Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Wistful

Prologue:


Robin left a comment to my blog about becoming a photographer that she felt there was something “wistful” about the piece. She was correct, but not for the reasons she may have suspected. You see, that was to be my swan song, my exit from Bloggerville. I had run into a wall. The passion I had felt for writing seemed to have written itself out or maybe been shoved aside by the season’s outdoor activities. I would take a break, possibly a long break. But then a strange thing happened. Writing “Photography” stirred up the creative juices again, and suddenly I wanted to write some more. Today's entry is titled “Wistful” because of Robin's comment, but you will find there is nothing wistful about it. (Thanks, Robin).

This three-year stretch of time, though significant, was just one part of the path that ultimately led me home.


“Have you been to that new home shop in The Commons?”

“Dan and I just bought a king Beautyrest, and we adore it.”

“Don’t you just love this dip mix?”

“You want the side-by-side Frigidaire. It’s just so much easier.”

“Who did you get to decorate?”

"I just let Jim deal with the lawn. I have enough to do keeping the house neat."


When I think back to that time, those office cocktail parties remember like a Robert Altman movie where you catch bits and snippets of conversations, getting the suggestion of substance without ever really experiencing it. Other times I remember them in the clear focus of Woody Allen when he totally mis-fits at a WASP dinner party. In both cases, those years seem like they were lived on another planet in a galaxy far, far away.

Beginning in the summer of 1968, I was an IBM salesman's wife. I bought the right things (or at least the ones that we could afford), mimicked suburban dress, and lived in a new split-level house. I've always been a bit of a chameleon, so although it was a change from anything I'd ever experienced, it wasn't a difficult role to play.

On some days I longed for wall-to-wall carpeting and coordinating drapes, but the colors and patterns that appealed to me weren’t “the latest fashion” and so couldn't be found in the stores that sell such stuff (or maybe subconsciously something deep within me was repulsed by the idea of conforming). In my little suburban castle, wooden floors peeked out around remnant rugs, and windows were hung with home-made curtains. Our house wasn’t shabby; it was - like one of its occupants - just a little schizophrenic.

One thing that had enamored me of this particular house was that the lot was large and backed up to the remains of an orchard. In fact, our back yard had been part of that orchard, as the apple tree outside the dining room window attested, and the large barn that once graced the acreage-turned-housing tract straddled the two "vacant" lots next-door. I secretly loved this weathered, elephantine "eyesore" and sometimes took my 2-year-old daughter into it to explore and play.

The neighbors were nice folks, although they always struck me as being adults. The women and I had mom-hood in common. None of us worked “real” jobs, so we did the things suburban women do - swapped recipes and potty training strategies, watched each other's children, kept house (to varying degrees), and shopped - but that was about where our commonality ended. They did crafts; I tore the boards off another old barn and paneled my family room. When it was finished, I framed up a darkroom beside it. I dug up some evergreen trees from a nearby wood and planted them in my front yard.

Subconsciously at least, I fought this IBM wife role. At social events my skirt was too short, my hair too long. I tried to convince myself that the other salesmen and their wives were swell people (which they probably were) even though they reminded me of what we called “the clique” back in my high school days.

My husband was a good salesman, in fact, one of IBM’s top 15 rookies nationwide that year. My husband also drank. He always had, but in college everybody drank and it was considered normal. Now he drank more. We argued about it, and his drinking began to fit into a pattern of drink too much, promise not to drink any more, have “just one drink” (which the next night became two, and then the following night three), and then he’d make the same unrealistic promise and the cycle would start again. On day four of these cycles, things got thrown and smashed. As he was wont to point out, my upbringing by a pair of tea-totalers didn’t help matters. For the first time in my life, I began to experience a long stretch of unhappiness, worry and fear.

Depression crept over me like a fog. Self-pity and anger tangled up with love and despair. There were weeks when yesterday’s dirty dishes littered the place until I had to use them again, and there was the night we stood together in the kitchen, separated by only a few feet and his drunkenness, and I edged closer to a chef’s knife lying on the counter with the intention of plunging it into him, stopped only by the more rational thought that he was big and strong and that I, the mother of a toddler, couldn’t afford to chance dying.

I’d seen the dysfunctional families of my foster sisters, watched them struggle and self-destruct. Some were just way down on their luck, but most were pathological and made poor choices or allowed other people to beat them down. I somehow reasoned that if I remained in my current situation, I was as sick as they were. It wasn’t any brilliant motivator, but that thought – that I was as sick as those poor people if I stayed where I was – somehow gave me the strength to take action.

Months of separation and counseling followed. During the separation I moved "home" to my parents' house in a neighboring town. I found a part-time job waitressing and another in the community services office of a juvenile detention center, enrolled my daughter in daycare, and bought a car, all steps to regaining some measure of the independence I had lost to the marriage. In early September, we reconciled and I returned to married life under the conditions that I would keep my day-job and I would take an already-planned trip to Norfolk to visit my old singing partner. Counselling continued, and things were better, but by Thanksgiving I knew they were not good enough. I would wait until after the holidays...

Christmas came and passed, and then New Year's, but inertia had me in its grip and married life continued.

Three days into the new year, a man walked into the probation office where I was working. I happened to be alone, so we talked for some time about our respective programs and then strayed to sharing a little of the paths that had led us to our current jobs. I off-handedly mentioned that I was getting a divorce and that the working hours my job required were convenient for my child and me, as we would be beginning life on our own. The sound of those words emanating from my mouth surprised me. Later, while locking the office door, I spoke aloud to myself: “There. You’ve said it. Now go do it,” and that night I told my husband I was going to file for the divorce. We had tried. Counseling had helped, our marriage was somewhat better, but it was not the way I wanted to live the rest of my life. My days of being an IBM salesman's wife were over.

Just before leaving my suburban split-level for the last time, I made two discoveries. In a paper bag under some things in a closet, torn to shreds, was my favorite dress. It was one I’d made of a blue handkerchief cotton print, a dress I'd worn to usher for a local summer stock theatre, my counselor-suggested "independent activity" that left my husband home to baby-sit and gave me an occasional night out. The other discovery was something hidden above my head on top of the kitchen cupboards: his wedding ring, the one he’d told me he must have lost when emptying the trash.

About two years later I married the man who had stopped in my office on January 3, 1971, the stranger who heard me mention off-handedly that I was getting a divorce. We celebrated our 33rd wedding anniversary last fall, but of course that is another story.

12 comments:

Craig D said...

So, you were going to stop blogging, eh? Well, you know what they say...

Funny thing is, this part of your life's story sound quite a bit like that of an erstwhile co-worker's! She was a tad lower on the middle-class scale and you didn't mention getting your teeth knocked out, but there are many similarities...

Oh, and when/if you do pack it all in here in Bloggerville, just let us all know, so we won't worry, 'K?

Unknown said...

Wonderful writing and sharing of history...you are clearly another of the survivors who was able to get free and make new choices. Good for you and good for inspiring others!

I am finding blogging difficult right now too with all of the spring outdoor activities to take care of. Like art, it comes and goes and comes back again I guess. Carmon

Robin said...

Thank you so much for sharing this, Wizend. You're one strong, smart woman.....

Citymouse said...

So you just start getting to the good stuff, the real stuff, the stuff that heals, and now you decided you will stop... I dont think youve hit a brick wall, i think a brick wall has hit you...

Just my opinion
Whatever you do I respect your decision... but if you stop, you will be missed-- and I think you still have a story or two to tell

Bardouble29 said...

My friend, I have started to comment several times, but don't know how to say what I want to say.

I think the world of you! I hope you do not decide to leave us. I get such joy out of your words, thoughts and photos. You make a difference in my life.

But I also respect if you no longer have the burning desire to write.

Just please if you do decide to take a hiatius, please let us know. I really worry when one of my neighbors from bloggerville disappears, and there have been several.

HUGS to you.

Judy said...

Gosh, Craig, I'm still not absolutely sure what they say... something about a sweaty guy named Jack??

Carmon - You hit it: both the spring/summer call of the outdoors, and the ebb and flow of the creative juices. The latter is a strange master.

Robin - strong, maybe; smart, well not always smart enough! Those were hard years, but I like to think they were a learning experience of sorts. Marriage wasn't anything I ever craved. I liked men but didn't see why you'd want to make a husband out of one. Maybe I will write another post on life before Roe v. Wade.

Mouse! Calm down! And could you help me put a bandage on my head? Ouch, that brick hurt! Those days were a long time ago, and the pain of the marriage was nothing compared to the agony of custody and visitation hassles later... but time has passed and it's no longer a worry or problem. Maybe I'll write about it, maybe not. This blog began as a journal of sorts to someday leave for my kids, so I'm not wanting to wallow in the bad times. Yes, I've got a few more stories to tell! But I must get back outside to the garden.

Barb - You are a sweet soul, and I appreciate your comments. No, I won't just disappear, and if I do take a break, I'll be sure to let everyone know.

It's funny how the dynamics of blogging change over time. I'll always have Dirk to thank for getting me into the community that we share. Of course over time it is really several intersecting communities. I was first careful to maintain the "wizened and wise elder" role. That of course changed with the post about the bathroom renovation! Early on I told some stories and wrote poems, but lately I've been exposing myself a bit more, which I frankly think is more mundane and egocentric and definitely not very wizardly!

You're a fine bunch and I appreciate your visits here.

Em said...

This is a very intimate and touching post. Thank you for sharing so openly. Sharing about yourself is not mundane. You write so well that you could make doing the laundry a great read! LOL But your stories are so very interesting and personal and I thank you for sharing.

Like everyone else, I understand the need for a break now and then. But we want to know...just so we don't worry. And I would surely miss you. Your blog has always been a favorite - even long before I started blogging. Back in my "lurker" days. This has always been a place to come for beauty and nature and personal words. A refuge from the world.

Judy said...

Gosh, Em... **Wizard gets all soppy** So that was YOU I saw behind the twin pines those many months ago!

whimsical brainpan said...

I think I owe Robin a great big thank you. I can't imagine a blogging world that didn't have your wit, wisdom, and beauty in it.

Thank you for posting that story. I don't know if it was an easy one for you to share or not but the message behind it is inspiring.

darkfoam said...

1. like everybody else, if you take a break let us know. if you decide to leave also let us know....we'll hold a sniffles party

2. it's kind of funny..
you mentioned the women in your former 1st marriage subdivision neighborhood as adults. although i live in an elderly neighborhood that has the benefit of being able to walk into town i still feel the same way about my neighbors. the other day, my neighbor across the street came over as i was working in the yard to chat. she game me one of her recipes. after that encounter i wondered about the fact that i still view everybody as adult except for me...
and i almost blogged about it.
thanks for sharing this story. it's wonderful and i really can relate to it.

Becca said...

I want to join the crowd who is glad you are staying. Your writing is beautiful and your photos are inspiring. I love the apricot and periwinkle and coral of this house right below.

Pepper said...

You will definitely be missed. Don't stop.

I have a hard time blogging because of time. Somedays there isn't enough. Lucky for me I woke up at 3 a.m. and I have spent a glorious morning reading blogs.

Don't stop.