Living in the Sadness

Ten years ago I took a leave of absence from teaching in California and moved to Maryville. I lived in the neighborhood where I grew up, a block from my childhood home and across the street from where I went to church nursery and church. (If you've seen the photo of me in my cowboy outfit, I'm standing outside the doors of that church.)

Back then, Mom, Daddy, and Mac were still alive and living together out at what we called The Farm, even though it hadn't really been used for that purpose since before Granddaddy bought it. Granddaddy and Grandmom moved there when I was about two. In fact, I have a very clear memory of being in someone's arms and looking down on the red clay in the hole where the foundation was being dug for the new house.

Grandmom died in 1977, a couple of weeks before Sissy got married. Granddaddy continued to live alone at the farm until 1981, when he moved in with Maxie in town. He gave Mom and Daddy the farm. They moved right after I left for Sarah Lawrence in August of that year. They had a couple of years of blissful country living before Mac showed up, unannounced, one day, desperate for a place to live because he had to get away from someone. And there he stayed for the next 25 years until he died in that house.

A little background for you.

Anyway, when I lived here ten years ago, they were all alive and I visited regularly. Daddy spent most of his time "recovering" (from Parkinson's) by lying in his bed and Mom frequently asked me questions like, "Now, who are your parents?" and fed Daisy, the cat, bananas (Alzheimer's), but Mac was, at that point still relatively pleasant to be around.

I actually moved back in order to spend time with Mom and Daddy and, I thought, to help out. Since I hadn't been there in a while (a year or so), it was very obvious to me that things had deteriorated a lot since I had last visited, but I quickly realized that my assessment of the situation was a bit too realistic for everyone at that point. They (and by they I mean Daddy, Mac, and Sissy) were still living in the land of Things Aren't That Bad.

When I discovered that Mom had put the pajamas Sissy had given Daddy for Christmas (and that had been missing for 8 months) in the freezer, Mac's response was that anyone could've made that mistake. In my opinion, that's bad enough, but add to that ludicrous response the fact that he hadn't noticed them in there, nor had he noticed the 40 or 50 unwrapped hamburger patties sitting in the freezer and, well, I think you've got a pretty precarious situation. He was supposed to be taking care of them.

Anyway, what's my point? Ten years ago, they were all alive, but those seven months were some of the hardest of my life in terms of dealing with their deteriorating health and my siblings' resistance to almost everything I felt needed to be done or tried to do in order to deal with the situation. Basically, after several months of fighting an uphill battle with them, I gave up and moved back to California.

Ten years later, here I am again, living in Maryville, not quite as close to where I grew up as last time, but within spitting distance. Only, of course, everyone is dead except Sissy. The Farm doesn't even exist anymore, having been donated and carted off to some unknown destination.

I've been spending much of my free time these past two months walking and biking around town, through my old neighborhood and ones where friends lived; past stores and churches; the elementary, junior and high schools; through the cemetery where my grandparents are buried; the college; and, of course, past The Farm with no house. No family and no house.

I've felt compelled to visit and re-visit. It's almost ritualistic.

The other day I stopped in front of the house and yard where I grew up and stared for the longest time, remembering. Remembering everything that I did there, everything that happened. Gone. Ghosts. All that I was left staring at was a yard. And a house. The past does not exist.

A friend has told me that she feels I am very brave, coming here and living in the sadness of the loss, of the past. She is right, but not about the bravery. Just about facing the sadness. Really, if I'd known that's what I was about to do, I wouldn't have done it. After all, I've managed to avoid it for more than 40 years. I just thought I was coming to buy a house.

"Surprise!" says the Universe.