Saying goodbye to old friends

Moving home has been an emotional roller coaster. Mostly good, but sometimes sad feelings, and occasional confusion. The joy of returning to my little cottage is mixed with the fresh and daily reminder that it is a newly remodeled cottage, that nothing in it is the same. I love the new house – I really do. But I still miss the old.

Talking with a good friend tonight, I was reminded of why I miss the old. There are still pieces of the house that will never return. A simple piece of art that probably went unnoticed to most in my house. But to us, it was a reminder of a great trip, wonderful memories, and a shared experience among friends, both in the trip and in the gift given from one to another. That piece of art is gone and it’s sad to think about it being lost to Ike’s sludgy surge. It’s being bombarded with memories of ghosts in this house that is allowing a bit of sadness to creep in amid the joy of returning home.

And now, in the middle of this emotional rollercoaster ride, I’m confronted with a goodbye I have not wanted to say. Tomorrow morning, the first of my two glorious oak trees will meet its fate with the chainsaw.

Our poor neighborhood is covered with dying and dead trees, mostly old growth oak trees. The leaves of the stately oaks once provided shade to my little house. But no more. Within 2 and 3 weeks of the storm, the leaves had dropped to the ground, a symptom of the massive shock experienced by the tree from the 6-7 feet of saltwater that surrounded it for nearly a day.

Some people wonder why the emotional connection to these trees. We certainly didn’t plant them. I for one have never climbed my tree. Nor have I ever really sat beneath its shady canopy. And aside from protecting my house from stray cars a time or two, the trees really have no direct value or purpose to my house.

But with all that rational thinking aside, I think we each hold a very strong emotional tie to the trees of our neighborhood. They are among the defining characteristics of our East End. Their canopies overlap and provide a shaded lane on many of our streets. They tell a story of strength and endurance, as our houses do. That no matter what the economic times or trends in development, our neighborhood and our trees have stood strong. Maybe not always in the best condition, but they always came through. Until now.

And that’s what is so sad. The trees in my yard are estimated to be between 70 and 80 years old. I learned this weekend that when GHF moved my house to this property, the project director fought hard to save the tree in front of my house. It would have been easy to cut it down and bring my house onto the property from the front. But saving that tree was important and in every painting done of my house, that tree is there.
Someone once said that the “true meaning of life is to plant trees,
under whose shade you do not expect to sit." Well someone two of my lifetimes ago had the foresight to plant a tree knowing he or she would never sit under the shade of its branches, and for that I am grateful.

I’ve enjoyed sitting on my porch and watching the birds maneuver through the branches. I’ve sat in awe of the moon’s glow through the break in the leaves. I’ve listened as its branches moved, but never broke, during thunderstorms and even a tropical storm or two. And I’ve laughed at the squirrels who taunted my dogs at the base of the tree.
But now I say good-bye to my dear friends and thank them for the beauty and joy they have brought to this neighborhood.

Their absence, like the absence of my precious piece of lost art, will be another ghost to haunt this house. Memories never forgotten.

Back in the ‘Hood

Today was a good day. Throughout the entire rebuild process, I had my doubts. Was I really doing the right thing? Even after being back in the house I had to stop and ask my house whether this was the right choice. Part of that is just my nature, and part of it I’m sure is all the emotion moving home is bringing back up. But after today, those doubts were eased. Today, I was reminded of one of the number one reasons I hung on to my island home – the people in my life, my community.

From the time my neighborhood restaurant owners surprised me with a little extra special touch to my food order to the time the last guests left around midnight, my house was filled with the joy that can only come from those people who know you and share your joys.

This was without a doubt the second most difficult year of my life. But because of the people I choose to call friends, it was a little easier than I’m sure it could have been. After all, if I’ve learned one thing in life, it can always be worse.

Looking back on this past year, I realize how important and supportive my friends have been. I might not have been myself a lot of the time – but they were still there to bring me back. When I was excited about things like wall outlets or something silly, they were there to cheer with me.

So while it is nice to be back in my ‘hood, I know I never was very far from it with the support and love of so many in life.

It feels good to be home.

Home

If all goes as planned, and few things have along this journey, but if all goes as planned, tonight I will be sleeping in my very own bed in my very own room in my very own house. The last time I slept in my own house was Sept. 10, 2008, and nothing sounds more inviting than being back in my own bed and my own room.

The only thing is, it’s not the same bed and it’s not the same room. It’s all different and I haven’t figured out how that feels yet. Don’t get me wrong, it feels amazingly, inexplicably wonderful to be moving home. This past week of moving things and unpacking things and setting up the house how I’d like it has been a beautiful experience. The house, different as it is, has the same warm and welcoming feeling it did that first time I saw it some 14 years ago.

It was an October day and I had just decided to buy a house. I was driving by and saw it for sale. I pulled over, walked up on the porch of the vacant house and peered through the front windows and immediately saw my furniture as it would be in the house. I knew at that moment it was my house – it would be my home.

For 14 years, I filled the house with what some would have called – and did call – clutter. But I saw it all as treasures – pieces of my life filling every inch of the house. Furniture I spent countless hours searching for. Cat statues I’d brought home from travels. Photographs. Rocks. All the little things that came to make the house feel more and more like a home.

Then it was all gone and my house felt empty. I no longer had the same feeling and I wondered if it would ever return. But it did. I can now sit in my living room and just sit and not want to get up. It feels like home again.

I’m still not sure what the next few days will be like. Already I’ve been searching for things that aren’t there. I’m prepared for it. As mom and I unpacked the few items that survived, I started trying to find new homes in the house for them. I’d think “this would be great on the buffet” or “let’s put this on the piano.” Neither exist anymore. It’s all new. It’s all different. And it’s all home.

It’s my clean slate. A fresh start and inspiration.

Some have questioned why I decided to rebuild when the storm could easily have been a sign to pack it in and leave this island, something I had been thinking about for a while. They question my staying as if it’s the easy or familiar or comfortable choice. As if I’m avoiding change or fearing change or whatever might lay ahead in the big unknown.

But really, when you stop to think about it, this is a far bigger change than starting fresh in a new town would have ever been. For this is facing change right in my own life. Accepting that life as it was is no more. Every time I walk in my new house, I absolutely love it. I love how it turned out, the changes that were made, the feeling I get just being there. But it’s a constant and everyday reminder that what was there is gone.

Moving home is a celebration of my strength to endure whatever life throws at me. It is the celebration of home in all its forms.

Galveston is home. I learned that after the storm. I could have easily packed it in and run away. But when I realized I couldn’t abandon the island, or my little yellow cottage, in their time of need, I knew I was a Galvestonian.

A friend the other day talked about why his family is moving back to the island and he said he finally understood the intangible argument his wife always made about Galveston just being home. Be it Galveston or whatever corner of the world you call home, if you have to question what it means to be home, you just don’t get it.

It’s good to be home.