When the Day is Done

I read the news this morning that Mary Travers died yesterday and my first reaction, my gut instinct, was to think I need to call dad and tell him. How strange that feels that almost five years after he died I would think “I need to call dad and tell him.” But I did. But why wouldn’t I. He was the reason I knew who Mary Travers was.

As a kid, I grew up listening to primarily three performers in the house. One, I hated at the time, but have grown to appreciate – Bob Dylan. The second, I didn’t think much about but eventually realized the talent – Simon and Garfunkel. The third, I loved from the first time dad put on one of their albums and have continued to listen to them well into my adult years. Peter, Paul and Mary. I probably wore out my Peter, Paul and Mommy album. I could sing along with every song and giggled out loud at “I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor” and thought “Mockingbird” was written just for me.

Growing older, I listened to more and more of their songs, and like they did for my father’s generation, they helped shape my world view. Or perhaps it’s because of my world view that I could appreciate the music they sang. It’s hard to tell which came first – the revolutionary or the folk music.

Even through my punk and New Wave years, I’d always have a Peter, Paul and Mary album close at hand to listen to, to keep me grounded.

Several years back, they came to Houston and I surprised my dad with tickets to the concert. I took my parents to see them at a small theater in Houston. It was an amazing show. Watching these icons of American music perform live was incredible. But watching the crowd, including my father, was even more incredible. It brought tears to my eyes to watch this generation sing along with every word, to be so moved by the music, to be remembering where they were when they first heard the song or to remember a time when that music inspired them. To be remembering their youth.

The music of Peter, Paul and Mary would later inspire my dad through the early stages of the illness that would eventually kill him. During those seemingly endless days in the hospital, he’d sit in his room with his headphones on, listening to Peter, Paul and Mary sing into his ears and then he’d insist everyone else listen, too.

So maybe it’s not strange that I think I need to call and share the news with him. Instead though, I think I shall go home tonight, dig out his albums, play a few songs for him and remember, all will be well when the day is done.

But I don't want to remember...

This will seem odd coming from a woman who for the last three months has helped plan this city’s commemoration events surrounding the anniversary of Ike coming ashore. But I really don’t want to be remembering where I was or what I was doing this time last year. Yet, it seems virtually impossible for my brain not to wander to those thoughts.

By this time last year, mom, Barkley, Rocky and I were in our room of the house of a friend of a friend, trying to sleep yet none of us able to. Not even the dogs could find the peace to sleep. We didn’t sleep the night before either. You’d think we would have been so emotionally and physically drained we’d have no choice but sleep. But that wasn’t the case.

I lay in that bed that night wondering what the morning would bring. We had left our houses that day and I remember it really hitting me in a McDonald’s somewhere between Galveston and Gonzales. A woman who worked there was complaining about her day, about how she had already worked 5 hours and was ready to go home. How she was tired. All this I got when I asked if they had more napkins or something like that. And I snapped. At that moment it hit me and the only words I could utter back to her were, well I left my house this morning and I’m not sure it’s going to be there when I get home. Her head sank and I turned and walked away. I felt terrible for playing that who has it worse game, after all, who knows what she had going on in her life. But it was at that moment it all sank in. I left my house uncertain of the future, uncertain whether it would be there when I got home, whether Outside Kitty would survive and where, and whether anything would be the same again.

That next morning when we finally gave in to the insomnia and turned on the television to a very snowy picture of KHOU, I realized, it wouldn’t be for a long while. We sat glued to the picture as newscasters waited, like us, for sunrise to see what Ike had left.

I remember the images from the seawall. The pictures of waves crashing against the palm trees at the San Luis. The pictures of debris scattered everywhere. And I wondered, was my house still standing?

On the afternoon of Sept. 13, mother and I and the menagerie of animals moved into the La Quinta in San Antonio and there we would be for the next 3 weeks. The first week was by far the longest of the three. It was in that first week I awaited word from anyone who could tell me whether my house had water. I knew deep down it did. I had been hearing reports from people throughout my neighborhood about how high the water reached. But until I heard it for sure, I could go on the hope that maybe my house was on this hill I wasn’t aware of and that I had escaped the damage. Oh was that a fantasy.

Then word reached us that yes, I did have about 3 to 4 feet inside the house. I remember getting the pictures in my email with “I’m so sorry” attached to them. It was my water line, above my electric meter, nearly filling my garage.

I remember mom trying to comfort me, telling me it would be OK. We’d take it room by room, she said, and we’ll get it clean and better. Then, we were completely overwhelmed upon walking in the house for the first time, boots, masks and gloves on. There is no other way to describe it than overwhelmed. You look around and wonder, where do you start? How do you start? I grabbed what I could find to save and left the rest for a demo crew to contend with, people who wouldn’t get bogged down in the sentimentality of every little object lost to Ike’s muck.

I still smell that smell from time to time and it triggers such awful memories, such awful images. I don’t look at those pictures from the damage too often, only if I need to, which isn’t often since the images are engraved in my memory.

Then the coming home to uncertainty still. My house was gutted, but I was now left wondering whether I still had a job or for how long. It was Thanksgiving before I went back to work.

So much has happened in this past year and I just want to be able to go about life without the constant reminders and near daily thoughts of life since Ike. I no longer want Ike to be my measure of time on this island. I used to measure time by life at the newspaper and life since the newspaper. Now, it seems you can’t help but measure it in terms of Ike.

I don’t want to be sitting here tonight remembering all of this, but how can we not? You’d think with all the progress we’ve made as a city – and we’ve made a hell of a lot of progress in this year – that the memories of Ike would begin to fade for us as they have for those not directly affected by the storm, for those who come to our island and wonder if we even had damage from Ike. I wish I could look around at our busy downtown and full beaches and wonder when was that hurricane again?

But I guess that’s not possible. I told myself if I could just get through this year, it would all be OK. And if I could just get through this week, it would all be OK. Well here we are. One day of events to go. And while tomorrow is the big anniversary date, today is really the anniversary of when it hit me. So if I can just get through this, it will all be OK.

I will continue to hope for the day when Ike is not in the daily conversation. When Ike is not referenced in every topic. When Ike is but a distant memory, a challenge in my life that I faced and conquered with the strength I always knew I had.

So until then, I do as I did at this time last year, and simply persevere.

Counting down to 1 year

Today marked the 109th anniversary of the 1900 hurricane, and the start of a weeklong series of events to help us get through this first anniversary of Ike. We’re celebrating how far we’ve come, reflecting on the past year and letting go once again.

For me, this week began with a visit from an old friend. Twenty-something years ago, we were in high school band together. We reconnected a year or so ago via MySpace (although we’ve both progressed to the more grown-up world of Facebook). This weekend, he and his family came to Galveston for a visit. While reconnecting with one old friend, I let go of another.

Both of us were trumpet players and he’s probably the only person who inquired about my old trumpet after the storm. In our conversations, I told him that the trumpet had been in the garage, which had some 6 or 7 feet of water in it, and I had not been able to open the case.

I’m sure if I had persisted, I could have gotten that case open. But more than the physical obstacle, was the emotional obstacle. I had a crew clear out and gut my house after the storm and they left me a small pile of things to sort through the garage – stuff that might be salvageable as it were. But in sorting through, I saw things in conditions I should never have seen. I saw the Madame Alexander doll I put out at Christmas with her head in pieces. Just walking in my house after the storm was enough to see – my piano smashed, mold growing in my books, my furniture falling apart. It’s an image no one should ever have to see and one that is hard to get out of my head. Granted, it’s nothing compared to the atrocities some see every day, but in my world, it was heartbreaking.

So the thought of seeing yet another thing I had such good memories of in some unknown state of horror was too much. But I could never bring myself to toss the trumpet in the trash. I just couldn’t. For a year, it has sat on a shelf in my garage. Until my friend and his family came to visit.

He was a trumpet player - still is. And he wants to teach his children to play as well. So we agreed that the trumpet would have a good chance at a new life with him. He took the trumpet home, opened the case and saw a horn in relatively decent condition. Part of the valves disintegrated in Ike’s waters. But overall, it’s definitely in better shape than I had imagined.

I have many fond memories with that horn, and I am delighted that it will have a chance at a third life.

Seems fitting that the trumpet found its new home this week. One year later. Just another reminder that Ike didn’t take everything away with it. Life just got a little tarnished and this past year seems to have been about polishing that tarnish away.

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.

Searching...

This morning, as I was scrambling to get my things ready to leave for work, I went hunting my purple gym bag. I’m trying swimming after work with a friend and I wanted to put all my stuff – the bathing suit, towel, etc. – in the purple gym bag to carry with me to work. I looked high and low in the room at mother’s but couldn’t find it. Then it hit. Yep, it’s been 9 months and I still have these moments.

I don’t know which is worse, that I still have such moments, or that it’s been 9 months since I went looking for my gym bag – yikes!

It’s so strange. I have at least one of these moments each week. I’ll look for something and can’t find it only to realize oh yeah, it was lost in the flood. Or I’ll see something that triggers a memory of something I hadn’t yet thought of that I lost. Or I’ll be reminded of something I’d already thought of but had pushed back in my mind. It’s awful – with so much good stuff happening around us now to have the constant reminders of what we lost.

I worry about moving back in the house, which should be any day now. Soon. Very soon. I worry that as I start living in the house I’ll start having more of these moments. I’ll start going to the closet where I kept something only to remember oh yeah, it’s not there now. Or I’ll sit in my living room and look around realizing that while everything is nice and new and pretty, something is missing. Oh yeah, furniture.

And still, 9 months after that stupid hurricane, we still talk about it almost daily. I long for the day that it is no longer part of our daily lives. That Ike is no longer part of our daily vocabulary. That we can run into someone we haven’t seen in a while and the conversation doesn’t automatically turn to tales of evacuations, sludge, insurance adjusters and rebuilding.

At what point does the remembering end and the storm really become part of our past instead of our present?