Somewhere in Georgia
June 2015
I am at a rental house where my husband and I are staying this weekend and I feel like I can breathe again. It is spacious and grand. Thick dark plank hardwoods and large pieces of modern antiques line each room. The house is much too big for us with its eight burner stove, that we barely use except to make holy basil herbal tea and warm up pizza. A fireplace acts as a support structure in the middle of the family room and big hand painted pictures of wildlife adorn the walls. When the dog arrives with my husband on Friday night I am glad to see them. Oscar curiously pads through each room over and over again like a slightly nervous, interested, gleeful child.
I am relaxed. I have been here since Thursday, my night alone. It’s Saturday now we are out on the deck. The sun is partly present and partly obscured by the clouds all weekend. I am reflecting back and satiated. The firepit is crackling as I reminisce over the last few days. You know you’re healing, when you are ready to go back, go back home. For now though, I sit. I have been staring at my hands lately. When did they age, I think? I don’t recognize them. Spotted and veiny. Brown with scatterings of darker patches. Wrinkled. Not ugly, but certainly not attractive at all. Like an old woman, much older than the rest of me. Foreign. I am reading a memoir about a woman who worked at an “Agency” that represented JD Salinger. It is the second non-fictional work that I have read about him. An interesting, odd enigma he was eccentric like some of his characters, perhaps. I have gotten to know his books through learning about him. This memoirist writes that our hands belie the burdens that we have endured in the name of others. This makes me think better of my hands. They care for the burdens of others and their faces have a story to tell in their markings.
When the realty woman lead me to this secluded house, a corner lake spot she exclaimed when we got out of our cars, You are a doctor?! She seemed disappointed to hear that no, an nurse practitioner. She was definitely disappointed to hear where I worked as she dismissively looks at my sorry Honda Fit instead of a big pick up truck. In her southern tang, with cigarette breath that hovered in the air between us she tells me that some of the kids have escaped from there and upset their town. Yes, I have heard, She looks at me closely for the story that I might have. I add for confidentiality sake that I heard all this on the news (not first hand of course). She knows that I am lying. There is a lengthening of silence in the stagnate air. What does she want me to say? I am not sure. She tells me that she cannot imagine doing something like this in the name of what? Fun? All these entitled children nowadays…
She had been raised by her grandparents she says. A story lurks here. I am not interested. I have heard it many times before from different people. She came through ok. This is all I need to know of her story. I guess that is all she needs to know of mine too…She looks at me like I am a foolish. A hippie who is from the north alien to her and these woods. There are bears around. Do not feed the bears! I am not to leave food out and to twist shut the garbage bins. “Really twist them shut!” She looks at me sternly. Before she leaves, I shut off the TV that she must have thought I would want to watch. She has this on and all the lights in the house. Dozens of lights. Lights on top of lights under cupboards and in ever crevice. I go around the house and turn each one off after she departs. The house quiets and dims to a whisper. I am excited to see that I have no cell phone reception. A retreat of sorts. I open all the sliding glass doors to allow the new life of the weekend in and fresh scents. Their walls have a soft yellow wainscoting with thick painted white planks lining the ceiling. There are painted sign everywhere, tastefully placed. “If you aren’t nice go home” another writes, “A meal without wine is breakfast.” A throw blanket is tastefully draped over a crated designer shabby chic piece of furniture, but there is lots of space to move unhindered by clutter.
The house has furniture and space, a place to dance. Next to the fishing poles and canoe paddles is another painted pictured sign, “Gone Drinking.” The house is surrounded by glass. I count five sliding glass doors. When assessing abstract thinking with clients I always ask, ‘What does the saying mean, he who lives in glass houses… the answers I get are often whimsical and curious. I have started to ask more out of curiosity for the answers rather than a measure of mental status. A breeze blows in and I open to it and all that its possibilities bring. The storm is brewing and the rain starts to pour in with the thunderstorm. The storm cleanses me and I take it in with succulent breaths. I chew on a piece of brie cheese imported, a few local crackers, watermelon and a piece of Belgian Dark chocolate studded with nuts as I amble from room to room and stare at the Bear on a Boat fishing painting. I ponder that I don’t need anything else. I relish in the night, the tastes and smells. The lull of the storm will take me to the sun that is sure to shine tomorrow. I can feel this in the shuttering of the wind as it rattles and blows in cool air.
June 2015
I am at a rental house where my husband and I are staying this weekend and I feel like I can breathe again. It is spacious and grand. Thick dark plank hardwoods and large pieces of modern antiques line each room. The house is much too big for us with its eight burner stove, that we barely use except to make holy basil herbal tea and warm up pizza. A fireplace acts as a support structure in the middle of the family room and big hand painted pictures of wildlife adorn the walls. When the dog arrives with my husband on Friday night I am glad to see them. Oscar curiously pads through each room over and over again like a slightly nervous, interested, gleeful child.
I am relaxed. I have been here since Thursday, my night alone. It’s Saturday now we are out on the deck. The sun is partly present and partly obscured by the clouds all weekend. I am reflecting back and satiated. The firepit is crackling as I reminisce over the last few days. You know you’re healing, when you are ready to go back, go back home. For now though, I sit. I have been staring at my hands lately. When did they age, I think? I don’t recognize them. Spotted and veiny. Brown with scatterings of darker patches. Wrinkled. Not ugly, but certainly not attractive at all. Like an old woman, much older than the rest of me. Foreign. I am reading a memoir about a woman who worked at an “Agency” that represented JD Salinger. It is the second non-fictional work that I have read about him. An interesting, odd enigma he was eccentric like some of his characters, perhaps. I have gotten to know his books through learning about him. This memoirist writes that our hands belie the burdens that we have endured in the name of others. This makes me think better of my hands. They care for the burdens of others and their faces have a story to tell in their markings.
When the realty woman lead me to this secluded house, a corner lake spot she exclaimed when we got out of our cars, You are a doctor?! She seemed disappointed to hear that no, an nurse practitioner. She was definitely disappointed to hear where I worked as she dismissively looks at my sorry Honda Fit instead of a big pick up truck. In her southern tang, with cigarette breath that hovered in the air between us she tells me that some of the kids have escaped from there and upset their town. Yes, I have heard, She looks at me closely for the story that I might have. I add for confidentiality sake that I heard all this on the news (not first hand of course). She knows that I am lying. There is a lengthening of silence in the stagnate air. What does she want me to say? I am not sure. She tells me that she cannot imagine doing something like this in the name of what? Fun? All these entitled children nowadays…
She had been raised by her grandparents she says. A story lurks here. I am not interested. I have heard it many times before from different people. She came through ok. This is all I need to know of her story. I guess that is all she needs to know of mine too…She looks at me like I am a foolish. A hippie who is from the north alien to her and these woods. There are bears around. Do not feed the bears! I am not to leave food out and to twist shut the garbage bins. “Really twist them shut!” She looks at me sternly. Before she leaves, I shut off the TV that she must have thought I would want to watch. She has this on and all the lights in the house. Dozens of lights. Lights on top of lights under cupboards and in ever crevice. I go around the house and turn each one off after she departs. The house quiets and dims to a whisper. I am excited to see that I have no cell phone reception. A retreat of sorts. I open all the sliding glass doors to allow the new life of the weekend in and fresh scents. Their walls have a soft yellow wainscoting with thick painted white planks lining the ceiling. There are painted sign everywhere, tastefully placed. “If you aren’t nice go home” another writes, “A meal without wine is breakfast.” A throw blanket is tastefully draped over a crated designer shabby chic piece of furniture, but there is lots of space to move unhindered by clutter.
The house has furniture and space, a place to dance. Next to the fishing poles and canoe paddles is another painted pictured sign, “Gone Drinking.” The house is surrounded by glass. I count five sliding glass doors. When assessing abstract thinking with clients I always ask, ‘What does the saying mean, he who lives in glass houses… the answers I get are often whimsical and curious. I have started to ask more out of curiosity for the answers rather than a measure of mental status. A breeze blows in and I open to it and all that its possibilities bring. The storm is brewing and the rain starts to pour in with the thunderstorm. The storm cleanses me and I take it in with succulent breaths. I chew on a piece of brie cheese imported, a few local crackers, watermelon and a piece of Belgian Dark chocolate studded with nuts as I amble from room to room and stare at the Bear on a Boat fishing painting. I ponder that I don’t need anything else. I relish in the night, the tastes and smells. The lull of the storm will take me to the sun that is sure to shine tomorrow. I can feel this in the shuttering of the wind as it rattles and blows in cool air.
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