There's yet another dangerous summer fire burning in my old stomping grounds. This is the second fire in the vicinity of the area where Rick and I used to live, Oroville, California, in that many months. It is also the largest fire to hit California thus far this year. Still in contact with friends in that area, I checked in with them to see how everyone was doing. My dear friend, Louise, who lives in Chico not far from the burn area, reported she could see flames lapping up the hillside from her vantage point night before last. Fire is so devastating to both the landscape, and the people and animals populating it. I think often of beautiful Paradise, California. I worked there at the local newspaper for four years, and knew the town well. Many people I was either acquainted with, or called friends, lost everything in that blaze. Eighty-five souls were lost in all, a terrible toll. Apparently, some of the brave people who rebuilt up in the Paradise area are being evacuated in this fire as well. I saw one couple interviewed who had lost their home in the Paradise fire, only to have rebuilt and watched their new home burn down in the one scouring the hillsides at the moment. Nobody every said life was fair, yes? Also on the fire front, I was so saddened to hear half of Jasper, Alberta was lost to a recent fire. Truly, you would be hard pressed to find more beautiful country than that area. Flames are voracious predators, unrelenting in their greed for land. Though I know it is the natural way of things, these fiery summers seem far more sinister than in summers past. Not sure what the statistics are, but surely the planet getting hotter has everything to do with this.
Here I am seated at my desk again. This week I only have one day to clock in and out, as I am off tomorrow to enjoy a visit from my son and his wife. Yay. I haven't had a Saturday off since we went on our 30 day road trip, so am looking forward to spending the day with them and having a whole weekend without anything job related to muck it up. Whoo-hoo.
Yesterday, I gave my landlord's notice I would be vacating the premises I rent from them as of October 1st. I was surprised how emotional I became when writing the text. The sweet little house I live in has been my safe haven for the past five and a half years, and there will be sadness associated with closing the door there for the last time and moving on to the next chapter of my life. My landlords have been the best. They live directly across from me, and I see them as friends and neighbors really before business associates. Both the two of them and the house I currently occupy were such gifts while I was going through an emotionally charged time after Rick passed away. It will seem strange not to come home there anymore, but change is in the wind now.
Change is part of life, and certainly not unfamiliar landscape for me. Richard made me smile yesterday when he asked if I needed help packing. I explained to him, anyone who has moved thirty-nine times, should have a pretty good handle on properly wrapping a glass or two by now. I'm nothing if not resilient as a human. When you have changed venues, spouses, locations, as often as I have, resilience becomes sort of built into you. Change doesn't unsettle me perhaps as much as it might some. However, as with any new venture, there is still that pinch of apprehension mixed in with the sense of excitement associated with stepping out of your comfort zone into something unknown.
Last night, Boo and I shared space together while I packed. The lazy feline lay stretched out on the floor, only stirring from time to time to open one eye to check out what mischief I was up to with all the boxes stacked everywhere around me. I moved slowly and methodically. I have two months stretched out before me to complete boxing up everything, so it's not pedal to the metal time as yet. Two months seems like a long time, but I'm really only at my house two days a week, and am working both of those days, so in the end it really is not. Any leg up I can get on getting the job done will be beneficial, because mid-September I'm having surgery to correct my bent finger, which will definitely put a crimp (no pun intended) in my functionality going forward for a few weeks afterwards.
Packing up belongings always seems to lead to a bit of a walk down memory lane. Pictures, memorabilia, items with any emotional connection, all pass through your hands and heart before being tucked away. As I packed, I would find myself stopping to look at this or that impeding the forward flow. My goal was to sort a lot out for donation or to toss, but my pile of discards was way smaller than what I planned to keep. Some of my things will go to Richard's to be incorporated into his items, but much of it will be put in my storage unit for however long it will need to be. I'm hoping this will be my last move for awhile, and Richard and I have a long life together. We are at an age now where changes become less drastic then when we were younger. Back in my twenties and thirties, an intriguing new job might have had me moving half way around the world, or a quest for adventure have me considering a move to Australia to study the Barrier Reef. Our worlds become a bit smaller as we age. Homes, at least ownership of homes, will not be in my future. Never say never, I know, but I have owned five houses over the years, and am satisfied with that. I no longer want to be tied down to mortgages, or manage a huge yard, or deal with all the headaches accompanying owning a dwelling. When the dishwasher breaks down, I want to call someone else who has people for that who call their people. I am happy to let someone else worry about those types of things. Richard has a lovely home, which it will be my pleasure share. That is more than enough for me. He loves to get out in his yard and push the mower around, or hop up on the roof and repair shingles. I love that he loves it. Been there, done that, most of my life. Less is more these days, and I'm happier for it. Personally, if I had the wherewithal to do so, I would happily just travel around the globe and see all the sights left unseen as of now and leave it at that.
One thing is for certain if something goes wrong, Richard has the situation covered. He has more tools than any single human being could possibly use over a life time. Was I to describe him with one word, I might choose "tinkerer". No matter what the occasion calls for, he seems to have the tool to handle the job, and the expertise to complete it. My mother was like that with kitchen equipment. The woman even owned a mushroom duster. Who knew? She had specialized tools for everything in her kitchen drawers. I remember eating a grapefruit at her house one time. I cut the fruit in half then used a paring knife to separate the sections. Once it was ready, I grabbed a spoon from the drawer and sat down to eat it. Before I had enjoyed one nibble, my mother rushed into the room looking horrified. Grabbing the spoon out of my hand, she said, "you can't eat grapefruit with that". Confused, I said, "Well, okay what would you suggest"? Apparently, according to her, I needed a "grapefruit spoon"! Really? Are there grapefruit spoons? More importantly, are there fruit police lurking in the shadows in the garage waiting to pounce on unsuspecting offenders caught scooping their produce up with the incorrect utensil? The grapefruit spoons, as it turned out, had serrated ends for removing each section. Could I have gone along happily ignorant with a regular spoon? Absolutely, but for her, this was big. For me, it sort of fell under the general heading "I don't give a pooper". Ah well. As my mum would say on such occasions if so moved, "my house, my rules". Aye, aye, Cap'n. To be honest, I'm not much of a rule girl. Perhaps this directly correlates with the fact that my mother always was. In my little mum's defense, she suffered from OCD most of her life, so rules helped her keep her ship from going adrift and floundering. By not much of a rule girl, I mean to say, I abide by the general rules we all live with, wash your hands after you use the restroom, don't go through red lights, get your flu shots. I just don't like a lot of rules in my home. Mum ran a tight ship when I was a kid. We had a pink bathroom and a gray bathroom. Pink towels, and only pink towels, were kept in the pink bathroom, and gray towels in the gray. They never intermingled. In my home you may indiscriminately use any colored towel you might desire without worry of retribution. By retribution, I mean the look. There were never physical consequences in our home. My mother was not a corporate punishment human being. I got one spanking in my life and that was administered, or almost administered, by my uncle when I was six. The punishment phase was huge for my family members. They had to have a meeting about it to decide the punishment to fit the crime. It was decided a spanking was in order. Neither my mother nor my grandmother were willing to touch a hair on my head, so administering the deed was left to my uncle was since he had been part of the problem in the first place.
The heneous crime I was guilty of committing, was running away. My uncle, a physician, was in charge of me the day the crime occurred, and had taken me with him on his house calls. For those of you who have never heard of such a thing, doctors, in the not so far distant past, actually visited those patients unable to come to see them in the office in their own homes. I KNOW. STOP IT. I am not kidding. At any rate, I was asked to remain in the car for a few minutes while my uncle took something inside to one of his patients. Now, of course, you'd go to jail for leaving a child in a car, but back then things were a little loosey goosier in such areas. The windows were left at half mast for air, it was neither too hot and too cold, and it wasn't to be for very long. Me, being six, got scared. Unable to locate my uncle, I grabbed my teddy bear and took off on foot to look for him down the street. Apparently, I was sniffling and calling for my uncle when an off duty fireman passed by on his way to his shift at the fire station. He scrunched down to ask what the problem was. Explaining I had misplaced my uncle, the man scooped me up in his arms and took me to the fire station to try to figure out where I had come from. Again, today you would be prosecuted for this, but as I said, it was a different time. Sensing my people at home were not going to be pleased with my defection, I opted not to provide my grandparents names until plied with a large ice cream cone, and beginning to tire of it all and wanting to go home. The faces welcoming me when I arrived at my address were not a happy group as I remember. My family had been sure I'd been abducted or something far worse had befallen me. Oh-oh. Once spanking had been decreed, my uncle came to my room to administer the punishment. All my alarms were going off, so I hid under the bed and refused to be coaxed out. In the end, he just smacked the bed a few times, and told them the deed was done. This was always our little secret. After that, they decided never to issue a physical punishment for me again, and in my recollection never did.
When going through all my pictures yesterday, I came across one of the outside of the house I grew up in. I believe it's one of two of the only pictures I still have of the place. I often think if I go back to Nova Scotia again I would love to go up to the door and ask the current occupants if I could take a quick tour of the inside. They would probably call a police escort for me if I did such a thing, but I would love to see it with my adult eyes for once. It has been a long time.
At any rate, back at it here. Thanks for tuning in. Busy time in my world, and the world in general. Things are firing up all over the place both literally and figuratively. Stay cool, remember to breathe. Catch you later.
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