Category Archives: Humor

California DMV

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I knew my driver’s license was due to be renewed by my birthday in March of this year. What I didn’t know was that, at the age of 70, I forever lost the luxury to simply pay a fee to continue driving another five years.

In January, after receiving my renewal notice with this disturbing news, I went to the tiny Fort Bragg DMV office on Franklin Street, grabbed a free driver’s manual, took it home, tossed it on the kitchen table, and ignored it.

I went to the DMV website and found assurance that I shouldn’t worry about taking the written test. They don’t want me to fail. They sincerely want me to pass. To prove their point, they offer four practice tests with ten questions each. I easily passed them all. I searched the internet for websites that offer free practice tests, which I found in abundance. These were more challenging, but I passed three of them a day for a week.

On Tuesday, February 6th, I had a free afternoon and felt cocky enough to go to the DMV and get the ordeal behind me.

When I was last there six years ago to exchange my ordinary license for a Real ID, they had a system where you pulled a number from a dispenser thingy, took a seat, and waited for your number to be called. This time, the dispenser was nowhere to be found and I was greeted by a white poster board with handwritten instructions to wait in front of it.

A woman stood about four feet to the left of the sign. When I asked if she was in line, she shook her head and said her teenage son was at the counter being processed for his written permit test. I smiled and nodded, which seemed to give her permission to go on a rampage about how their primary home is in Sacramento, but they’d been staying at their house in Gualala where the recent storm had knocked out power for three days and there was no scheduled time for when it would be restored. She hadn’t had a shower since the outage. She thought she’d go insane if she couldn’t get one soon.

I felt she’d already gone insane, but could empathize. I hate power outages and, as I grow older, am prone to babbling complaints to complete strangers as long as they don’t break eye contact.

I noticed a mid-forties gentleman standing a few feet behind the permit test lad and crept around the ranting woman to ask if he was in line. He nodded. I wanted to point to the scrawled sign and inform him he wasn’t following the rules, but quickly reminded myself I don’t work for the DMV and line rule violations aren’t my problem. I took up position behind him.  

“This is so confusing,” I said.

“I know.” He launched into what a pain in the ass it is to try to register a vehicle online and he wasn’t about to put his credit card information on a third-party website because he’d already had two credit cards hacked, so he came in person to get it done.

“That’s some rough stuff.” I pretended to sympathize, but wanted to scoff at his dilemma. It was nothing compared to my having to endure a test I hadn’t taken since before he was born. I wanted to tell him to enjoy life—he’d be 70 before he knew it and then he’d really have something to bitch about.

The counter person sent the permit boy to take his test on one of the computers that grace the west and north walls of the office. He then asked everyone in the room to get in line in front of him and he’d assign them a number. He wrote each number on a small Post-It Note.

A couple of other people had arrived and stood behind me. One was a fella I recognized as a frequent offender from my habitual online viewing of the Mendocino County Sheriff Booking Logs. I’ll call him Tony.

After he got his number, Tony and what appeared to be a female acquaintance took seats in front of me. Apparently she hadn’t seen him in a while and asked what he doing at the DMV. I wondered, too, hardly believing his criminal history would allow him the privilege of obtaining a driver’s license.

“The last time I got arrested, the judge ordered me to get an official ID. I told him all the cops know me, so what’s the point?” He chuckled. “He threatened to hold me contempt. So here I am.”

She commented on how good he looked.

I silently agreed. His last name indicates he’s of Italian descent. Even though he’s in his early fifties and has been a repeat offender for such crimes as drunk in public, drug possession, and burglary for the past fifteen years that I’ve had access to the booking logs, his Mediterranean genetics have served him well.

He thanked the woman for the compliment. “A couple years ago, I started getting a lot of grey in my hair and beard, and began using hair dye. Last month, I was in jail for two weeks and came out looking like a snowman.” Both he and the woman laughed.

I also wanted to laugh, but my number was called and I was forced to leave this entertaining conversation.

The kind man behind the counter finished the application I’d been unable to decode online. He conducted a vision test and took me to the designated area to snap my photo. He asked if I’d like to take the test on the computer or on paper. I opted for the computer because I felt it would get me out of there faster. He said, “You’ll pass. I know you will.” I wanted to hug him.

With his endorsement, I went to a corner computer and entered my identifying information. As I answered one question after another, I wasn’t aware that the program would immediately tell me when I missed one. I thought the tally would wait until the end. After my first two missed questions, my inner perfectionist pounded me over the head. “Get it together damnit! You’re only allowed to miss three more!”

I missed a total of six, mostly because I hadn’t taken my time to contemplate my answers. Mortified, I hightailed it out of that office.

The DMV allows people to take the test three times. Instead of focusing on the positive of having two more tries, I went to the dark side of neurosis. What if I failed the next two? Would my driving privileges be permanently revoked?

I was too afraid to ask or look it up online. I didn’t want to know what I suspected was the worst. After three failed attempts, I’d never be given another chance to renew my license, never again be able to drive. I’d become a recluse, trapped inside my house, relying on the kindness of others to visit and supply me with food.

I’d become someone like the serial offending Tony with a lowly California ID card that didn’t entitle me to much outside of identifying me to the cops if I got arrested. My life—the new life I struggled so hard to rebuild since my husband died three years ago—would be over.

Over.

The next day—Wednesday—I picked up the dusty DMV manual and made a several-page study guide. I reviewed it over and over and over again. I crammed information into me like a duck being force-fed to fatten its liver to make foie gras.

My logical brain knew I was prepared to pass the test, but still—still—there were those pesky details on my study guide that I continued to miss like, “When can a child ride in the front seat of the car?” It’s ten-years-old, but there’s also the rule that they can be relieved from their child car seat when they either turn eight or are the height of a miniature donkey. “How many inches should there be between anyone in your vehicle and the air bags?” Ten inches, that’s how many. Why should we, as drivers, be expected to know this? Shouldn’t that be the responsibility of car manufacturers?

What if my test was filled with such obscure questions?

I’d set an arbitrary goal to take my second test on Thursday, February 15th. This time, I would ask for a paper test—the kind I assume most “old” people choose. It would give me time to calm the hell down as I slowly went through it page by page. By then, I would have chalked up at least 20 hours of studying time. But as my knowledge grew, so did my fear of failure. I was way overthinking and needed stop this nonsense.

On Tuesday, February 13, I went to the DMV at nine o’clock. This time, the cast of characters was quite mundane, but the crowd made me suspect I was in for a long wait. At that point, I didn’t care. I’d ingested a trusty Lorazepam and brought plenty of snacks to soothe me.

An hour later, my number was called. I sat across from a late-forties woman who possessed all the warmth of Darth Vader. She didn’t acknowledge me, but she hadn’t acknowledged anyone before me either.

I handed her my paperwork and explained I was there to take a second test. This time I wanted to take it on paper. Without making eye contact or a sound, she tapped on her keyboard. I couldn’t tell if she was even breathing. Her printer whirled and ejected five pages. She tapped a bit more and additional pages spit out. She stapled the first set on the upper left-hand corner and handed them to me along with a #2 pencil.

“Thank you.” I smiled.

She said nothing.

I took my test to the far corner of the room. I was fairly confident of my answers, but there were ringers like, “When must you turn your headlights on when there’s limited visibility due to weather conditions?” The answer choices were in feet. I knew that we must turn our headlights on a half hour before sunrise and a half hour after sunset. But how many feet? I had no idea. I went through every question twice before deciding I was brave enough to face the results.

The room had cleared and I didn’t have to wait before handing my test to Ms. Darth.

She placed the second test she’d printed on her desk next to mine. One by one, she lifted the pages of each to compare mine to the correct answers. In an effort to fight off fainting to the floor, I pulled a small handful of cashews out of my snack baggie, stuffed them into my mouth, and began furiously chewing.

She finished comparing all five pages without comment. Maybe I’d gotten a perfect score! I was too afraid to ask. Without hesitation, she could vaporize me with one death ray. She pecked a few keys on her keyboard and a page spit from her printer. She took it, tore off the bottom half, and handed it to me.

It was a temporary license.

“I passed!?!”

 “Yes,” she groaned.

“How many questions did I miss?”

“Four.” She grimaced as speaking to me caused her increasing pain.

I have no idea how she calculated my missed answers. She hadn’t made any marks on my test paper. Maybe she’d kept tally with her toes.

I clapped and shouted, “Yoohoo! Thank you! Thank you so much!”

She said nothing, but her expression indicated, “I command you to leave.”

As a bonafied California licensed driver for the next five years, I stood up and happily complied.

Racing Against Myself

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When I started running 11 years ago, I considered it a success if I could last five minutes before having to stop, gasp for air and stifle the urge to puke. I did not undertake this torture voluntarily. I was duped.

In the spring of 2011, my friend Kathleen called shortly after she’d landed at an airport. On her flight, she’d sat next to a woman who had competed in a number of triathlons and raved that they were so much fun. Kathleen knew the Rotary Club in Ukiah hosted a triathlon each fall and suggested we do the next one. The excitement in her voice was contagious and I readily agreed. Before I had a chance to ask questions, she hung up to collect her luggage.

I swear, I didn’t know what a triathlon was, but trusted her not to suggest something that wasn’t enjoyable. She’d long been my friend, workout partner and fellow empty-nester. We regularly encouraged each other to seek ways to challenge our physical abilities. Mostly, though, we tried to prove to our 20-something-year-old kids that we were still vital and relevant.

Days later, I looked at the Rotary Club race website: half mile swim—okay, I swam a lot as a kid; 20.5-mile bike ride—again, childhood bike riding experience qualified me; 5k run—now wait a darned minute. I’ve never been a runner and, in my late fifties, wasn’t about to start. I called Kathleen and said, “NoNoNoNoNo! You didn’t tell me about the running part. I hate running. I’m not going to do it.”

She gently reminded me I’d already committed. Goddamnit! I had no choice but to honor my pledge. Throughout our four months of training, she tolerated my constant bitching with great patience and a bright smile.

Over time, when running, my feelings of nausea and lightheadedness abated and I started to believe the activity may not have actually been invented by the Devil himself. I regularly recorded my time and became obsessed with trimming my minutes per mile. As the triathlon grew closer, I felt quite smug. However, my only goal was to live to tell the tale.

I lived. It was fun. And I’ll never do it again.

A few weeks after the race, I inexplicably felt urge to run. The urge to run? Oh, for God’s sake! I’d become one of them—those people who prance about on sidewalks and the edges of roadways seemingly to mock my opposition to prancing.

The following spring, after months of running, I decided I might be fit enough to sign up for the 5k at the local Whale Run. I love seeing a person’s eyes widen in awe and admiration when I announce that I’m going to do a 5k. I sincerely thank whoever invented the metric system for making that distance seem far more impressive than 3.10 miles. I was pleased enough with my time—12 minutes per mile—but determined to beat it in the next race.

I ran a few races each year, one time earning a medal and another time a ribbon—just enough incentive to keep going and push myself to collect more. One year, I ramped up and did a 10k. This taught me an important life lesson—after 5k, my enjoyment of running quickly turns to loathing.

The best thing about participating in these races is the exhilaration of being among large groups of people who are intoxicated with endorphins, which makes them extremely happy. Maybe St. Paddy’s Day in Chicago has a similar vibe, but I’ve found no other event that compares. It’s addicting.

When Covid Time hit in 2020, all local races came to a halt. In March 2021, my husband of 46 years died and I was catapulted into a tailspin of grief.

During my first year of widowhood, I suffered so many things—the most confusing and disturbing were severe panic attacks. Well-meaning people offered suggestions to relieve my pain. High on the list were yoga and meditation. I gave both a try. I adore my yoga instructor Delphine, but after several Zoom classes, I had to concede I really don’t like yoga. Guided meditation only made me cry more and increased my anxiety attacks.

I moaned to my friend Jessica about my shame and frustration over not being able to follow what appeared to be highly recommended prescriptions to lessen my grief. I’ll never forget how she looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “What do you like to do?”

“I like to go on a run, come home to do a light workout, then stretch while laughing at standup comedy on YouTube.”

Jessica said, “Then do that.”

I started doing that a few times a week. It went a long way towards cleaning out the toxic pipes.

A year later, I volunteered to help organize the Noyo Headlands Race scheduled for October 29, 2022. A germ of an idea entered my head—maybe, just maybe, I could sign up for the 5k.

My internal judge would not shut up. You haven’t done a race in over two years. You’re 68 years old—too old to engage in such nonsense. Your body isn’t what it used to be—you’ve got the lower back thing, that hip thing, and your knees sometimes plot to assassinate you.

Two months before the race, I punched my internal judge in the face, registered for the 5k, and made an appointment with my chiropractor.

I girded my loins against him suggesting that pursuing such a goal at my age was ridiculous. Instead, he asked, “Do you want to compete or finish?”

I’d never entertained the idea I could enter a race and not obsess about my time—to do it just for fun. “I guess I just want to finish,” I said. “Do you think I’m capable of doing that?”

“Yes,” Eric said. “And I’ll help you.”

His encouragement filled my heart with gratitude and I saw him every other week. I also made regular appointments with my massage therapist who was on board to help me reach my goal.

As the weeks passed, I became increasingly discouraged. I’d once pushed myself to run an 11-minute mile. My time now, at best, was 13-15 minutes. Grief over the loss of Gary and, more recently, my mother, sometimes strapped concrete blocks to my legs. I pushed myself to increase my speed, but couldn’t always shake off the weight. I kept returning to Eric’s question: Do you want to compete or finish? What a liar I was when I told him I was fine with merely finishing.

I continued racing against myself. One Sunday, near the end of a frustrating run where the weight I was carrying caused my knees and hip to carp at me the whole time, I sat on a curb, put my face in my hands and sobbed. With my feet in the gutter and my palms soaked with tears, I gave up. I accepted I could do no more than finish the race and reluctantly embraced that as a respectable goal.

***

After I crossed the finish line at the Noyo Headlands Race with my friend Yvette, I was surprised when I began to cry. I grabbed her in a hug and wept with gratitude. A month before, she—a fierce competitor—agreed to run this with me and accepted my condition that we wouldn’t concern ourselves with our time.

I cried as I remembered my workout trainer Bethany, who took me by the shoulders at the start line and said with great authority, “You can do this.” At that moment I knew I could, but confessed I was concerned how my knees had been nagging me and I feared they were on a murderous sabotage mission. She bent down, cupped my knees and gave them a blessing. They miraculously cooperated.

I have no idea what my finishing time was. It may have been slightly better than the mother with a toddler in a stroller and her seven-year-old son jogging by her side, but I don’t know. I lost track of them as Yvette and I bellied-up to the halfway point turnaround table, slammed back water shots for a good five minutes, and exchanged pleasant banter with the proprietors.

I must say this was the most fun I’ve had at any race. Yvette and I trotted along, joking and laughing, cheering on runners who passed us and those who were on their way back to hopefully snag a medal. It felt good. It felt so, so good.

By giving up, I outraced myself and won.

Dear friends Bethany & Yvette

The Waiting Room

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As I recover from a respiratory illness struck upon me by Satan, my mind wanders back to the last time I was this sick.

It’s January 5, 2020. Covid-19 is rearing its ugly head, but we’re a couple of months away from sheltering in place. I’m in the waiting room of Immediate Care with a fierce cold, sore throat and first-ever case of laryngitis. After days of suffering, I need antibiotics or enough oxycodone to euthanize myself.

A woman who looks to be in her seventies with steel-gray hair tightly curled to hug her head enters accompanied by what appears to be a Great Dane mix. He seems too bumbling to be an emotional support animal and too unruly to be a service dog, yet he sports a service dog vest. As she makes her way to the receptionist window, the dog lunges this way and that. I marvel at how this woman of rather short stature doesn’t get tossed off balance and face-plant onto the linoleum. After she checks in, she takes a seat on a chair to my right. The dog lies at her feet.

I love dogs and he appears to be a sweet one. I don’t particularly care if she’s scamming the service dog system by buying him a vest on the internet. If my dog Lucy wasn’t so nervous, I’d get her such a vest and take her everywhere with me. As it is, she panics whenever I try to coax her into walking outside her safety zone—a two-square block area around our immediate neighborhood.

A middle-aged woman enters and announces her name to the receptionist with the confidence of a great orator. If Tom Petty had a twin sister, she would look like this woman. She wears a black leather motorcycle jacket that pairs nicely with her skinny jeans and black leather boots. She sits on a chair to my left and starts making googly eyes at the service dog imposter. “Aren’t you just the cutest thing? Wouldn’t you like me to pet you? I bet you would, oh yes you would.”

The dog stands, tail wagging enthusiastically, whipping the legs of his owner who sweetly says, “I ask people to not encourage him to play. He needs to focus on his work.” She coaxes him to lie down again.

“I completely understand,” the other woman says, tossing her head backwards and slightly to the right to flip some hair behind her shoulders. “I’ve been an animal trainer all my life and have trained animals all over the world. The only animal I haven’t trained is an elephant.”

“Ah,” the dog owner draws this out, clearly impressed.

I want to ask if she’s trained a rhinoceros. Or a koala. Or a blue whale.

The world-renowned animal trainer waxes on about how her flair for animal training has sent her to Africa, China, and roadside zoos in Florida and Oklahoma.

The dog owner listens patiently before changing the subject. “I have dementia and Beavis is trained to help me recognize my roommate.”

The world-renown animal trainer narrows her eyes. “You don’t recognize your roommate?”

“When I get up each morning and see her in the living room drinking coffee, I think there’s a stranger in the house. After Beavis greets her, I know she’s okay. I also have a tendency to fall and he helps get me up.”

World-renown animal trainer gives an approving nod.

“Do you want me to show you how he does that?”

I want to shout, “Yes, please! Sweet Baby Jesus, please!” But I have laryngitis and the animal trainer urges her not to do it, putting the kibosh on what could possibly be the best entertainment I’ve had in ages.

A nurse calls my name and beckons me into an exam room. I don’t want to go. I want to stay and continue watching this fascinating weirdness.

After the doctor enters the exam room, I croak out plenty of reasons why I need antibiotics—fevered, blowing yellow snot, sick of being sick, needing a miracle, but since I’m not religious I’m not likely to get one.

“It’s a virus,” he says, flatly. “Antibiotics won’t help.”

I want to put him in a head lock and give him noogies until he surrenders to my demand.

“There are 27 viruses going around right now.”

I suspect he made that number up, but who am I with laryngitis and a mere Bachelor’s degree in Anthropology to argue? As disappointed as I am, I leave knowing that the clinic visit wasn’t a total bust—at least I have the service dog/world renown animal trainer experience to give me chuckles through the miserable days ahead.

As Good as it Gets . . . for now

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There’s a great scene in the Jack Nicholson movie, “As Good as it Gets” where he barges into his psychiatrist’s office without an appointment. When the psychiatrist sends him away, he walks through a packed waiting room, pauses, turns to the patients and says, “What if this is as good as it gets?” Off camera, someone gasps. Everyone else just stares at him.

One year and one month after my husband of 46 years died and left me to redefine myself with a new label—Widow—I had an appointment with my therapist. I’d been off and on weepy for a couple of days, suspecting we were nearing the end of the journey she had guided me through. I was reluctant for our relationship to end. She’s someone I can sit across from and uncage all my emotions. To me, they’re terrifying gargoyles, yet she never once flinched when I sent the demons flying in her direction. However, over the past couple of months, they’ve calmed down and are increasingly content to snuggle, purring, at my feet.

We talked about how I was doing and reflected on the past 13 months.

Gary died on March 15th—the Ides of March, which was ironic given that his favorite Shakespeare play was Julius Caesar. If you’re unfamiliar with ancient history, Julius Caesar had named himself dictator in perpetuity of the Roman Republic. Soon after, members of the Roman Senate were, like, “Yeah, well we don’t like Caesar all that much, especially not enough to put up with him forever.” But according to law, they couldn’t vote him out.

A few conniving senators gathered and got all hopped up on whatever the Roman’s hopped-up beverage of choice was and decided to call a special senate session with two agenda items: (1) Bring a knife hidden under your fancy toga; and (2) Be prepared to use it.

At the appointed signal, they surrounded Caesar and stabbed him to death—on the Ides of March.

A few days before Gary’s death, he mentioned this play. As if foretold, he died from complications of diabetes exactly 2,065 years after Julius Caesar. Remarkably, Gary survived a nearly recording-breaking 65 years of living with juvenile diabetes. Despite the care he had taken to survive for so long, the devastating effects of his disease conspired to attack all at once— pneumonia, kidney failure, heart failure. Like Caesar, his death was an ambush.

Life is strange. Death, it seems, can be even stranger.

As I’ve said in previous blog posts, I’ve dealt with dozens of widows through my work as a financial advisor. I have a few close friends who were widowed years ago. I’d learned that the first year is awful, the second year nearly as bad, and the third year begins to offer some relief from the pit of dreadful emotions. Despite my enlightenment, my adult children worried about me. Even though I tried to shield them from the gruesome details of my sorrow, they saw through my guise, feared for my sanity and urged me to seek professional help.

I confessed I was a broken-down mess, but argued that this was normal. Eventually, in an effort to placate them, I asked a therapist friend for a referral and based upon her recommendation, contacted Carol.

She was full up until the end of June. Fine by me. I didn’t want to see her anyway.

When I went to my first appointment in early July, I wore snappy business clothes so Carol would recognize me as a woman of corporate steel, someone fully capable of dealing with whatever monkey dung life flung at me. Moments after I sat on her couch, she asked about my situation.

Tears and snot burst from me like an erupting volcano. I tossed the F-word around like beads at Mardi Gras. I spewed my anger at myself for feeling weak and overwhelmed, feeling tired all the time, being confused and forgetful, and hating people who said things to try to make me “better,” but only made me feel worse.

After a bit, I paused and said, “I’m sorry, but I say fuck a lot.”

She said, “I don’t fucking care.”

I knew she was the therapist for me.

Over the months after Gary died, my anger towards people consumed me and caused me to be filled with guilt. I’d been raised to allow others to express anger, but not me, oh no, not me. I’d grown up with the notion that I should react to people with love, not anger. In Carol’s office, I covered my weeping face with my hands and rocked back and forth. I was a horrible person for hating people when they said inane bullshit. I should look beyond their words and honor their attempts to soothe me.

And you know what Carol said? My wonderful, savior Carol? “During times like this, people say things to make themselves feel better. You were raised in an era when women had to bury their feelings in order to be socially acceptable and take care of others. You don’t have to do that anymore. Anger and hatred can sometimes be useful emotions to propel us forward, to help us take action.”

I’m forever grateful to her for this.

I never—well, let’s say very rarely—unleashed my anger onto others. Not because I’m a saint, but because I’ve learned enough in this life to know I’d have to later apologize. Quite frankly, I’m too lazy to expend that type of energy.

Over the following months, Carol guided me through exercises where I wrote scathing letters to those who had ignited my ire. After I read them to her, I was not to send them, but to shred them. This went a long way towards allowing me to maybe not actually like these people, but to not hate them as much.

In my last session with Carol, she praised my hard work. As much as I am tempted to avoid it, I sit with my grief—not all day, every day, but begrudgingly make a place for it whenever the bitch barges in uninvited. I allow myself to experience true anguish even when I fear it will kill me. I have a group of supportive friends who I interact with on a regular basis. I accept myself for being a mess because, fact is, I was a mess and sometimes still am.

When Carol asked if I wanted to continue seeing her, I pointed to a cupboard in her bookshelf and asked, “Do you have any ecstasy tablets in there?” She laughed and said no. “In that case, can I keep you on speed dial if I need you in the future?” She said yes.

For now, this is as good as it gets—long stretches before sadness sneaks up from behind and shoves me to the ground, feeling joy in moments that call for it, gratitude for family and friends and even towards those who said lousy things that once pissed me off—at least they cared enough to say something. I’m having fewer anxiety attacks, my mental capacity is improving, and I don’t fight as much against this process—a onetime formidable foe.  

Without my guide Carol, I would not be here. I’d be lagging far behind on the grief path, lugging a heavy pack filled with sorrow, anger, hatred, self-judgement, shame and vulnerability. Over the months of our hiking together, she gave me permission to toss bits of these aside and lighten my load.

Don’t get me wrong, this hike is far from over. My load still feels heavy at times. Whenever I’m distracted, those pesky demons tend to slither back into my pack. But I’m stronger than I was a year ago and the burden is not as hard to carry.           

Life after a Death

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What is life after the death of a significant loved one? Over the past year, I’ve asked myself this at least once a day.

Six months after the death of my husband Gary, our daughter Jenn came for a visit. The day after she returned home, I found she’d left the Bill Bryson book, “A Walk in the Woods” on the guestroom nightstand. I picked it up and read the back dust cover, intrigued by the author’s quest to hike the Appalachian Trail.

I was at loose ends with the new reality widowhood had dealt me—unanchored with no discernible path forward. Clutching the book to my heart, I had a revelation—I could gear up and hike the Appalachian Trail! This would be the key to purging my sadness over Gary’s death and spark the journey to recovering my power.

I envisioned myself striding through the forest, staff held high, wearing sturdy boots that encouraged long Amazon-woman strides, breathing in a new life along with the heady mountain air. A smile graced my lips, my gaze drifted heavenward as the light of a thousand angels washed over me and filled me with joy.

Okay, okay, I admit I was not in my right mind.

Over the course of my career as a financial advisor, I’ve encountered dozens of widows. I believed I was empathetic to their plight. Each was confused and sad most of the time, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Until Gary died, I had no idea—I repeat, no idea—what that actually meant in practice.

Now I do.

For nearly half a day, I remained infatuated with the idea of hiking the Appalachian Trail. It felt empowering to imagine stepping out of my comfort zone, putting myself into the middle of nature—which is not one of my favorite places—and having no choice but to commune with it.

Never mind that I’m surrounded by a loving family and a community of friends who are supporting me emotionally through this time. The fact is I was stuck in a tarpit. I didn’t want to depend upon others to help pull me out.

I’ve always been a goal-oriented person. With Gary gone, I needed to set goals to move forward and become fully functioning once again. And that had to happen ASAP! But I didn’t have the faintest idea how to begin. I was incapable of designing a blueprint for what that life should look like.

Hiking the Appalachian Trail might be the key.

I was excited!

My usual counsel to new widows is to avoid making any major decisions for the first year or two. I’ve seen dreadful mistakes, like finding a substitute mate who eventually steals money and goes on the lam, or moving closer to adult children who don’t want them nearby.

Yet here I was after six months of widowhood believing that hiking the Appalachian Trail was a good idea. Why should I sit here amidst the muck of despair and deep sadness when I could break out, have an adventure and learn a thing or two about myself along the way?

As I read Bryson’s book, I quickly realized this hike was far from my romantic notions, far from allowing me to have moments of life changing experiences which were not also life threatening. I had to admit that I truly hate camping, having never once had a pleasurable experience.

And backpacking? Gary and I went on our first and last backpacking trip with friends early in our marriage—to a mountain above Palm Springs. We were dedicated cigarette smokers at the time and woefully out of shape. After we struggled up endless, winding trails to finally throw our packs off at the summit, the only thing that allowed us to continue breathing were the generous shots of whiskey poured by our friends.

Over the past year, I’ve resentfully learned that as painful and awful this grief process is, sitting with it has turned into an unexpected adventure, one that is slowly allowing me to discover myself. It is not fun by any means. It’s as uncomfortable as I imagine being drafted into hell. Several pages into Bryson’s book, I realized that backpacking through the Appalachian Trail would be worse—lugging a heavy pack, disgusting bugs, blood-sucking mosquitos and ticks, terrifying bears, hazardous terrain, trying not to barf while eating Top Ramen every night.

Throughout each of my days since Gary died, I’ve been able to live in a comfortable home with running water, central heat, electricity, homecooked meals, flushable toilets and toilet paper. Every night, I’m able to put on pajamas, curl up in my luxurious Flo-Bed and snuggle under a pile of blankets. My sadness is regularly put on hold by family and friends who keep me distracted and entertained.

I was disappointed to come to the conclusion that hiking the Appalachian Trail will not help me. It would probably kill me. I don’t wish to die in such a fashion, not to mention my kids aren’t ready to be orphans.

If you haven’t suffered the loss of a significant loved one, I envy you. If you have a relative or friend who is going through this kind of grief and you think they’re crazy, trust me—they are. I humbly ask you to be there for them without judgement. Those of us who are grieving judge ourselves harshly. We think we should be better, but we’re not. Be there for them—regularly reaching out with a phone call, text, a meal, a walk or an invitation to coffee or lunch. Such things will go a long way to help them heal from deep wounds.

Try to be there for the long haul. It takes more than a year to heal from this type of pain. Take comfort in knowing that when you have this same experience—and you will—these people, people like me, will be there for you in ways others cannot.

Practicing Gratitude & Co-dependence at the Dollar Store

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On March 26, 2021, nearly two weeks after my husband died and two days after trying to celebrate my first birthday in 46 years without him, I made a conscious decision to spend the day in gratitude. I’d spent so many days frazzled and crying, starting when Gary entered the hospital on February 10th to struggle for three and a half weeks to survive against numerous odds. When all hope to save him had been extinguished, he returned home to spend nine days before he died. Each of those days was overlayed with sadness which hollowed me out, left me defeated and tired, so dreadfully tired.

I needed a break, if only for one day.

I expressed gratitude for the amazing family we built together, that Gary was no longer suffering, and I didn’t have to watch him suffer, for our excellent health insurance, that it was a bright, warm sunny day. . . and on and on and on.

A friend who lives in Mendocino invited me for a walk. I added “grateful for friends” to my list. On the way to meet her, I stopped at the Dollar Store. Easter loomed, and daughter Jenn and I had promised Gary we would decorate his urn—a vintage Folger’s coffee can—for each holiday. I quickly found two items—a headband with bunny ears and a bunny head.

Perfect.

Only one checkout stand was open and the waiting line long. Then again, most lines seemed longer at that time given the Covid restrictions of respecting a six-foot social distance. As I took my place at the back, a reinforcement checker was summoned. She appeared to be mid-fifties, early sixties—who knows? All I know is she didn’t look happy. She looked like she’d been pulled prematurely from a cigarette break and, as a result, plotted a capital crime of revenge, like arson or murder. I recognized that look, having a time or two entertained such thoughts myself.

I noted another gratitude item—I don’t have to work at the Dollar Store.

I followed the elderly gentleman in front of me to her checkout stand. With a pinched face and cold competence, she completed his transaction. She asked, in a threatening manner, “Do you want a bag?” As if he would take the bag only to later casually toss it into the garbage, adding to the earth’s already overflowing landfills.

He barked, “Yes, damnit, I want a bag!”

I felt a tingle of anticipation. This had the potential to develop into something interesting, to spice up the monotony of standing in line. I was disappointed when he left without incident.

The clerk looked at my two items on the conveyor belt and snapped, “Two dollars and eighteen cents.” She hadn’t even scanned them, yet knew the price. Of course, she did. She works at the Dollar Store where everything’s a dollar. It probably isn’t that difficult to memorize the tax due on a simple purchase. Still, I was impressed. I handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

“Do you have anything smaller?”

“Pardon?” Between the mask and the plexiglass separating us, I hadn’t heard her.

“I SAID, DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING SMALLER?”

I certainly heard that. “I’m sorry, I don’t,” I said with an appropriate measure of shame.

This seemed enough to completely ruin what I suspected had started out for her as a terrible day, perhaps even a miserable life. Did her husband recently die and she didn’t have the luxury of spending time to properly mourn him before going back to work at this shithole?

“Do you at least have eighteen cents?” She scowled.

I did not. I only had two twenty-dollar bills in my wallet.

The woman behind me piped up, “I have twenty cents.”

I pointed to the woman. “She has twenty cents.” Behind my mask, I smiled at the benevolent stranger, grateful that we had a potential solution to the clerk’s dilemma, tail wagging like a puppy eager to please its grumpy master. I sincerely wanted to make the clerk happy, someone who is forced to work at the Dollar Store while I am not.

“Forget it,” the clerk growled. “I hate having to give up the change in my drawer.” I imagined this was the first and only time a Dollar Store employee had uttered this sentence.

As if everyone in the store needed an explanation as to why I didn’t have a measly eighteen cents, I said to the woman behind me, “After coins build up in my wallet, I put them in a cup to roll later and deposit in my savings account at the bank.” The woman cheerfully said, “I do, too. We either have a bunch of change or we don’t have any.”

“Exactly!” I was thrilled to have found an ally and looked at the clerk for a flicker of understanding. She glared as she ripped bills and coins from her till.

As she reached to offer my change, I opened my wallet and held it out her. I was not in my right mind—had not been for several weeks. The only explanation I have for this behavior is I was trying to prove that I didn’t have any change, that I hadn’t deliberately intended to make her day worse.

She looked at me as if I was addle-brained and let out a heavy sigh to indicate I was to stop this nonsense, take the change, and get out of the goddamned store.

On another day, I might have been offended by her behavior. On this day, I walked out, got into my car, closed my eyes, tilted my face upwards while taking a deep breath, determined to continue with my day of gratitude.

I started the car and the Cat Stevens song, “Trouble,” came on the radio.

Trouble

Oh trouble set me free

I have seen your face

And it’s too much too much for me

Trouble

Oh trouble can’t you see

You’re eating my heart away

And there’s nothing much left of me

I bawled all the way on the 15-minute drive to Mendocino.

True or False?

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On October 26, 2021, I waited in line at the Mendocino Coast Clinic’s mobile vaccination clinic to get my Covid booster shot. When it was my turn, I handed my card through the car window to a young woman who filled out the date and dose and returned it. I tossed it on the passenger seat and moved forward to get my shot. From there, I drove to the designated parking area to wait the required 15 minutes. As I put the card in my wallet, I noticed the date of my first vaccine—February 23rd.

That couldn’t be.

That. Could. Not. Be.

***

In the early days of the Covid vaccination clinics, none were offered on the Mendocino Coast. People urged me to go inland—to Willits (an hour away) or Ukiah (an hour and a half away), even Santa Rosa (two and a half hours away). One person suggested getting “aggressive” in my quest to get myself and my husband vaccinated. What they didn’t realize, what I didn’t share, is how increasingly disabled Gary had become over the past year. There was no way he would be able to tolerate what I termed a cattle call, traveling such distances only to wait in line with dozens of people. I didn’t have the luxury to be “aggressive.”

Eventually, a friend learned of a vaccination event at Mendocino High School on February 23rd—only a 15-minute drive—and signed me up. My appointment was at 1:00. I arrived at 12:45. Because the school’s parking lot is quite small, I parked on the street at the bottom of the hill. It was a cold day, made colder by the biting wind. I’d put on a sweater, wool suit jacket and scarf. I was going to bring a heavier jacket, but decided against it, figuring the time from leaving my car to entering the gym would only be a matter of minutes.

Near the base of the hill, I was stopped by the end of a line, which by my calculations was a good 10 miles from my destination. I wanted to scream, “What’s going on here? I have an appointment for God’s sake! Don’t tell me these people were all booked for the same time!” I settled myself with the reminder that I’m not the only person in the world, that these people suffered my same predicament and maybe the line would move swiftly.

I pulled out my phone and began playing crossword puzzles—the equivalent of sucking my thumb whenever I have to wait. As the line moved slowly—as in snail pace slowly—the air grew colder and the wind more insistent. For the first time ever, I was able to relate to the valiant hikers who struggle against the elements to crest Mount Everest.

If you’ve never been to Mendocino High School—and I assume most of you haven’t—it sits atop one of the most pristine pieces of real estate along the California coastline with a 180-degree view of the Pacific Ocean. Such a shame to waste it in on snarky teenagers who by that time in life hate their small town and can’t wait to escape. If Jeff Bezos ever sees this school, he’ll figure out a way to capture it, tear it down, and turn it into either a rocket launching pad or one of his many luxury retreats.

During the two grueling hours it took me and my fellow hikers to get into the gym, my fingers grew numb from the cold and could no longer navigate the crossword puzzles. I silently cursed those who “organized” this event. They deserved to be punched in the face or at the very least publicly humiliated.

I realize this was early on in the vaccination effort and people were doing the best they could amid the chaos. That doesn’t mean I couldn’t have unpleasant feelings about enduring the hardship of freezing for two hours without snacks or a porta-potty.

When I finally entered the warm gym lobby, I wanted to drop to my knees and weep with gratitude, but feared any tears would freeze to my frostbitten face. A young man asked my name. When he checked his iPad, his brow furrowed. “You’re not in the system.”

I nearly shattered into a million pieces.

I was cursed with two names—Kathleen is my given one, Kate is my nickname. I had said Kathleen. After I said Kate, he looked again and found me. I nearly leaped over his table, grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.

Inside the gym, an acquaintance who was a volunteer beckoned me to her table where she filled out and gave me my vaccination card. I wallowed in euphoria for the few moments it took her to hand me a slip of paper and say, “You’ll have to check this website in a couple of weeks to register for your follow-up shot.”

What?!?

What?!?

Every person I knew had their second shot scheduled when they received their first. What sins was I atoning for that forced me to suffer this horrendous ordeal? I took a deep breath, thanked her without meaning it and moved forward to the designated waiting area.

After about five minutes, a nurse called me to her station. She started to chit chat. My jaw was still thawing from the cold and I could neither chit nor chat. She said she’d heard my name before. I’ve been told I’m practically a local celebrity, but wasn’t in the mood to sign autographs. She wouldn’t stop asking me if I knew this person or that in hopes of finding a mutual connection. I wanted to scream, “There’s a thousand people out there freezing to death. Give me the blasted shot and get on to the next one.”

I sat the in 15-minute waiting area and didn’t faint or die. As I walked down the hill past the poor, blue-lipped, shivering peons, a woman about my age appeared at my side. “Well, that was a f-ing shit show,” she said. Ah…a kindred spirit. We walked together, volleying the F-word back and forth. At the bottom of the hill, we parted and she said, “I’m going home to smoke a big, fat doobie.” I flashed her two-thumbs up.

My memory is that I went home to rant and rave with Gary about Covid, about how it was ruining our lives, about how the government was bumbling the vaccination rollout—maybe even about what the hell we were going to eat for dinner. We eventually soothed our rage by watching “Judge Judy” which routinely allowed us to criticize stupid-ass people and going a long way towards boosting our self-esteem.

***

As I put my October 26th updated vaccination card in my wallet, I realized I couldn’t have come home to Gary on February 23rd.

He entered the hospital on February 10th where he spent the following three and a half weeks. He and his doctors struggled to find ways to allow him to survive before finally surrendering and he made the noble decision to come home to die. It was Covid Time. He was in Adventist Hospital Saint Helena, three hours away. I wasn’t allowed to be there, but was in telephone contact with him and the staff several times a day. It was a deeply traumatic experience—for him, for me, for our family.

Looking back, I realize the trauma of Gary’s last weeks sent my mind into another dimension with little sense of space and time. I believed I handled everything in my usual take charge manner, but now know I was living a surreal existence.

How on earth could I remember Gary being here on February 23rd when he’d been in the hospital for 13 days?

I suppose it was because for 46 years, Gary had always been with me. He was my sounding board. I didn’t always agree with his feedback—especially when he told me to calm the hell down—but I valued my ability to ask for it. How was it possible he wasn’t here when I returned nearly hypothermic from standing so long in the cold, after being told I’d have to check a website in a few weeks to schedule my second shot? How was he not here to agree that we live in such a terrible time, that Covid has completely screwed up everything, and we couldn’t take it anymore?

How?

I know for certain I would not have called Gary to complain while he was fighting for his life in the hospital. So, who did I rant to? I honestly cannot remember. Probably to my poor daughter and son-in-law who were with me during this time. Probably over the phone to my sister who was always available to listen to my tearful rages.

Fear for my mental health sent me to the internet to do a bit of research. I was relieved to discover that my experience isn’t unusual for someone who has experienced trauma. It’s called false memory.

According to the website “healthline,” (www.healthline.com/health/false-memory#overview), “[False memories] range from small and trivial, like where you swear you put your keys last night, to significant, like how an accident happened or what you saw during a crime.”

As time goes by, I’m sure I’ll uncover more false memories from this time. As for this particular one—and as strange as this might sound—it comforts me that even though Gary wasn’t here to commiserate with after I got home from the Mendocino debacle, I was able to spend several months believing he was.

Close Encounters of the Deer Kind

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zombie buck

Drawing by author, artist and blogger Jenn Hotes (www.jenniferlhotes.com)

I’m driving home from the gym one dusky late afternoon in January. The gratitude I feel for life pumps to the Bee Gees “Stayin’ Alive” blaring from the radio. A challenging day has been rewarded by a workout with friends Kathleen and Bethany. I’m looking forward to a quiet evening with my husband Gary and dog Lucy.

I pull into my garage a little after five. When I open the car door, I hear Lucy barking like she’s defending our yard from terrorists. I exit the man door (yes, the door made for people to walk through is called a man door) of our detached garage and see Lucy’s backside near the left corner. She’s barking with such ferocity that she’s practically lifting from the ground.

I walk towards her to find—around the side of the garage—a deer. Actually, a large buck with imposing antlers—standing about 12 feet away.

A big-ass, mangy buck. Just standing there. In my yard!

I have no experience with wild animals and have never been this close to one in my life.

I recall stories of deer kicking and injuring dogs. I yell at Lucy to stop, but of course she does not. She’s in what we call Catahoula mode where her brain is entirely controlled by instinct. For over a century, Catahoula’s have been bred to hold animals at bay until the hunter arrives to…well…you know. A well-trained Catahoula will back off when given a command.

A Lucy is not so well trained.

I wave my arms and yell at the buck. He just stands there. I start towards him, waving and screaming. Lucy moves closer to him, still barking. I yell at her to stop.

He doesn’t move, just stares at me with blank, black eyes.

I wonder if he has the rabies. I’d recently heard a podcast where a woman told a story of being attacked by a rabid raccoon. She was severely injured and it took her months to recover.

Amidst the chaos, the buck just stands there. Staring. Unblinking.

Every horror movie I’ve ever seen comes back to me.

The buck must be a zombie.

Suddenly, he lowers his head and takes a step towards Lucy. Oh God no—he’s going to skewer her!

I ramp up the arm waving and cursing. I wish I had something to throw at him. It seems like forever—but is probably only 15 seconds—before he turns, trots to the fence with Lucy in hot pursuit, and jumps out of the yard. I race to look down the alley to make sure he’s gone.

When I turn, Lucy is taking a poop.

As I walk to the house, trying to calm my heartbeat, I call Lucy to come. She’s laying in the grass. It’s coated with rain and she hates rain. I check her out and see no blood. She slowly gets up, limping behind me.

A few years ago, she had luxating patella surgery on both knees, which makes her susceptible to an ACL tear. My heart sinks at the possibility of having to choose between another surgery or euthanasia.

I enter the house, my gratitude flushed into the putrid cesspool of self-pity. Thanks to this crazy buck, my dog could be facing grave consequences.

Gary reports that he’d let Lucy outside and heard her start barking. He called her and tried to see what was going on, and was worried about her for the half hour it took me to return home. His mobility issues and impaired eyesight makes it impossible to see much.

Lucy eventually loses her limp and passes out on the sofa, content in the knowledge she is Rin Tin Tin for the day. We praise her valor.

The next day, I tell my sister—who lives in a city and was raised like me with no exposure to wildlife—about the incident. She urges me to call the authorities. “That’s a potentially dangerous animal.”

I imagine the police dispatcher’s response to such a call. It would be the same as a 911 call I made some years ago when I found a stray dog wandering around the yard.

“Ma’am, this is not an emergency.”

“It is to me.”

She’ll hang up, go to happy hour where she’ll tell her friends, and they’ll all get a good laugh at the moron who is afraid of a deer.

I tell my sister my plan if the buck comes back—I’ll throw a skillet at him.

A friend who lives on the outskirts of town tells me that deer freeze when frightened. I had no idea. She assures me that because of his traumatic experience, the buck probably won’t return, but advises me to get some deer repellant and spray it around the perimeter of the yard and on some plants.

I do this and the next morning Lucy runs around the house barking and whining. I look outside and in the dim light see two doe standing in the middle of the yard. I rush, cursing, to shoo them away.

So much for deer repellent.

I used to think deer were graceful, almost spiritual animals. Now I’m not so sure. That buck scared the crap out of Lucy and the wits out of me and is responsible for making me no longer trust deer. I scan the yard a few times a day, wary of his return. I suppose I’ll have to live with post-traumatic deer syndrome for a while. In the meantime, I’ll keep a skillet handy.

Inwindow

Lucy in recovery from post-traumatic deer syndrome

***

For an entertaining view of a deer acting crazy, watch this news clip.

Getting It Together With Bob

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tenmile2

I sit in the Ten Mile Justice Center courtroom in Fort Bragg, legs crossed, right foot bobbing in an effort to dissipate my nerves. I’m here for the second month in a row to request a continuance on a restraining order I was reluctant to file, but that law enforcement has encouraged me to pursue.

My lower back starts to painfully throb. I concentrate on taking deep, slow breathes, which manifest as shallow asthmatic wheezes. I want to cut and run.

The cases previous to mine are mundane—the opening of probate, something about a family trust, and an illegal eviction. About a half hour after court comes to order, someone enters through the back door. I don’t know who because I’m sitting in the front row of the gallery. The person sits behind me to the right of my peripheral vision. Cigarette fumes give me a nicotine contact high. All I can see of this person is orange and gray athletic shoes.

The judge calls a case for a someone named Bob (not his real name). The guy sitting behind me stands and moves forward. He’s a trim, grizzled 50-something who wears capri-length workout pants and a tank top with three horizontal slashes across the back. I’m somewhat alarmed that he seems to have ignored the posted rules for appropriate court attire—no shorts, no tank tops. His blonde streaked hair is combed forward and he’s got a healthy tan. If he were a few decades younger, he’d look like an attractive surfer dude.

The previously bored bailiff stands and rests his hand on his pistol.

The judge informs Bob the restraining order against him has been dropped. (This order has nothing to do with my case.)

“So I can go back to Ukiah?” Bob asks, incredulous.

“I cannot tell you what to do,” the judge says.

“I’ve been living in Ukiah getting my life together,” Bob announces proudly. “I’m off meth.”

“Good for you,” the judge says with genuine warmth.

“I have some clothes at that house. Can I get them before I leave town?”

“I cannot tell you what to do,” the judge says.

“Since the restraining order’s been dropped, I can go pick up my clothes?”

“I cannot tell you what to do.”

Bob shakes his head as if to dispel water from his ears. “I just wanna tell ya,” he says, “you’re the best. The best!” As if the judge had something to do with getting the complaining party to drop the restraining order.

“Thank you. You’re free to go.”

“I won’t forget this.” Bob turns to leave. “You’re the best. The best!” He’s giddy, pumping his fist in the air like his favorite team just won the World Cup.

The bailiff sits down.

I make note of Bob’s full name in order to later check the online Mendocino County Sheriff’s Booking Log. I’m certain—willing to put money on it—that  he’ll be arrested before nightfall for causing a kerfuffle at a house where nobody wants him, yet where some of his clothing still resides.

After he leaves, my case is called. For Bob, my experience would have been a day at the beach. For me, it was stressful enough to send me home to lay on the floor with an ice pack under my back and feeling what Southern women used to call “having a case of the vapors.”

The party I’m seeking a restraining order against, someone who made an obsessive series of calls to my home, someone who is well known to law enforcement, has a right to be served with notice of the filing. He cannot be found. I’m granted my continuance, but scheduled to return the following month. I want nothing more than to have this process over and done with, but fear I’ll spend the bulk of 2019 going to court.

A few days later, I remember to check on Bob to see if he escaped arrest the evening following court and made it safely back to his new life in Ukiah.

Exactly one week before his appearance in the coast courtroom, he was arrested in Fort Bragg for being a public nuisance. He was held overnight.

The day after his release, he was arrested in Ukiah (about an hour and a half drive from Fort Bragg) for disorderly conduct: alcohol, and held overnight.

Two days after that release, he was once again arrested in Ukiah on the same charge and held overnight.

The following day, he appears in the Fort Bragg courtroom to make it a matter of public record that he’s getting his life together.

Bob might have issues with substance abuse and appropriate public decorum, but the underlying struggles he’s dealing with have been visited upon all of us to some degree or another.

We’ve all made the Monday morning promises—“I swear to God I’m going to (fill in the blank).”

  • Quit smoking. Until you can no longer suppress the desire to chop someone’s head off (usually by noon on Monday when you bum a smoke from a co-worker).
  • Quit drinking. Until you get home after a stressful Monday at work.
  • Go on a diet. Go to the gym. Get in shape. Until, on your way home from work, you stop by McDonald’s for a value meal to pair with your tequila shots.
  • Give up that toxic girlfriend or boyfriend. Until 10:00pm when you start drunk texting.

Yeah, yeah, yeah—we’ve all made such proclamations, and we’ve all inevitably failed until for some reason—grace?—we follow through and actually turn things around.

Like a worried mother, I visit the booking log website every few days to check on Bob. I’m hopeful he’ll stay out of trouble for good—or at least for a time. Five days after I’m made aware of him, he’s arrested again in Ukiah for—you want to take a guess?—disorderly conduct: alcohol.

At least he’s not on meth, I tell myself.

Twelve days later, he’s arrested in Ukiah for indecent exposure.

I hope Bob eventually finds the grace to overcome his demons and find peace.

I hope I eventually get my own act together and stop checking on him.

Going, Going, Gone

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hoarding1On the morning of January 20th, I was alerted to a fire at what I called the Hoarder House. I’d never witnessed a fire in real time. It was equally fascinating and disturbing (see January 31 blog post). When the burning finally stopped, the property was surrounded by barricades and crime scene tape. Eventually, a chain link fence was erected to keep passersby safely away from the crumbling mass of charred rubbish.

rubbleMonths went by. Winds and rain caused the waterfall of junk to precariously shift. People started asking me why the City hadn’t torn the place down. I’m flattered they have the impression that I’m privy to the goings on around town. I actually know next to nothing, and often stifle an urge to make things up.

Due to my years-long obsession with this house and people counting on me to know stuff, I recently took precious time and energy away from watching “Judge Judy” and launched an investigation. City Manager Tabitha Miller eased the burden of this task by sending a press release dated July 9, 2018.

Apparently, the City had a heck of a time getting someone to take responsibility for clearing the property. None of the parties involved—the owner, mortgage holder or insurance company—would cooperate. In April, Nationstar (the mortgage holder) received an insurance payout of $175,000. In May, they foreclosed on the property, which made them the official owner.

House2bSo what you think Nationstar did?

  1. Acted like grownups, admitted their liability, and offered to immediately clean up their property that stood like a gaping wound on the edge of downtown just off Main Street.
  2. Acted like juvenile delinquents, stuffed the money in their pockets, and ran.

Sadly, they chose number two. The City diligently tried to contact Nationstar, but they would not return phone calls or respond to letters.

On June 8—nearly six months after the fire—the Community Development Director sent a certified letter to Nationstar informing them that they had until July 10 to start cleaning up the property. For each day of delay, they would be assessed a $1,000 fine.

The threat of $1,000 a day seemed to catch the attention of the suits at Nationstar. By July 3rd, the contractor hired for cleanup applied to the City for a permit.

House3aA few weeks ago, black tarps were draped over the chain link fence and the demolition began. Within a couple days, the dumpsters supplied by Waste Management were filled to capacity and work paused until they could be hauled inland and emptied.

As the process unfolded, I finagled my way around the tarps to snap photos. For decades, this house stood as a shameful monument to hoarding. Within days, it was no more.

I find it hard to say goodbye.

House4b

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