywhere. That made it easy.
From there, back to J Street; I feel it’s mine. And, yes, there was the Pet Supermarket I remembered passing the other day. I stopped in for fake grass to put on the corner of the balcony. Do you think Zing will pee there first thing? It could save a wake-up walk in the park every morning.
When I got back to the hotel I fell immediately asleep and woke up after 6, groggy. I think I was exhausted. Then, energized at the prospect of leaving, I packed so there’s hardly anything left for tomorrow, and drove the few blocks to the condo just to check. Yes, the key works, yes, the place looks promising — all painted and taped — floors covered with protective paper, like a facelift patient before the bandage comes off. Worried to note that in the kitchen and bathrooms the cupboards are still brown. They’re supposed to be white. Perhaps that’s left for tomorrow. Either that, or it’s a last-minute glitch that must and can be fixed. I’m learning, take it easy. Tomorrow I’m sleeping somewhere else, either the condo or Patrick and Stephanie’s couch. We’ll see.
Last day at the hotel!
Living in anonymity has its good points: No one cares. “Do not disturb” keeps them away. Sleep to noon. Eat chocolate and sweet potato fries and have two glasses of wine if you want. But soon they get to know you, ask how that leg feels today, how you slept, are you here for a job? They’ll print your insurance form when you ask for help, give you another key, change your departure date, even say they’d let you stay at their own house if only it were closer. The waitress from last time we were here tilts her head, remembers Clark, pats my shoulder.
After this, I’ll travel lighter: jeans and something black, a dress that can't wrinkle, T-shirts. Exercise clothes take up space. Get the weightless kind. Small suitcase should suffice. Tiny watercolor kit. Soap.
I spent (spent!) the morning collecting papers for the DMV to transfer Rosa to California legally. Thanks to Patrick for motivation! Never before did I really grasp the difference between title and registration. I mean, I understood, but took it all too lightly. Now my heart will be thumping until I see that paper that says title; it’s in the POD. Should be.
Patrick needed a ride to get his truck. We had lunch, great sandwiches (Sacramento has so many delicious places to eat.), sitting in the hot sun. I drove. I drove! The streets are revealing themselves to me.
I love the give and take of mutual family support. I’ve been on the receiving end lately, so it’s great to be there when someone else needs a key or a ride. Clark and I were on our own a long time. He would love this kinship too, was looking forward to it. I’m enjoying it for him; in a way it’s his gift to me.
After Patrick guided me back to (what is it? I-50?), I decided to follow the GPS to Target for a few essentials. And Target here is the same as in Tallahassee, or Columbus — probably anywhere. That made it easy.
From there, back to J Street; I feel it’s mine. And, yes, there was the Pet Supermarket I remembered passing the other day. I stopped in for fake grass to put on the corner of the balcony. Do you think Zing will pee there first thing? It could save a wake-up walk in the park every morning.
When I got back to the hotel I fell immediately asleep and woke up after 6, groggy. I think I was exhausted. Then, energized at the prospect of leaving, I packed so there’s hardly anything left for tomorrow, and drove the few blocks to the condo just to check. Yes, the key works, yes, the place looks promising — all painted and taped — floors covered with protective paper, like a facelift patient before the bandage comes off. Worried to note that in the kitchen and bathrooms the cupboards are still brown. They’re supposed to be white. Perhaps that’s left for tomorrow. Either that, or it’s a last-minute glitch that must and can be fixed. I’m learning, take it easy. Tomorrow I’m sleeping somewhere else, either the condo or Patrick and Stephanie’s couch. We’ll see.
Aug 16, 2016
Sleeping through the emergency
Written last night:
These past few weeks my brain has curdled. It is smoothing out now, but … I am changed forever.
Some things stay the same, thankfully: I’m still a sound sleeper. Oblivious, you might say. On the elevator this morning everyone was buzzing about the fire alarm that jolted them from sleep and sent them hustling down to the lobby around 5 a.m. “Two fire trucks!” they marveled, and they looked at me. “Huh?” I said. Turns out I missed the excitement, slept through the emergency. Someone smoking in a hallway set off the fire alarm; no one was hurt, and I slept right through it.
Soon after, I was having coffee (and a chocolate croissant!) at Ambrosia Cafe, looking out the window and across K Street at what is called Cathedral Square. I’d never been quite this early before, and so today I saw the homeless wake up. Many — maybe 20 people — were cupped in their private spaces in the small plaza at the foot of the tall steps going up to the monumental church — one on the bottom, two on the side, another in a corner across the way, and so on. The ground today was cold (I shivered on my way here.), but somehow they found hard rest on blankets and behind shopping carts, scattered in that space at the foot of the church. Following some internal clock, they roused, folded their blankets, and formed a straggly line. They shuffled toward a man in a blue shirt, who seemed to be handing out brown paper sacks. I say seemed because I’m not sure what I saw. But soon there were men, and a few women, walking away in different directions, fondling whatever was in that sack, and the day began.
On my way back to the hotel I forced myself to deposit two checks in the Wells Fargo ATM that was along my way. For some reason I expected the machine to swallow my checks, chew them up, and leave me penniless. It is a machine, and before machines I am vulnerable and stupid. But now I love the machine! It’s better than Tallahassee’s ATM; I didn’t need an envelope. The screen showed a picture of what I’d just inserted. It asked me to approve with a click, and I did. Nice machine!
There followed lots of phone calls and tinkering on the computer as I arranged (with Stephanie’s help) for the POD to be delivered and unloaded at my new place. Thursday! Thursday! Thursday!
Then Rosa and I wandered in and out the midtown streets, without purpose, just getting the feel of our new home. I stopped to buy a cooler at Ace Hardware, which is an echo of the Ace near the Y on North Monroe in Tallahassee. Except, as I got back into Rosa and started to back out, I glanced up and saw that this Ace Hardware has solar panels on its roof. I only noticed as I was leaving; I’m getting used to these California details!
And back at the hotel an employee was rustling suitcases onto the elevator. “Study Tour” was lettered on each one. “Students?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. "Fifteen busloads of students from Japan will be with us this week.” (There are more than 500 hotel rooms here.)
Very interesting, but I am ready to leave.
These past few weeks my brain has curdled. It is smoothing out now, but … I am changed forever.
Some things stay the same, thankfully: I’m still a sound sleeper. Oblivious, you might say. On the elevator this morning everyone was buzzing about the fire alarm that jolted them from sleep and sent them hustling down to the lobby around 5 a.m. “Two fire trucks!” they marveled, and they looked at me. “Huh?” I said. Turns out I missed the excitement, slept through the emergency. Someone smoking in a hallway set off the fire alarm; no one was hurt, and I slept right through it.
Soon after, I was having coffee (and a chocolate croissant!) at Ambrosia Cafe, looking out the window and across K Street at what is called Cathedral Square. I’d never been quite this early before, and so today I saw the homeless wake up. Many — maybe 20 people — were cupped in their private spaces in the small plaza at the foot of the tall steps going up to the monumental church — one on the bottom, two on the side, another in a corner across the way, and so on. The ground today was cold (I shivered on my way here.), but somehow they found hard rest on blankets and behind shopping carts, scattered in that space at the foot of the church. Following some internal clock, they roused, folded their blankets, and formed a straggly line. They shuffled toward a man in a blue shirt, who seemed to be handing out brown paper sacks. I say seemed because I’m not sure what I saw. But soon there were men, and a few women, walking away in different directions, fondling whatever was in that sack, and the day began.
On my way back to the hotel I forced myself to deposit two checks in the Wells Fargo ATM that was along my way. For some reason I expected the machine to swallow my checks, chew them up, and leave me penniless. It is a machine, and before machines I am vulnerable and stupid. But now I love the machine! It’s better than Tallahassee’s ATM; I didn’t need an envelope. The screen showed a picture of what I’d just inserted. It asked me to approve with a click, and I did. Nice machine!
There followed lots of phone calls and tinkering on the computer as I arranged (with Stephanie’s help) for the POD to be delivered and unloaded at my new place. Thursday! Thursday! Thursday!
Then Rosa and I wandered in and out the midtown streets, without purpose, just getting the feel of our new home. I stopped to buy a cooler at Ace Hardware, which is an echo of the Ace near the Y on North Monroe in Tallahassee. Except, as I got back into Rosa and started to back out, I glanced up and saw that this Ace Hardware has solar panels on its roof. I only noticed as I was leaving; I’m getting used to these California details!
And back at the hotel an employee was rustling suitcases onto the elevator. “Study Tour” was lettered on each one. “Students?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. "Fifteen busloads of students from Japan will be with us this week.” (There are more than 500 hotel rooms here.)
Very interesting, but I am ready to leave.
Aug 15, 2016
Lock-outs and roundabouts
Written last night:
At 8 this morning I was off to explore. But, of course, it happened again: Rosa and I couldn’t get out of the parking lot. The arm stayed down, no matter what I did — scanning my key card fast, slow, backward, etc. I glanced at the screen and it said, “Turner Locked Out.” These little things make me feel for the immigrants. Not wanted, not wanted, it wears on you, and what I’m experiencing is superficial and fixable with a phone call. Luckily, no car was directly behind me, so, heart thumping, I backed away from the exit and drove to an empty parking spot, where I called the hotel. “Do I have to come over there to fix this?” I think I was wailing in a grown-up kind of way. “No, ma’am, no, ma’am! I’ll update your card from here,” the desk duty man promised. It’s kind of scary what computers can do without you: let me in, let me out, at someone’s whim. Anyway, it worked, so Rosa and I peeled onto the street before another glitch could stop us.
My simple plan was to follow J Street out of town. I expected to find countryside soon enough. But instead, we drove through a string of suburbs, starting with lovely old houses, then slightly smaller houses, then more suburban-type houses, then smaller suburban-type houses, then Sacramento State University,the Sacramento River; East Sacramento, Arden, Carmichael … I may have some of this slightly mixed up, but you get the idea: lots of homes and the services that surround them. I’m getting my bearings; I need those services, and maybe I’ll make friends who live in those houses.
Back in midtown, we meandered the streets, reviewing key businesses: grocery, coffee shop, art supply store, pet store, Zing’s place. Sacramento has more stop signs, roundabouts, and one-way streets than Tallahassee. Driving on Sunday’s near-empty streets made it easier to get used to these changes.
Back at the hotel, I called my friend Susan and we had a long talk, and in the evening Keith introduced me to a great place to eat -- the Tower Restaurant, which may become my own favorite — it has a kind of overflowing, delicious hospitality.
Today was relaxing; not a single hotel meal! Tomorrow I’m staying out of the painters’ way at the condo; May they finish soon!
At 8 this morning I was off to explore. But, of course, it happened again: Rosa and I couldn’t get out of the parking lot. The arm stayed down, no matter what I did — scanning my key card fast, slow, backward, etc. I glanced at the screen and it said, “Turner Locked Out.” These little things make me feel for the immigrants. Not wanted, not wanted, it wears on you, and what I’m experiencing is superficial and fixable with a phone call. Luckily, no car was directly behind me, so, heart thumping, I backed away from the exit and drove to an empty parking spot, where I called the hotel. “Do I have to come over there to fix this?” I think I was wailing in a grown-up kind of way. “No, ma’am, no, ma’am! I’ll update your card from here,” the desk duty man promised. It’s kind of scary what computers can do without you: let me in, let me out, at someone’s whim. Anyway, it worked, so Rosa and I peeled onto the street before another glitch could stop us.
My simple plan was to follow J Street out of town. I expected to find countryside soon enough. But instead, we drove through a string of suburbs, starting with lovely old houses, then slightly smaller houses, then more suburban-type houses, then smaller suburban-type houses, then Sacramento State University,the Sacramento River; East Sacramento, Arden, Carmichael … I may have some of this slightly mixed up, but you get the idea: lots of homes and the services that surround them. I’m getting my bearings; I need those services, and maybe I’ll make friends who live in those houses.
Back in midtown, we meandered the streets, reviewing key businesses: grocery, coffee shop, art supply store, pet store, Zing’s place. Sacramento has more stop signs, roundabouts, and one-way streets than Tallahassee. Driving on Sunday’s near-empty streets made it easier to get used to these changes.
Back at the hotel, I called my friend Susan and we had a long talk, and in the evening Keith introduced me to a great place to eat -- the Tower Restaurant, which may become my own favorite — it has a kind of overflowing, delicious hospitality.
Today was relaxing; not a single hotel meal! Tomorrow I’m staying out of the painters’ way at the condo; May they finish soon!
Aug 14, 2016
Hip little farm town
 |
| Saturday morning in Winters, CA |
Written last night:
Early this morning Rosa and I took to the streets without concern. I felt more confident than yesterday — the parking garage arm went up without a hitch! — and traffic was light, Yesterday I was terrified to take to the freeway, but this morning it was do-able. Soon we were on I-80, heading to Davis, and a little beyond, Winters, California. It was just like I-10 in north Florida. I was hyper-vigilant for traffic, but couldn’t help notice the countryside. To tell the truth, I’d been afraid I wouldn’t like it. But I do: the road was undulating, gently curving, and fields to each side were either sparse brown or irrigated green. Beyond, you could see smudges of hills and mountains. I am so relieved to say it felt good, very good. It felt generous.
I picked Winters because in a couple of weeks I’m going to meet my two best high school friends there. One lives in San Jose and the other is with her husband, a woodworker taking a workshop in Napa. Winters will be a a good meeting point for the three of us. Forty minutes from Sacramento, it turned out to be a small town with nice homes, both single and multi-family. The downtown has free angle parking. In an empty space along the sidewalk, there’s even a piano, and every time I passed someone was plunking out a tune on it. An old iron trestle bridge now sidelined for pedestrians begged me to cross it (I did.) And benches line the main street — an open hint at the town’s socio-economic profile. The coffee shop was full of bikers, with their tap-tapping tilted shoes and their tight, bright outfits. There were also comfy families and single people like me. You could buy coffee and a raspberry-almond square (me) or a green smoothie (the woman after me), or a fruit cup (the little girl ahead). Everybody felt lively and happy and easygoing.
"Wow! This is easier than I thought.” I said to myself, as I headed back along I-80. We were smoothly zooming toward Sacramento, when suddenly the traffic slowed, I don’t know why. We sped up and slowed for the rest of the way into Sacramento, and all along I couldn’t find any indication of why. I guess this is the famed California traffic: you drive, you slow down, you stop, you speed up, you drive…We were in the middle of countryside, the only witnesses of the traffic were fields of blackened, dried sunflowers.
Closer to Sacramento, I passed a truck loaded with orange globes: too small to be oranges… maybe apricots, a whole truckload of apricots! And I passed fields of trees that might be walnut.
“Winters is a farm town,” the woman in the quilt shop said. I looked at her askance. “I know,” she said, “It’s getting hip."
 |
| View from the pedestrian bridge, Winters, CA |
Aug 13, 2016
Sacramento streets
Written last night:
At 7 a.m. Rosa Parks and I set out to cruise the narrow streets of Sacramento, hoping for uncrowded streets. Rosa is famous for her quiet and ready courage; — not me! I was scared as a school child leaving its Mommy, as lacking in confidence as a 16-year-old learning to drive. I couldn’t even get out of the parking garage without help — why don’t those computer things work for me? I suspect machines sense my nervousness, take me for a weakling. Luckily, an attendant made the thing work and the arm went up. But then I hit the streets! Trees along the way made them seem narrower. Cars parked right up to the corner (different from Florida), made me nervous to make turns. I had no idea where I was going. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t going anywhere, although I did have a basic California checklist: Safeway supermarket (open 24 hours and crawling with early-morning shoppers), Peet’s coffee shop (I like it), the kennel where Zing is vacationing. I moved slowly past fancy little painted houses, trains like sectioned caterpillars, everyone driving slow as a 70-year-old grandma (me), which made me feel right at home. Tomorrow I will venture further.
Later I cleared up a few things at Wells Fargo Bank, which is around the corner from my new home. The place has a friendly vibe — a young man in a fine suit greeted me like a maitre-d. Until recently I’ve stuck to the ATM and checked accounts online; banks intimidate me. But now that Clark isn’t here to share the responsibility, I’m determined to get confident with money. So after the basics were finished, I asked Diane, the banker, if she has any advice. She didn’t seem to think I was as stupid as I felt, thank goodness. “Check your account online every three days,” she said, “just to keep track of things. And come in once a month to review activity with me.”
Go to the bank again? I thought today would be kind of final. “Yes,” she insisted, “we’ll just go over the month’s activity, and I’ll answer any question that might come up." She could feel my reluctance. "Some people do it every day,” she assured me.
I would just as soon squeeze my eyes shut as I pass the bank, kind of like whistling past a graveyard: If I don’t look, nothing bad will happen. But now I’ve got to open my eyes. I’m going to do it.
On the way out I noticed a Peet’s Coffee Shop across the street. I think I’ll make that my post-banking treat.
From the bank I walked to my new home to pick up mail and the garage remote. At the condo, a young painter, Vitale, was cleaning up for lunchtime. We took the elevator down together and ran into Bill the contractor, who was on his way up. He insisted I return with him so he could show me progress in detail. “See this bathroom door?” he pointed, “It opens the wrong way. See how it covers the light switch? Careless! I’m taking it off its hinges and putting it on the proper side. Same with the other bathroom.” I love Bill’s pride and precision, and feel lucky Stephanie led me to such a craftsman. Bill said painting would be done and I can sleep in the condo Wednesday night, although he’ll probably have to finish up details on Thursday and Friday. Yay!!! The POD may not be available yet, but I’ll be moving in with a bedroll and an ice chest.
And a dog. I’ve been missing Zing, and today I called to see if I could take him for walks. “It won’t upset our schedule,” the woman on the phone said, “but it might traumatize Zing to leave and then have to return to the kennel.” That’s the last thing I want to do, so I’ve got to wait to pat my dog.
At 7 a.m. Rosa Parks and I set out to cruise the narrow streets of Sacramento, hoping for uncrowded streets. Rosa is famous for her quiet and ready courage; — not me! I was scared as a school child leaving its Mommy, as lacking in confidence as a 16-year-old learning to drive. I couldn’t even get out of the parking garage without help — why don’t those computer things work for me? I suspect machines sense my nervousness, take me for a weakling. Luckily, an attendant made the thing work and the arm went up. But then I hit the streets! Trees along the way made them seem narrower. Cars parked right up to the corner (different from Florida), made me nervous to make turns. I had no idea where I was going. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t going anywhere, although I did have a basic California checklist: Safeway supermarket (open 24 hours and crawling with early-morning shoppers), Peet’s coffee shop (I like it), the kennel where Zing is vacationing. I moved slowly past fancy little painted houses, trains like sectioned caterpillars, everyone driving slow as a 70-year-old grandma (me), which made me feel right at home. Tomorrow I will venture further.
Later I cleared up a few things at Wells Fargo Bank, which is around the corner from my new home. The place has a friendly vibe — a young man in a fine suit greeted me like a maitre-d. Until recently I’ve stuck to the ATM and checked accounts online; banks intimidate me. But now that Clark isn’t here to share the responsibility, I’m determined to get confident with money. So after the basics were finished, I asked Diane, the banker, if she has any advice. She didn’t seem to think I was as stupid as I felt, thank goodness. “Check your account online every three days,” she said, “just to keep track of things. And come in once a month to review activity with me.”
Go to the bank again? I thought today would be kind of final. “Yes,” she insisted, “we’ll just go over the month’s activity, and I’ll answer any question that might come up." She could feel my reluctance. "Some people do it every day,” she assured me.
I would just as soon squeeze my eyes shut as I pass the bank, kind of like whistling past a graveyard: If I don’t look, nothing bad will happen. But now I’ve got to open my eyes. I’m going to do it.
On the way out I noticed a Peet’s Coffee Shop across the street. I think I’ll make that my post-banking treat.
From the bank I walked to my new home to pick up mail and the garage remote. At the condo, a young painter, Vitale, was cleaning up for lunchtime. We took the elevator down together and ran into Bill the contractor, who was on his way up. He insisted I return with him so he could show me progress in detail. “See this bathroom door?” he pointed, “It opens the wrong way. See how it covers the light switch? Careless! I’m taking it off its hinges and putting it on the proper side. Same with the other bathroom.” I love Bill’s pride and precision, and feel lucky Stephanie led me to such a craftsman. Bill said painting would be done and I can sleep in the condo Wednesday night, although he’ll probably have to finish up details on Thursday and Friday. Yay!!! The POD may not be available yet, but I’ll be moving in with a bedroll and an ice chest.
And a dog. I’ve been missing Zing, and today I called to see if I could take him for walks. “It won’t upset our schedule,” the woman on the phone said, “but it might traumatize Zing to leave and then have to return to the kennel.” That’s the last thing I want to do, so I’ve got to wait to pat my dog.
Aug 12, 2016
Good grief!
Good things today:Written last night:
KIt began with a long, talking breakfast with Patrick. I love talking with him. How great to talk to your kids adult-to-adult! (Let's face it -- At this point, Patrick is much more the adult than I am!)And my car is here! Patrick took care of the delivery, and drove her to the hotel before noon. Then we swung by a car wash and up and down a few streets to acclimate me to California driving: short blocks, pedestrians who (mostly) obey the lights, narrow lanes, one-way streets, bicycles and motorcycles galore. He turned the car over to me and that is when I got nervous. For practice, I considered taking a 40-minute drive outside the city through the college town of Davis, and then to Winters, CA (“You’ll get caught in terrible traffic on the way home.”) or just meandering the streets of Sacramento for awhile. (“Mom, don’t you think it would be best to practice when there’s very little traffic? Why not go out early tomorrow morning?”) You know, he was right. I’ll learn my way around California soon enough. For the day anyway, Rosa is parked.This afternoon my sister Patrice and my friend Janis each gave me a surprise phone call. And I do mean GAVE. Hearing their voices was a gift. I echo Janis, who said that social media is great, but sometimes you just have to hear the voice.Also got the American Express card switched to me. It took an hour or more, and that was with everything going smoothly.Despite all the high points, now, in the evening, I feel numb and my brain is ringing. This must be stress or anxiety or grief — those professional words that I have come to hate. As a language lover, I believe that you must give things a name -- for instance, “What you are feeling is grief.” When you name a thing you can deal with it, or so the idea goes. Recently I have read some pieces on grief, and I have been given a book or two. I find I resent having my experience analyzed. Knowing what’s happening, and naming it is supposed to capture life and settle a person down. But no.Perhaps this cussedness is also a symptom of grief.(Don’t worry! I’m feeling fine now. I just want to tell the complete story; I figure maybe you sometimes feel that way too.)Love,
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