More recent posts can be found at
https://visceralmusings.com/
Lake Mendocino
Friday, January 12, 2018
Monday, July 17, 2017
Cousins Galore!
My great-grandmother was one of three children, but that generation only produced one child: my grandmother. This means that Gram grew up with no first cousins. Her grandmother had a brother, and I believe he had a family, but I've never heard about that branch of the tree.
I grew up knowing that I had paternal cousins, that my father had two sisters who had children. I have a really vague memory of Jeanie and Jaime from my toddlerhood, and another when one of them came to visit my grandparent's house once with my Aunt Beverly. My cousin Beffer, Earlina's daughter, and I hung out for a few months when we were teens, but lost touch shortly thereafter. I know my dad was close to his cousin, Chuck who was married to Cookie and they had two sons: Chuckie and Tommy.
I have always assume that I have family somewhere, but we've had no real contact.
Serendipitously, I began working on a memoir this summer, and out of the blue I received an email through a long closed ancestry.com account from a woman claiming to be my cousin. We have exchanged several emails and she is indeed my cousin! And apparently I have dozens and dozens of cousins. Would they be second or third or removed cousins? I don't know. I do know that for a kid who was raised alone with little sibling or cousin contact, this is quite a boon. Thanks to Cousin Charlene, I now have a few new pics and an increasing amount of information about my father's side of the family.
This has opened up a whole new swirl of feelings and insights. I've renewed my search for my grandmother's childhood home in Ukiah, and I am pretty certain that it is the same house where my sister-in-law stayed during my daughter's wedding back in April. I've printed the census records and plan to dig a little deeper at the local library or government offices.
If we choose, the hubby and I can travel to Missouri next year for a family reunion. I have to admit that I am reticent about the idea of a reunion with strangers, even if I am related to them. I am very much enjoying corresponding with Cousin Charlene and digging deeper into my family tree.
I grew up knowing that I had paternal cousins, that my father had two sisters who had children. I have a really vague memory of Jeanie and Jaime from my toddlerhood, and another when one of them came to visit my grandparent's house once with my Aunt Beverly. My cousin Beffer, Earlina's daughter, and I hung out for a few months when we were teens, but lost touch shortly thereafter. I know my dad was close to his cousin, Chuck who was married to Cookie and they had two sons: Chuckie and Tommy.
I have always assume that I have family somewhere, but we've had no real contact.
Serendipitously, I began working on a memoir this summer, and out of the blue I received an email through a long closed ancestry.com account from a woman claiming to be my cousin. We have exchanged several emails and she is indeed my cousin! And apparently I have dozens and dozens of cousins. Would they be second or third or removed cousins? I don't know. I do know that for a kid who was raised alone with little sibling or cousin contact, this is quite a boon. Thanks to Cousin Charlene, I now have a few new pics and an increasing amount of information about my father's side of the family.
This has opened up a whole new swirl of feelings and insights. I've renewed my search for my grandmother's childhood home in Ukiah, and I am pretty certain that it is the same house where my sister-in-law stayed during my daughter's wedding back in April. I've printed the census records and plan to dig a little deeper at the local library or government offices.
If we choose, the hubby and I can travel to Missouri next year for a family reunion. I have to admit that I am reticent about the idea of a reunion with strangers, even if I am related to them. I am very much enjoying corresponding with Cousin Charlene and digging deeper into my family tree.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Happy Birthday Grandpa (a little early)
I was resting on my bed yesterday. I believed in the moment that I wasn't actually asleep, when I was suddenly struck with a thought. I realized that I couldn't remember the last time that I had talked to my grandfather. I was somewhat aghast at that realization. I threw my mind back and back; I thought that maybe we had spoken or seen each other in May or June at a family gathering. I couldn't quite put my finger on when, though. I resolved to call him, in that moment. I recited his phone number in my head and reached (and this should have been a clue) to open my computer.
I felt guilty, as I assume other grown children do, that we hadn't spoken in so long. I was momentarily worried that he would be upset at my prolonged silence, but then I remembered calling him once after a very long absence, one where I had consciously pulled away from him for nearly a year. He had been quite happy to hear my voice. Armed with that memory I knew he would simply be happy that I called today. I also reasoned that if he wanted to speak with me, he would have called me.
It took several minutes of what I now realize was my slow coming to wakefulness, before I remembered that Grandpa was dead and has been for a dozen years. I'l be honest that one of the first things I did upon that realization was to worry that I forgot he was dead. Am I developing dementia?!?
Once I moved beyond the multiple bouts of near panic, I realized that I miss Grandpa, and it kinda hurts. Do I sound surprised? I am a bit. I loved him, I did. When I was a little girl we were so close. When I was a teenager we fought constantly. As a young adult, although he could be very supportive, he could also be grossly negative about my choices in life, railing against a foolish decision or even many logical ones. After my grandmother died, he and I lived on a roller coaster of emotional ups and downs. He fell into a deep depression and become very verbally abusive. A few years before he died I had to cut off contact in order to save my own waning sanity. We reconciled when he got sick and had some really lovely closure in his last days. Still, some part of me resents him for the years of verbal abuse.
I mourned him deeply when he died, so much so I had difficulty getting out of bed for weeks. Since then I've been very grateful for the generosity of his will and have a lovely home in large part because of him. But I haven't missed him in a long, long time.
So despite the sudden pain, I am happy to miss him again. He would have been ninety-eight in a few weeks. Happy Birthday Grandpa. I love you. I miss you. Thank you.
I felt guilty, as I assume other grown children do, that we hadn't spoken in so long. I was momentarily worried that he would be upset at my prolonged silence, but then I remembered calling him once after a very long absence, one where I had consciously pulled away from him for nearly a year. He had been quite happy to hear my voice. Armed with that memory I knew he would simply be happy that I called today. I also reasoned that if he wanted to speak with me, he would have called me.
It took several minutes of what I now realize was my slow coming to wakefulness, before I remembered that Grandpa was dead and has been for a dozen years. I'l be honest that one of the first things I did upon that realization was to worry that I forgot he was dead. Am I developing dementia?!?
Once I moved beyond the multiple bouts of near panic, I realized that I miss Grandpa, and it kinda hurts. Do I sound surprised? I am a bit. I loved him, I did. When I was a little girl we were so close. When I was a teenager we fought constantly. As a young adult, although he could be very supportive, he could also be grossly negative about my choices in life, railing against a foolish decision or even many logical ones. After my grandmother died, he and I lived on a roller coaster of emotional ups and downs. He fell into a deep depression and become very verbally abusive. A few years before he died I had to cut off contact in order to save my own waning sanity. We reconciled when he got sick and had some really lovely closure in his last days. Still, some part of me resents him for the years of verbal abuse.
I mourned him deeply when he died, so much so I had difficulty getting out of bed for weeks. Since then I've been very grateful for the generosity of his will and have a lovely home in large part because of him. But I haven't missed him in a long, long time.
So despite the sudden pain, I am happy to miss him again. He would have been ninety-eight in a few weeks. Happy Birthday Grandpa. I love you. I miss you. Thank you.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Revisiting, Remembering, and Beginning Anew
I have moved to an area where my grandmother spent part of her youth, my mother spent several of her adult years, and that I visited often in my 20s.
My grandmother lived on the block directly behind me. I discovered this shortly after we had settled into our new home. I renewed my ancestry.com membership and created a Family Tree, so I have been floundering about in the world of genealogy. A 1930 census record shows Gram living with her mother, step-father and uncle. They rented, but the house number listed doesn't match any of the existing houses. I often walk down the quiet one block long street and feel a sense of closeness to the woman I lost more than 20 years ago.
At one point my mother lived in Potter Valley with one of her husbands (was it four or five or six?). I have come to realize that most of the interactions with my mother were toxic on some level. The most healthy face-to-face moments took place in that valley about 25 minutes from my new home. I drove there recently; the signs, and GPS, pointed me deeper and deeper into a quiet and sprawling green valley. The drive was a beautiful as I remember, although very little looked or felt familiar.
Main Street in downtown Potter Valley is 2.2 miles long. There are only a few blocks, and a few buildings including a saloon, fire department, school, community center, post office, church and a several homes. My memory places my mother's home in a cluster of buildings that at the time seemed to be hotel room converted to tiny apartments. I remember apartments along one side of the property across from an empty swimming pool. The only potential match between my past and the town's present is a complex with more than double the number of apartments and no swimming pool.
One particularly rainy winter in 1986 I was stranded in Ukiah by El Nino rain. My girlfriend and I had taken the long drive from San Francisco so she could see the boy she liked. Jim lived with his brother John in a two bedroom house they had just rented. It looked like it had been recently renovated and sported a cute back deck. I know this little house is somewhere in my new neighborhood, but I have yet to find it.
The other place that holds a special memory for me is a picnic spot next to Orrs Creek just beyond the outskirts of town. I have yet to find that spot, but there are several beautiful areas along that creek that give me joy.
Moving to Ukiah feels like going backwards and forwards simultaneously.The town and surrounding area are deeply embedded in my past. My future is now rooted solidly in my new home, a secure career, and the chance to live alone with my husband for the first time.
I still miss my grandmother at times; I don't miss my mother, although I do mourn the potential she let slip through her fingers. I am fond of that the young woman I was, but I am thoroughly enjoying the woman I have become. I am quite excited about moving forward as I begin anew.
My grandmother lived on the block directly behind me. I discovered this shortly after we had settled into our new home. I renewed my ancestry.com membership and created a Family Tree, so I have been floundering about in the world of genealogy. A 1930 census record shows Gram living with her mother, step-father and uncle. They rented, but the house number listed doesn't match any of the existing houses. I often walk down the quiet one block long street and feel a sense of closeness to the woman I lost more than 20 years ago.
At one point my mother lived in Potter Valley with one of her husbands (was it four or five or six?). I have come to realize that most of the interactions with my mother were toxic on some level. The most healthy face-to-face moments took place in that valley about 25 minutes from my new home. I drove there recently; the signs, and GPS, pointed me deeper and deeper into a quiet and sprawling green valley. The drive was a beautiful as I remember, although very little looked or felt familiar.
Main Street in downtown Potter Valley is 2.2 miles long. There are only a few blocks, and a few buildings including a saloon, fire department, school, community center, post office, church and a several homes. My memory places my mother's home in a cluster of buildings that at the time seemed to be hotel room converted to tiny apartments. I remember apartments along one side of the property across from an empty swimming pool. The only potential match between my past and the town's present is a complex with more than double the number of apartments and no swimming pool.
One particularly rainy winter in 1986 I was stranded in Ukiah by El Nino rain. My girlfriend and I had taken the long drive from San Francisco so she could see the boy she liked. Jim lived with his brother John in a two bedroom house they had just rented. It looked like it had been recently renovated and sported a cute back deck. I know this little house is somewhere in my new neighborhood, but I have yet to find it.
The other place that holds a special memory for me is a picnic spot next to Orrs Creek just beyond the outskirts of town. I have yet to find that spot, but there are several beautiful areas along that creek that give me joy.
Moving to Ukiah feels like going backwards and forwards simultaneously.The town and surrounding area are deeply embedded in my past. My future is now rooted solidly in my new home, a secure career, and the chance to live alone with my husband for the first time.
I still miss my grandmother at times; I don't miss my mother, although I do mourn the potential she let slip through her fingers. I am fond of that the young woman I was, but I am thoroughly enjoying the woman I have become. I am quite excited about moving forward as I begin anew.
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Househunting Chronicles: Dismantling and Restarting
This is the last full weekend the hubby and I will be spending in the Petaluma house. As I take a short break from packing I feel relieved that most of the shelves are empty and boxes are stacked neatly across the room. Most of the house is in a similar state.
A few short weeks ago I was feeling pretty panicked that we wouldn't be packed and ready to move in time. But we now have movers scheduled, incredible friends who spent hours and hour helping us pack, four truckloads of boxes and outdoor furniture already in Ukiah and it looks like it is all downhill from here.
A few dozen fine friends and neighbors stopped by last night to wish us a fond farewell as we embark on our new adventure. It's been a very long year and a half since I landed an incredible job. My body is looking forward to swapping a one and a half hour one-way commute for an eleven minute one. The changes needed to get here have been very incremental; sometimes it really felt like this would never happen. We started looking at houses a year ago! Now we have a lovely, lovely new home to settle into, so we continue to dismantle the old home to restart our life together.
A few short weeks ago I was feeling pretty panicked that we wouldn't be packed and ready to move in time. But we now have movers scheduled, incredible friends who spent hours and hour helping us pack, four truckloads of boxes and outdoor furniture already in Ukiah and it looks like it is all downhill from here.
A few dozen fine friends and neighbors stopped by last night to wish us a fond farewell as we embark on our new adventure. It's been a very long year and a half since I landed an incredible job. My body is looking forward to swapping a one and a half hour one-way commute for an eleven minute one. The changes needed to get here have been very incremental; sometimes it really felt like this would never happen. We started looking at houses a year ago! Now we have a lovely, lovely new home to settle into, so we continue to dismantle the old home to restart our life together.
Monday, January 11, 2016
House Hunting Chronicles: Is the End in Sight? or So Many Moving Parts
Our house has been on the market forever! Okay, only five months, but it feels like forever.
The general attitude of people who have been inside our house is one of utter disbelief and confusion that it has not yet sold. The feedback from agents and potential buyers includes the valid (concerns about the neighbors to the south of us) and the strange (it's so far from the street). The neighbors have been dealt with, but I can't move the house. I think we confused people when we increased the price a few months ago. In my defense, the comparable houses were selling for much more than our asking price, and I was worried the house wasn't selling because we devalued it by asking too little.
Suddenly this last week there has been a flurry of renewed interest. In the last few days 8 new people have saved our house on Zillow and the stack of flyers posted by the For Sale sign seemed to have, forgive the pun, flown away.
The house we REALLY want was taken off the market back in July and rented. We made an offer on that house last week. They have accepted the offer, so we are in escrow for a new home. Two days later we received an offer on our current house. After a little back and forth, we accepted the offer and escrow begins today.
This MAY happen. The End may be in sight! BUT there are a lot of moving parts and many people involved. Each set of buyers has their own real estate agent, and their own mortgage people, plus inspections and disclosures and reports to wade through. Competing interests, distance, renters, and schedules all play a part. We are trying to balance feeling very excited and cautiously optimistic.
Squeeeeee!
The general attitude of people who have been inside our house is one of utter disbelief and confusion that it has not yet sold. The feedback from agents and potential buyers includes the valid (concerns about the neighbors to the south of us) and the strange (it's so far from the street). The neighbors have been dealt with, but I can't move the house. I think we confused people when we increased the price a few months ago. In my defense, the comparable houses were selling for much more than our asking price, and I was worried the house wasn't selling because we devalued it by asking too little.
Suddenly this last week there has been a flurry of renewed interest. In the last few days 8 new people have saved our house on Zillow and the stack of flyers posted by the For Sale sign seemed to have, forgive the pun, flown away.
The house we REALLY want was taken off the market back in July and rented. We made an offer on that house last week. They have accepted the offer, so we are in escrow for a new home. Two days later we received an offer on our current house. After a little back and forth, we accepted the offer and escrow begins today.
This MAY happen. The End may be in sight! BUT there are a lot of moving parts and many people involved. Each set of buyers has their own real estate agent, and their own mortgage people, plus inspections and disclosures and reports to wade through. Competing interests, distance, renters, and schedules all play a part. We are trying to balance feeling very excited and cautiously optimistic.
Squeeeeee!
Saturday, September 26, 2015
House Hunting Chronicles: We're Still Here
A full six weeks and still no sale.
We seem to have put our house on the market at an odd time in the calendar: August. Most schools in the area were back in session the following week, so any families who were once interested in relocating were immersed in back-t0-school activities. Shortly after that, we had a triple digit heat wave. Then a volatile stock market was the topic of concern. The next thing we knew, we were in the midst of Labor Day weekend. Two open houses were held in that first few weeks and only a few requests for private viewings.
Then things picked up, just a smidgen. After weeks of cleaning every morning and every night, avoiding cooking (to avoid extensive kitchen cleaning and odor abatement), paying someone regularly to clean the house top to bottom, the requests for private showings picked up. One couple from out of state expressed interest, as has an investor. We are, however, still waiting for offers.
I could complain about how tired I am, how much my back hurts from the daily 3-hour round-trip commute; I could complain about living with a fraction of my possession, clothes and general use items (because the house is staged to look like it could be lived in, not that it is lived in). I could complain about the lack of time for a social life or seeing my grandkids less often than I like; I could fret out loud about the fact that I am falling behind at work and haven't yet prepped for my tenure committee meeting next week, or plenty of other things.
That all sounds so depressing.
Things I am happy about and grateful for: living alone with my husband for the first time ever, my job, the newest grandbaby, and all the small things that make me happy like a PM with a Facebook friend and wonderful and supportive friends.
We are certainly learning how to clean up after ourselves more often (like every time we move an inch) and appreciate meal planning more than ever before. The house looks great, if not a little bit sterile.
So for the moment, we're still here.
We seem to have put our house on the market at an odd time in the calendar: August. Most schools in the area were back in session the following week, so any families who were once interested in relocating were immersed in back-t0-school activities. Shortly after that, we had a triple digit heat wave. Then a volatile stock market was the topic of concern. The next thing we knew, we were in the midst of Labor Day weekend. Two open houses were held in that first few weeks and only a few requests for private viewings.
Then things picked up, just a smidgen. After weeks of cleaning every morning and every night, avoiding cooking (to avoid extensive kitchen cleaning and odor abatement), paying someone regularly to clean the house top to bottom, the requests for private showings picked up. One couple from out of state expressed interest, as has an investor. We are, however, still waiting for offers.
I could complain about how tired I am, how much my back hurts from the daily 3-hour round-trip commute; I could complain about living with a fraction of my possession, clothes and general use items (because the house is staged to look like it could be lived in, not that it is lived in). I could complain about the lack of time for a social life or seeing my grandkids less often than I like; I could fret out loud about the fact that I am falling behind at work and haven't yet prepped for my tenure committee meeting next week, or plenty of other things.
That all sounds so depressing.
Things I am happy about and grateful for: living alone with my husband for the first time ever, my job, the newest grandbaby, and all the small things that make me happy like a PM with a Facebook friend and wonderful and supportive friends.
We are certainly learning how to clean up after ourselves more often (like every time we move an inch) and appreciate meal planning more than ever before. The house looks great, if not a little bit sterile.
So for the moment, we're still here.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
House Hunting Chronicles: Are we there yet?
Our youngest daughter has safely moved out of state.
Our son and his family have purchased their own home and are settling in nicely.
Our home is patched, painted, scrubbed, uncluttered, staged and on the market.
Damn we are tired!
So far no bites on the house.
So far no definitive choice to purchase in Ukiah.
Have I mentioned that we are tired?
Are we there yet????
Our son and his family have purchased their own home and are settling in nicely.
Our home is patched, painted, scrubbed, uncluttered, staged and on the market.
Damn we are tired!
So far no bites on the house.
So far no definitive choice to purchase in Ukiah.
Have I mentioned that we are tired?
Are we there yet????
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
House-Hunting Chronicles: Anticipation
I don't always do well with suspense or most forms of anticipation, really. If we are watching a particularly suspenseful show on TV, I often walk out of the room and return once the story-line tension is broken. I hate waiting to find out what will happen in my soaps, so I am a spoiler-finder-expert. If I am living with suspense too long in my regular life, my sleep patterns become fragmented, I am more and more edgy, and then the anxiety begins to rise until it results in a panic attack (or two, or more).
As a grown woman, I have certainly learned to live with some
And sometimes it's fun.
Right now, not so much.
The daughter has moved to Oregon; the son and soon-to-be-daughter-in-law have signed papers for their new home and will take possession either Friday or Monday. The hubby and I are taking one last trek to Ukiah to look for potential homes next week. With any luck, we will have our current house on the market in a few weeks.
The list of To-Do items is shrinking in an odd sort of way. Some items have been there for months, others come and go in a few hours, and of course there are always newer, smaller details, to add. The big, costly fixes are completed. Family photos are boxed as is anything we can live without for a few months. The deep cleaning, rearranging and staging has begun.
Anticipation is HIGH!
Two nights ago I was up awake all night, my mind pinging from one idea, one worry to the next, bobbing and weaving through the yawns. I tossed and turned, got up and stretched, went downstairs to sleep on the couch in the cool air next to an open window. Even though I wasn't checking the status of the homes we like online, I could see the pics in my mind's eye every time I closed my lids. Long term, this can be really bad for my health. I am in NO mood for another hospital stay. Something has to be done.
So, I'm trying some different things to help. I already walk every day. I already eat pretty well. What else? Last night I spend some time with guided meditation and a sleep aid; I slept through the night for the fist time in months. It was such a relief. Today I did some cleaning and some grading (I am still teaching summer school online). I'm trying to focus on the many tiny steps of the process, on the positive, on breathing. I'm trying to be in, and enjoy the moment.
Max is trying to show me how it's done.
As a grown woman, I have certainly learned to live with some
And sometimes it's fun.
Right now, not so much.
The daughter has moved to Oregon; the son and soon-to-be-daughter-in-law have signed papers for their new home and will take possession either Friday or Monday. The hubby and I are taking one last trek to Ukiah to look for potential homes next week. With any luck, we will have our current house on the market in a few weeks.
The list of To-Do items is shrinking in an odd sort of way. Some items have been there for months, others come and go in a few hours, and of course there are always newer, smaller details, to add. The big, costly fixes are completed. Family photos are boxed as is anything we can live without for a few months. The deep cleaning, rearranging and staging has begun.
Anticipation is HIGH!
Two nights ago I was up awake all night, my mind pinging from one idea, one worry to the next, bobbing and weaving through the yawns. I tossed and turned, got up and stretched, went downstairs to sleep on the couch in the cool air next to an open window. Even though I wasn't checking the status of the homes we like online, I could see the pics in my mind's eye every time I closed my lids. Long term, this can be really bad for my health. I am in NO mood for another hospital stay. Something has to be done.
So, I'm trying some different things to help. I already walk every day. I already eat pretty well. What else? Last night I spend some time with guided meditation and a sleep aid; I slept through the night for the fist time in months. It was such a relief. Today I did some cleaning and some grading (I am still teaching summer school online). I'm trying to focus on the many tiny steps of the process, on the positive, on breathing. I'm trying to be in, and enjoy the moment.
Max is trying to show me how it's done.
Friday, June 5, 2015
House Hunting Chronicles: Online Pictures: the Good, the Bad and the Creepy
Online pictures are deceptive in multiple ways; the often make the homes look bigger and brighter than real life; sometimes you can tell that a special distortion lens was used; I mean, how many rooms have rounded edges? Often a portion of tiled floor or ceiling outlined in crown moulding is all that is shown in a bedroom or bathroom shot. At times this will signal poor picture taking skills; more often than not it signals poor maintenance outside of the lens view. The blurry pictures drive me nuts; the upside down or sideways ones are only mildly annoying. The inadvertent reflection, errant leg or sneaky pet are always amusing.
Some online photo galleries will include 5 pics of the front porch and none of the bedrooms. Others don't show all the bedrooms, which is almost always suspicious. Although, I will say that one missing bedroom was left out of the line-up because it was being used as a closet; that person had enough shoes to rival Imelda Marcos!
Scent doesn't translate visually, so we can't see the pervasive bleach smells that will push me back out a door faster that you can say interest rate increase. Bleach often signals to me that the owner isn't really ready to sell. A slight musty odor is always a concern as well, especially when you just can't find the culprit.
Up close, a beautiful looking house may have tiny bedrooms and even smaller closets. One bathroom we were in had been remodeled beautifully and artfully, but it was barely wide enough to turn around in.
One laundry room, located in a partial basement, was only accessible via steep, scary stairs that looked like they led to Uncle Touchy's Naked Puzzle Room. Inside the room smelled overtly moldy, the concrete floor was disintegrating in places, and the single cupboard door only had one shelf above a deep, dark hole.
The agents we have met are an interesting lot as well. One praised us for buying while we are still so young. Another expressed concern that at our age our knees might give out if we bought a two-story house. One uttered the phrase, "Right on," about every other sentence.
"It's a process" has become my mantra.
We have found two houses we like. One is priced far higher than we are comfortable paying, and I don't think we will be able to talk them down to our level. The other is not in the location we wanted and is slightly smaller than we would like, but it has a great yard, garage and storage space.
Maybe our next house isn't on the market yet. We shall see.
Some online photo galleries will include 5 pics of the front porch and none of the bedrooms. Others don't show all the bedrooms, which is almost always suspicious. Although, I will say that one missing bedroom was left out of the line-up because it was being used as a closet; that person had enough shoes to rival Imelda Marcos!
Scent doesn't translate visually, so we can't see the pervasive bleach smells that will push me back out a door faster that you can say interest rate increase. Bleach often signals to me that the owner isn't really ready to sell. A slight musty odor is always a concern as well, especially when you just can't find the culprit.
Up close, a beautiful looking house may have tiny bedrooms and even smaller closets. One bathroom we were in had been remodeled beautifully and artfully, but it was barely wide enough to turn around in.
One laundry room, located in a partial basement, was only accessible via steep, scary stairs that looked like they led to Uncle Touchy's Naked Puzzle Room. Inside the room smelled overtly moldy, the concrete floor was disintegrating in places, and the single cupboard door only had one shelf above a deep, dark hole.
The agents we have met are an interesting lot as well. One praised us for buying while we are still so young. Another expressed concern that at our age our knees might give out if we bought a two-story house. One uttered the phrase, "Right on," about every other sentence.
"It's a process" has become my mantra.
We have found two houses we like. One is priced far higher than we are comfortable paying, and I don't think we will be able to talk them down to our level. The other is not in the location we wanted and is slightly smaller than we would like, but it has a great yard, garage and storage space.
Maybe our next house isn't on the market yet. We shall see.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
House-Hunting Chronicles: Unplanned Open Houses and the Hard Sell
The last time that we wanted to buy a house, we had to rely pretty heavily on our real estate agent. This time around, I can do a great deal of the legwork myself and I enjoy it.
I monitor zillow.com, trulia.com and realtor.com so that I can see houses as they arrive on the market along the 80 mile search area. I can get into any house with as little as 24 hours notice just by filling out a form on Zillow and making a (blind) date with a New Agent.
One such event occurred in the same town that I was already having doubts about. We met a very nice New Agent at a house that looked mostly empty. It was a short sale (don't let the name fool you, it was the result of a foreclosure) and the current owner was still living in the residence (although I think she must have been sleeping on the couch as there were no beds in the house). We were in the house about 30 seconds when another agent burst in and began a hard sell speech.
He was the Listing Agent, and he was going to preside over the open house. Keep in mind that until that moment there was no advertised open house and the New Agent (NA) who had agreed to show us the house had left three unanswered messages for the Listing Agent. Listing Agent (LA) entered in full rapid-fire-information-sharing-mode as if we had been in the middle of a conversation with him before he walked in the door ("and my finance guy will be here in about 15 minutes" and "I've got your flyers and cost estimates ready to go"). He followed us outside and talked about the particulars of a short sale. He seemed genuinely surprised that I knew the basics already (short sale only means that the bank who owns the mortgage and the property will be getting less money that is owed on the property once the home sells). The fact that the deck he was perched on was shaped like a giant sack and penis was lost to him. (The house foreclosure was apparently the result of a lengthy divorce; the design of the deck gave us some real insight as to why the marriage failed).
LA stood on the deck and talked at length about the long drawn out process that a short sale can become. Despite his need to hear himself talk, this was interesting to us because we aren't ready to put our house on the market yet and so having several months to move forward sounded potentially very good.
The house had some real potential; it was larger than our current house and the backyard had some privacy. The carpets all needed to be replaced, but there were some surprisingly neat looking nooks and crannies that we didn't expect to see in a tract home. The kitchen was pretty nice as was the general layout. The price wasn't bad and the deck could easily be replaced. NA had some good advice about upgrades and potential strategies for making an offer. We talked to one neighbor who had nice things to say about the area, but the best part of the day was the live band playing down the street.
The music was loud, but not painful, and it was so well done I swore it was recorded, but Joe insisted it was live. He was right. Upon further exploration, we found three guys hanging out in a garage playing the drums, guitar and bass. They were playing a Stevie Ray Vaughan song ("Couldn't Stand the Weather"), and other blues/rock music. We also followed a nearby road to a portion of Lake Sonoma right over the hill that had breathtaking views. The music, the weather, the views, the quiet of the neighborhood and the price were all enough enticement to lure us back to the house for one more look and some serious consideration. NA had already departed, so we went in alone and were set upon immediately by LA and his Loan Guy (LG).
We managed to take one more quick tour before being locked in a battle of wills with LA and LG as we tried to exit. This time LA focused on how quickly short sales can go and that we really needed to find ourselves a more experienced agent than NA if we wanted to purchase this house. LG was insistent that he could get us a better interest rate than the mortgage company we are currently working with (and who have treated us like family). So they bad mouthed everyone we talked about and when LA said, "What is keeping you from making an offer on this house?" I should have answered truthfully with, "YOU." But alas, I didn't, and we simply allowed them to chase us out the door.
We stopped by the only grocery store in town for sandwiches. My bread was stale.
I'm not moving to that town.
I monitor zillow.com, trulia.com and realtor.com so that I can see houses as they arrive on the market along the 80 mile search area. I can get into any house with as little as 24 hours notice just by filling out a form on Zillow and making a (blind) date with a New Agent.
One such event occurred in the same town that I was already having doubts about. We met a very nice New Agent at a house that looked mostly empty. It was a short sale (don't let the name fool you, it was the result of a foreclosure) and the current owner was still living in the residence (although I think she must have been sleeping on the couch as there were no beds in the house). We were in the house about 30 seconds when another agent burst in and began a hard sell speech.
He was the Listing Agent, and he was going to preside over the open house. Keep in mind that until that moment there was no advertised open house and the New Agent (NA) who had agreed to show us the house had left three unanswered messages for the Listing Agent. Listing Agent (LA) entered in full rapid-fire-information-sharing-mode as if we had been in the middle of a conversation with him before he walked in the door ("and my finance guy will be here in about 15 minutes" and "I've got your flyers and cost estimates ready to go"). He followed us outside and talked about the particulars of a short sale. He seemed genuinely surprised that I knew the basics already (short sale only means that the bank who owns the mortgage and the property will be getting less money that is owed on the property once the home sells). The fact that the deck he was perched on was shaped like a giant sack and penis was lost to him. (The house foreclosure was apparently the result of a lengthy divorce; the design of the deck gave us some real insight as to why the marriage failed).
LA stood on the deck and talked at length about the long drawn out process that a short sale can become. Despite his need to hear himself talk, this was interesting to us because we aren't ready to put our house on the market yet and so having several months to move forward sounded potentially very good.
The house had some real potential; it was larger than our current house and the backyard had some privacy. The carpets all needed to be replaced, but there were some surprisingly neat looking nooks and crannies that we didn't expect to see in a tract home. The kitchen was pretty nice as was the general layout. The price wasn't bad and the deck could easily be replaced. NA had some good advice about upgrades and potential strategies for making an offer. We talked to one neighbor who had nice things to say about the area, but the best part of the day was the live band playing down the street.
The music was loud, but not painful, and it was so well done I swore it was recorded, but Joe insisted it was live. He was right. Upon further exploration, we found three guys hanging out in a garage playing the drums, guitar and bass. They were playing a Stevie Ray Vaughan song ("Couldn't Stand the Weather"), and other blues/rock music. We also followed a nearby road to a portion of Lake Sonoma right over the hill that had breathtaking views. The music, the weather, the views, the quiet of the neighborhood and the price were all enough enticement to lure us back to the house for one more look and some serious consideration. NA had already departed, so we went in alone and were set upon immediately by LA and his Loan Guy (LG).
We managed to take one more quick tour before being locked in a battle of wills with LA and LG as we tried to exit. This time LA focused on how quickly short sales can go and that we really needed to find ourselves a more experienced agent than NA if we wanted to purchase this house. LG was insistent that he could get us a better interest rate than the mortgage company we are currently working with (and who have treated us like family). So they bad mouthed everyone we talked about and when LA said, "What is keeping you from making an offer on this house?" I should have answered truthfully with, "YOU." But alas, I didn't, and we simply allowed them to chase us out the door.
We stopped by the only grocery store in town for sandwiches. My bread was stale.
I'm not moving to that town.
Friday, April 24, 2015
House-Hunting Chronicles: Open Houses
I'm a huge fan of open houses. I love to peek inside of other people's homes.
Okay, that sounds weird. Let me try again.
Open houses offer insights and ideas for decorating, landscaping, layout and upgrading. I have learned a lot about different people's tastes and cemented my own. I have seen houses that I consider to be ug-ly that sold quickly and for much more money than I thought possible. I have seen how much, or how little, location, smells, colors, and square footage matter.
In the spirit of checking out all the potential cities along an 80 mile stretch of freeway, we have spent several Sundays moving in and out of homes.
One of the first was in a town I have been resistant to. I can't make a list of reasons why I don't like the town, but there is a vibe there that bothers me.
We arrived just when the house was scheduled to be open. As we stepped out of the car, we spotted a woman attempting to run across the street carrying a sandwich board. She was running behind schedule. We were willing to wait while she got set up, but she insisted that we follow her into the house. The routine, so far as I understand it, is that the owner vacates for the 2-4 hours that the home is open to prospective buyers. The agent was quite surprised that the owner was still in the house. And DIDNT leave.
It was a really, really nice house. The asking price was more than we want to spend, less than our house will likely sell for, but it was a nicer house than we currently live in. It had a lovely view of a large grass covered hill that was dotted with trees. Walking toward the view through the french doors off the living room, we were also treated to the presence of a horse on the other side of the fence. It seemed quite friendly, and was completely nonplused by the stinky cleaning rags hanging from the clothes line along the back patio. Did I mention that the inside of the house reeked of bleach? I had to work pretty hard to ignore the rags while the owner slowly took them down, chatting the whole time about the horse, the view and the fruit trees along the side fence. The agent also chatted nonstop.
Usually when a house is open and for sale, it is pretty carefully staged. Most of the furniture personal belongings are removed. The idea is to leave things a little sparse, which makes the home look larger (usually a good thing), and allow buyers to visualize their own belongings in the space. Apparently someone forgot to tell this homeowner, or she had so much stuff that she forgot to remove the extra couches and coffee tables from the bedrooms or the stacks of stuff in corners. She was also uncomfortable having strangers in her home because she insisted that the agent follow us from room to room. This led to an uncomfortable moment in the master bedroom when the agent was overly enthusiastic about the view of (the same) hill from the bedroom windows. Hand clasping, sighing and mmm-ing noises were involved.
It was clear that we really liked the house, so much so that the agent asked if we are working with anyone. That is a very common question. She wanted our agent's name. I told her. She wanted our agent's phone number. I pretended it wasn't programed into my phone. That's okay, she did a google search and called our agent while we were walking out the door ("I just want to share a few tidbits with her"). As soon as we were in the car, I texted my agent with a pre-emptive apology for the THREE phone messages this stranger agent would leave.
Nope, I still don't want to live in that town.
Okay, that sounds weird. Let me try again.
Open houses offer insights and ideas for decorating, landscaping, layout and upgrading. I have learned a lot about different people's tastes and cemented my own. I have seen houses that I consider to be ug-ly that sold quickly and for much more money than I thought possible. I have seen how much, or how little, location, smells, colors, and square footage matter.
In the spirit of checking out all the potential cities along an 80 mile stretch of freeway, we have spent several Sundays moving in and out of homes.
One of the first was in a town I have been resistant to. I can't make a list of reasons why I don't like the town, but there is a vibe there that bothers me.
We arrived just when the house was scheduled to be open. As we stepped out of the car, we spotted a woman attempting to run across the street carrying a sandwich board. She was running behind schedule. We were willing to wait while she got set up, but she insisted that we follow her into the house. The routine, so far as I understand it, is that the owner vacates for the 2-4 hours that the home is open to prospective buyers. The agent was quite surprised that the owner was still in the house. And DIDNT leave.
It was a really, really nice house. The asking price was more than we want to spend, less than our house will likely sell for, but it was a nicer house than we currently live in. It had a lovely view of a large grass covered hill that was dotted with trees. Walking toward the view through the french doors off the living room, we were also treated to the presence of a horse on the other side of the fence. It seemed quite friendly, and was completely nonplused by the stinky cleaning rags hanging from the clothes line along the back patio. Did I mention that the inside of the house reeked of bleach? I had to work pretty hard to ignore the rags while the owner slowly took them down, chatting the whole time about the horse, the view and the fruit trees along the side fence. The agent also chatted nonstop.
Usually when a house is open and for sale, it is pretty carefully staged. Most of the furniture personal belongings are removed. The idea is to leave things a little sparse, which makes the home look larger (usually a good thing), and allow buyers to visualize their own belongings in the space. Apparently someone forgot to tell this homeowner, or she had so much stuff that she forgot to remove the extra couches and coffee tables from the bedrooms or the stacks of stuff in corners. She was also uncomfortable having strangers in her home because she insisted that the agent follow us from room to room. This led to an uncomfortable moment in the master bedroom when the agent was overly enthusiastic about the view of (the same) hill from the bedroom windows. Hand clasping, sighing and mmm-ing noises were involved.
It was clear that we really liked the house, so much so that the agent asked if we are working with anyone. That is a very common question. She wanted our agent's name. I told her. She wanted our agent's phone number. I pretended it wasn't programed into my phone. That's okay, she did a google search and called our agent while we were walking out the door ("I just want to share a few tidbits with her"). As soon as we were in the car, I texted my agent with a pre-emptive apology for the THREE phone messages this stranger agent would leave.
Nope, I still don't want to live in that town.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
House-Hunting Chronicles: Real Estate Agentry and Zillow
Choosing a real estate agent isn't a problem because we love, love, love Christine Jones from Century 21 Bundesen Realty in Petaluma. I've known Christine since our kids were in grammar school at the same time. She helped us find and buy an investment property last year. She gets me; she really gets me. She understands that I like to do a lot of my own leg-work, that I enjoy research and do most of it before I ask her for help. She even knows when to disagree with me.
Christine will help us sell our house when the time comes, which is after we help all our kids find new housing. She will likely help them find homes.
Before we are ready to sell out house, we are looking around, doing some exploring and getting a feel for potential new towns. We have an 80 mile stretch over two counties to check out. This is quite the learning experience.
For those of you who like to know what your house is worth without having to talk to a person, you probably have been on zillow.com. The Z-estimate can really make or break your day. And the estimate is almost always wrong. Our neighbors sold their house last year, and despite the sales price,the Z-estimate was $100,000 less that what is was sold for. My uncle refinanced his home and the official appraisal came in at several hundred thousand dollars less than zillow said it was worth. My house was listed as being worth $1.3 at one point. NOT.
It is, however, a good source for other information for current selling price, time spent on the market, price and tax history, that sort of thing. You can even fill in the online form asking to see a property that is listed for sale, and get a call or email in return from a local agent pretty darn quickly. The first time that I did this, I assumed that I was contacting the listing agent. It was the second (or third) time that I did this that I learned my assumption was wrong.
Apparently agents pay a monthly fee for referrals from zillow.com, so when I fill in the online form, the next agent in the queue is contacted. Suddenly I find that I have three agents, one for each major area we are focusing on, including Christine.
I also have multiple Facebook friend who are agents who would gladly help us out. I also have several friend who know real estate agents who would gladly help us out. My good friend and neighbor is in the process of studying for the real estate exam. My sister-in-law is in the process of studying for the real estate exam. I've seriously considered studying to take the real estate exam myself.
I have spoken to so many agents along an 80 mile stretch of Highway 101 that I feel like I am being unfaithful to Christine, and subsequently every agent that I meet or talk to along the way.
*sigh*
It's a process.
Christine will help us sell our house when the time comes, which is after we help all our kids find new housing. She will likely help them find homes.
Before we are ready to sell out house, we are looking around, doing some exploring and getting a feel for potential new towns. We have an 80 mile stretch over two counties to check out. This is quite the learning experience.
For those of you who like to know what your house is worth without having to talk to a person, you probably have been on zillow.com. The Z-estimate can really make or break your day. And the estimate is almost always wrong. Our neighbors sold their house last year, and despite the sales price,the Z-estimate was $100,000 less that what is was sold for. My uncle refinanced his home and the official appraisal came in at several hundred thousand dollars less than zillow said it was worth. My house was listed as being worth $1.3 at one point. NOT.
It is, however, a good source for other information for current selling price, time spent on the market, price and tax history, that sort of thing. You can even fill in the online form asking to see a property that is listed for sale, and get a call or email in return from a local agent pretty darn quickly. The first time that I did this, I assumed that I was contacting the listing agent. It was the second (or third) time that I did this that I learned my assumption was wrong.
Apparently agents pay a monthly fee for referrals from zillow.com, so when I fill in the online form, the next agent in the queue is contacted. Suddenly I find that I have three agents, one for each major area we are focusing on, including Christine.
I also have multiple Facebook friend who are agents who would gladly help us out. I also have several friend who know real estate agents who would gladly help us out. My good friend and neighbor is in the process of studying for the real estate exam. My sister-in-law is in the process of studying for the real estate exam. I've seriously considered studying to take the real estate exam myself.
I have spoken to so many agents along an 80 mile stretch of Highway 101 that I feel like I am being unfaithful to Christine, and subsequently every agent that I meet or talk to along the way.
*sigh*
It's a process.
House-hunting Chronicles: The Decision
A year ago I was quite happy with my house, my town and the people I lived with. The only viable potential change on the horizon was possibly purchasing the lot next door and expanding our backyard.
That was before April when, on a whim, I applied for a full-time tenured position at a college 80 miles away. After multiple years of interviews and near misses, the interview process went smoothly all the way through to the offer. I finally found my niche. The commute seemed doable because it is a really a beautiful drive with very little traffic. Besides, I was used to the life of a freeway flyer, driving between campuses multiple times a day.
Despite my previous experience with commuting, the first semester was hard. I was so tired, so often. It seemed as though I spent all my spare time on the weekends sleeping. I thought I was just adjusting to full-time work at one location and more responsibility. Without a doubt, and even despite the fatigue, I LOVE the job, my colleagues and the students. It's been a slow fall into love; I held myself back at first because I was afraid that they would change their minds. (Apparently this is not unusual for new full-time faculty.)
Then one Thursday night I chose to sleep at a hotel after a late dinner with colleagues rather than take the long dark drive home. That was a transformative choice because I woke up completely refreshed Friday morning. This sensation brought a new reality into sharp focus: in order to continue at this job successfully, I was going to have to make some changes to my living arrangements.
The hubby and I have talked, and talked, and talked about multiple options. One of the other major changes that had taken place in the last year was that our children have moved home. Our son, his fiance and their blended family of three children are in our two extra bedrooms and our daughter moved her bed, dresser and bookshelves into the living room. The arrangement was working out so well that we were considering finding a larger spot to create a family compound. Now the arrangement has been challenged.
Options include: renting an apartment, small house or trailer, renting a house with a roommate or two, renting a room, kicking our reliable tenants out of our rental house and moving myself in. All this would perpetuate the one issue I really don't like, the fact that my life is now split between work and home. I'm not a fan of this; I end up feeling that I don't actually live anywhere, that I'm rarely truly home.
Ultimately the hubby and I have chosen to sell our home in Petaluma and move closer to my work.
Now we have to decide where that will be!
That was before April when, on a whim, I applied for a full-time tenured position at a college 80 miles away. After multiple years of interviews and near misses, the interview process went smoothly all the way through to the offer. I finally found my niche. The commute seemed doable because it is a really a beautiful drive with very little traffic. Besides, I was used to the life of a freeway flyer, driving between campuses multiple times a day.
Despite my previous experience with commuting, the first semester was hard. I was so tired, so often. It seemed as though I spent all my spare time on the weekends sleeping. I thought I was just adjusting to full-time work at one location and more responsibility. Without a doubt, and even despite the fatigue, I LOVE the job, my colleagues and the students. It's been a slow fall into love; I held myself back at first because I was afraid that they would change their minds. (Apparently this is not unusual for new full-time faculty.)
Then one Thursday night I chose to sleep at a hotel after a late dinner with colleagues rather than take the long dark drive home. That was a transformative choice because I woke up completely refreshed Friday morning. This sensation brought a new reality into sharp focus: in order to continue at this job successfully, I was going to have to make some changes to my living arrangements.
The hubby and I have talked, and talked, and talked about multiple options. One of the other major changes that had taken place in the last year was that our children have moved home. Our son, his fiance and their blended family of three children are in our two extra bedrooms and our daughter moved her bed, dresser and bookshelves into the living room. The arrangement was working out so well that we were considering finding a larger spot to create a family compound. Now the arrangement has been challenged.
Options include: renting an apartment, small house or trailer, renting a house with a roommate or two, renting a room, kicking our reliable tenants out of our rental house and moving myself in. All this would perpetuate the one issue I really don't like, the fact that my life is now split between work and home. I'm not a fan of this; I end up feeling that I don't actually live anywhere, that I'm rarely truly home.
Ultimately the hubby and I have chosen to sell our home in Petaluma and move closer to my work.
Now we have to decide where that will be!
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
A year in the life
A lot has changed in one short year. Despite the fact that 2014 began on a downbeat, it has picked up the tempo nicely.
A year ago today, my honey was on a respirator fighting for his life. While I was loath to admit it, I was nearly certain that he wouldn't survive. I've never been so happy to be wrong.
In addition to a healed husband, I feel very blessed by several events this year. (In case you missed the banner and the yelling of the news from the rooftops) I secured a full-time, tenure-track teaching job. My kids (and their children) moved home. Yes, this is a great thing. I LOVE having the babies (grown and otherwise) under one roof. I have also reconnected with an old friend or two (thank you Facebook), and am enjoying new friendships at the new job. This year was the best Christmas in recent memory, made especially sweet by the presence of my oldest extra daughter.
Tonight we will begin the evening by toasting an extended family member as he celebrates his 70th birthday. Then my honey and I will return to our tradition of burning out the old and burning in the new as we gather round the fire pit. If the grand-babies can stay awake, they will join us. Tomorrow we will lounge around at my favorite anti-party, eat soup, watch movies and enjoy good friends.
I am delighted to say that I am quite happy today. I'm holding onto this feeling as tightly as possible. I look forward to the challenges of 2015, but for now I plan to spend some time sitting and enjoying all the goodness in my life.
A year ago today, my honey was on a respirator fighting for his life. While I was loath to admit it, I was nearly certain that he wouldn't survive. I've never been so happy to be wrong.
In addition to a healed husband, I feel very blessed by several events this year. (In case you missed the banner and the yelling of the news from the rooftops) I secured a full-time, tenure-track teaching job. My kids (and their children) moved home. Yes, this is a great thing. I LOVE having the babies (grown and otherwise) under one roof. I have also reconnected with an old friend or two (thank you Facebook), and am enjoying new friendships at the new job. This year was the best Christmas in recent memory, made especially sweet by the presence of my oldest extra daughter.
Tonight we will begin the evening by toasting an extended family member as he celebrates his 70th birthday. Then my honey and I will return to our tradition of burning out the old and burning in the new as we gather round the fire pit. If the grand-babies can stay awake, they will join us. Tomorrow we will lounge around at my favorite anti-party, eat soup, watch movies and enjoy good friends.
I am delighted to say that I am quite happy today. I'm holding onto this feeling as tightly as possible. I look forward to the challenges of 2015, but for now I plan to spend some time sitting and enjoying all the goodness in my life.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Levels of Relief
In case you haven't heard, Mendocino College hired me to teach full-time beginning this fall.
You can call me Professor Buccelli. Really. My official title, once the Academic Senate approves it, will be Associate Professor of English. My new business cards already proclaim me, Ginny Buccelli, Professor of English. I'm just delighted. Tenure here I come!
After nearly five weeks of teaching a full load at one school, I can say that the transition has been quite smooth. Happy even. As a new employee, the administration and department have put certain restrictions on my activities; in other words, I'm not allowed to stretch myself too thin just yet. They want me to have a period of lighter commitments as I settle in before I allow my workaholic personality to assert itself.
Multiple levels of relief are evident. There is the obvious monetary relief. My first paycheck as a full-time instructor was nearly double my last adjunct paycheck; my yearly salary will be about 50% more than my most lucrative year teaching part-time (that resulted in an overnight stay in the hospital). When I saw my first paycheck, and how much the district was contributing to my retirement, I cried.
In the past, there were few guarantees as to how many classes were available to me from semester to semester. Now I know that I will always have a full load of classes to teach; I have a contract that spells that fact out pretty clearly.
One of the happiest transitions is the single set of work keys. I no longer find myself staring blankly at the keys in my hand, struggling to remember where exactly I am, which key will open my office or, more importantly, which key opens the faculty restroom.
Learning the new faces, rules, resources, politics, and expectations offers a few minor challenges. Keeping my mouth shut about what I see and how I think some things could be improved is a struggle. I hold myself mute often; if you know me at all, you know that is difficult for me.
Since the phone call came in late one night in May, I have wondered if this is real. I worried that the hiring committee, or the President would change their minds. I worried that the Board of Trustees would fail to approve my hire. I worried that HR would lose my paperwork, or that the position would suddenly disappear. These worries are finally dissipating, much to my relief.
Thus far my colleagues are great, and the staff is friendly and helpful. Teaching is the easy part; I chose to teach at this level because I love the community college population. I love the students in Ukiah as much as anywhere else I have taught.
I do find myself reluctant to give up the trappings of my previous positions. One college required that I formally resign, and kicked me off the email server. The other is allowing me to linger and interact. My email address has not yet been removed from all distribution lists. I think at some point I will need to have emails forwarded and let go of checking in. I'm going to wait until letting go feels like relief.
You can call me Professor Buccelli. Really. My official title, once the Academic Senate approves it, will be Associate Professor of English. My new business cards already proclaim me, Ginny Buccelli, Professor of English. I'm just delighted. Tenure here I come!
After nearly five weeks of teaching a full load at one school, I can say that the transition has been quite smooth. Happy even. As a new employee, the administration and department have put certain restrictions on my activities; in other words, I'm not allowed to stretch myself too thin just yet. They want me to have a period of lighter commitments as I settle in before I allow my workaholic personality to assert itself.
Multiple levels of relief are evident. There is the obvious monetary relief. My first paycheck as a full-time instructor was nearly double my last adjunct paycheck; my yearly salary will be about 50% more than my most lucrative year teaching part-time (that resulted in an overnight stay in the hospital). When I saw my first paycheck, and how much the district was contributing to my retirement, I cried.
In the past, there were few guarantees as to how many classes were available to me from semester to semester. Now I know that I will always have a full load of classes to teach; I have a contract that spells that fact out pretty clearly.
One of the happiest transitions is the single set of work keys. I no longer find myself staring blankly at the keys in my hand, struggling to remember where exactly I am, which key will open my office or, more importantly, which key opens the faculty restroom.
Learning the new faces, rules, resources, politics, and expectations offers a few minor challenges. Keeping my mouth shut about what I see and how I think some things could be improved is a struggle. I hold myself mute often; if you know me at all, you know that is difficult for me.
Since the phone call came in late one night in May, I have wondered if this is real. I worried that the hiring committee, or the President would change their minds. I worried that the Board of Trustees would fail to approve my hire. I worried that HR would lose my paperwork, or that the position would suddenly disappear. These worries are finally dissipating, much to my relief.
Thus far my colleagues are great, and the staff is friendly and helpful. Teaching is the easy part; I chose to teach at this level because I love the community college population. I love the students in Ukiah as much as anywhere else I have taught.
I do find myself reluctant to give up the trappings of my previous positions. One college required that I formally resign, and kicked me off the email server. The other is allowing me to linger and interact. My email address has not yet been removed from all distribution lists. I think at some point I will need to have emails forwarded and let go of checking in. I'm going to wait until letting go feels like relief.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Parallels in Life and Illness
My honey survived his illness this year. My first husband wasn't so lucky.
I have been married three times. My second husband is my son's father; husband number two is alive and well. I checked. It's not hard because we are still friends.
My first husband and I had no children together; we were married for a short time, and we haven't seen each other or spoken in decades. I've always been okay with the lack of contact. It was not a healthy relationship. We were both terribly flawed, and too young, to create and sustain a healthy marriage. I married him for many reasons, including love; I'm not sure why he married me. The marriage and breakup were not pretty, but the divorce was over pretty quickly.
My first husband died February 13, 2014. I stumbled across the information on the Internet more than a month after the fact. I have searched for him in the past and knew a little about his life. This time when I plugged his name into a search engine, instead of long list of unrelated links, a page full of links to his obituary popped up. The shock was so great that I jumped out of my chair, barely refrained from throwing my laptop across the room and proceeded to swear and bolt out of the room.
My first coherent thought was that one husband died and the other survived. I am still struggling to work through the trauma of watching my honey suffer through weeks on a respirator, a month in the hospital, and months of recovery. The parallel illnesses are mind blowing. I know that we are of an age when our peers have begun to die, and those numbers will increase as the years progress. At least three people that I went to high school with have passed away in the last few months. I'm still so shocked by his death. I feel bruised by the proximity. If we hadn't divorced, I could be the widow. Even with the divorce, I almost was. This brings the stark reality of the last few months into a sharper, more painful, focus.
The obituary doesn't list a cause of death. I wanted to know how and why he died. He was relatively young, only 51. His father and one brother died of cancer. I believe that his mother did as well. Did he suffer for months or years?
As I searched, I learned more about his life, and so much was good. It looks as though he overcame enough of his flaws to create a happy life. He was married for a third time and had three children. The pictures I found of them online are lovely. I'm truly happy that he was able to find stability in his life and build a family. It looks as though he was surrounded by a community of people who genuinely loved him. I remember him as being very charismatic and a great storyteller. In our life, his stories ultimately got in the way of our marriage because he couldn't seem to make a clear distinction between fact and fiction.
I reached out to both his ex-wife and his widow through the Internet. I expressed my condolences and sent them prayers. It is the least they deserve. They and their children loved the man. He was so clearly not the boy I married any more than I am the girl he married. I didn't ask them about his health or death. I didn't ask any questions. Neither has responded.
I found pictures of him in a wheelchair, but no explanation as to why. I ordered a copy of his death certificate; the causes of death don't point to a definitive, definable thing. I finally stumbled across an online posting that said he had a heart attack.
I keep coming back to a few parallels in our lives. We have both been married three times. Our parents are all dead. Russ had a massive heart attack the same week that Joe was told that he might have cancer in his brain. The overlap of illnesses is so strange.
Is it possible that even after all these years there is still some sort of cosmic connection? Can we attach our lives through marriage and really completely severe all ties in a divorce? My own parents died 20 days apart. They had been divorced for 40 years and hadn't spoken in more than a decade, yet they died close together in time, 100 miles apart.
Russ became very ill; the heart attack left him on life support in a vegetative state. Joe became very ill and was put on a respirator. When the doctors removed the respirator, Joe could breath on his own. Shortly before doctors took Russ off life support, tests confirmed that Joe did not have cancer. When the respirator was removed, Russ died. The parallels diverged.
One husband died; the other didn't. Is it irony? Coincidence? Divine hand? I don't know. I do know that it is painful.
RIP to the flawed boy I once loved. RIP to the good man he became.
I have been married three times. My second husband is my son's father; husband number two is alive and well. I checked. It's not hard because we are still friends.
My first husband and I had no children together; we were married for a short time, and we haven't seen each other or spoken in decades. I've always been okay with the lack of contact. It was not a healthy relationship. We were both terribly flawed, and too young, to create and sustain a healthy marriage. I married him for many reasons, including love; I'm not sure why he married me. The marriage and breakup were not pretty, but the divorce was over pretty quickly.
My first husband died February 13, 2014. I stumbled across the information on the Internet more than a month after the fact. I have searched for him in the past and knew a little about his life. This time when I plugged his name into a search engine, instead of long list of unrelated links, a page full of links to his obituary popped up. The shock was so great that I jumped out of my chair, barely refrained from throwing my laptop across the room and proceeded to swear and bolt out of the room.
My first coherent thought was that one husband died and the other survived. I am still struggling to work through the trauma of watching my honey suffer through weeks on a respirator, a month in the hospital, and months of recovery. The parallel illnesses are mind blowing. I know that we are of an age when our peers have begun to die, and those numbers will increase as the years progress. At least three people that I went to high school with have passed away in the last few months. I'm still so shocked by his death. I feel bruised by the proximity. If we hadn't divorced, I could be the widow. Even with the divorce, I almost was. This brings the stark reality of the last few months into a sharper, more painful, focus.
The obituary doesn't list a cause of death. I wanted to know how and why he died. He was relatively young, only 51. His father and one brother died of cancer. I believe that his mother did as well. Did he suffer for months or years?
As I searched, I learned more about his life, and so much was good. It looks as though he overcame enough of his flaws to create a happy life. He was married for a third time and had three children. The pictures I found of them online are lovely. I'm truly happy that he was able to find stability in his life and build a family. It looks as though he was surrounded by a community of people who genuinely loved him. I remember him as being very charismatic and a great storyteller. In our life, his stories ultimately got in the way of our marriage because he couldn't seem to make a clear distinction between fact and fiction.
I reached out to both his ex-wife and his widow through the Internet. I expressed my condolences and sent them prayers. It is the least they deserve. They and their children loved the man. He was so clearly not the boy I married any more than I am the girl he married. I didn't ask them about his health or death. I didn't ask any questions. Neither has responded.
I found pictures of him in a wheelchair, but no explanation as to why. I ordered a copy of his death certificate; the causes of death don't point to a definitive, definable thing. I finally stumbled across an online posting that said he had a heart attack.
I keep coming back to a few parallels in our lives. We have both been married three times. Our parents are all dead. Russ had a massive heart attack the same week that Joe was told that he might have cancer in his brain. The overlap of illnesses is so strange.
Is it possible that even after all these years there is still some sort of cosmic connection? Can we attach our lives through marriage and really completely severe all ties in a divorce? My own parents died 20 days apart. They had been divorced for 40 years and hadn't spoken in more than a decade, yet they died close together in time, 100 miles apart.
Russ became very ill; the heart attack left him on life support in a vegetative state. Joe became very ill and was put on a respirator. When the doctors removed the respirator, Joe could breath on his own. Shortly before doctors took Russ off life support, tests confirmed that Joe did not have cancer. When the respirator was removed, Russ died. The parallels diverged.
One husband died; the other didn't. Is it irony? Coincidence? Divine hand? I don't know. I do know that it is painful.
RIP to the flawed boy I once loved. RIP to the good man he became.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Degrees of Relief
Last night marks the first night that my honey and I slept in our own bed, in our own room, together, since December 17, when we were both still sick with the flu, and our temperatures rose in unison. The next day, his temperature continued its rise as mine fell. By Saturday he was in the ICU, less than a week later he could only breath with the help of a ventilator.
There were many conversations about his progress with friends in the first weeks he was home. I didn't feel the great sense of relief that I thought I would, or that many people seemed to think that I would. It was most certainly good news. The best. He had lived. He is alive.
There was a certainly a degree of relief once he stopped dying. My notes include phrases like, "evolving renal failure," and "X-ray much worse." The words congestive heart failure aren't in my notes, only my memory. I spent each day in the ICU with him, reading, working, staring at him, interacting with the staff. Some days I had to leave because his suffering was too much to watch. There was little relief in leaving as I was terrified that something horrible would happen while I was at home sleeping.
I began to feel the first degree of relief after I crawled into bed late January 1st; I have nothing in my notes to indicate a big change, but I knew intuitively that he was on his way back; a week later he was extubated and was able to breath completely on his own again. That small degree of relief was tempered by his inability to speak above a shaky whisper, the hallucinations, and the lack of gross and fine motor skills. He couldn't feed himself or bring a cup to his lips to sate his thirst; I fed him ice cubes. His skin, that had been stretched so far by 50 lbs. of water retention, had shrunk back down and clung to his bones; it was so wrinkled and he was so thin that he looked 40 years older.
But he was awake and cracking jokes. The ability to laugh with him brought another degree of relief, as did the move to a regular hospital room. But I'll be honest, I was terrified that they would send him home before he could care for himself; I didn't think that I could have to care for him, and myself, around the clock. It was a relief when the discharge nurse agreed that he would be transferred to a rehab facility.
Yet, once he was home he still needed a great deal of help in order to function. He leaned heavily on a walker. Getting in and out of the car was slow and at time precarious. His first shower at home, although wonderful, required a slow trek up then down the stairs; he needed a shower chair for stability and two days to recover from the exertion. He moved slowly and tired easily. He could eat and drink by himself, but it was not safe for him to be alone for long periods of time. Friends and family had helped me set up a bedroom downstairs in what used to be our dining room. He woke every two hours that first week, with pain or anxiety or a trip to the bathroom. I woke up with him, still unable to allow myself much deep sleep. I was terrified that he would need me, and I would sleep through his calls or the noise of his body falling to the floor.
That gradually changed. Bit by slow bit. Relief has come in small, sometimes unnoticeable increments.
This is the first time in two months that I feel a sense of palatable relief; our life is finally moving back into normalcy. Once our bedroom was put back together last night, my tears didn't surprise me. Even now, the next morning, I want to sit and cry. No psycho-analysis needed: I'm good in a crisis; I fall apart once the coast is clear. I can finally see the clearing through my tears.
There were many conversations about his progress with friends in the first weeks he was home. I didn't feel the great sense of relief that I thought I would, or that many people seemed to think that I would. It was most certainly good news. The best. He had lived. He is alive.
There was a certainly a degree of relief once he stopped dying. My notes include phrases like, "evolving renal failure," and "X-ray much worse." The words congestive heart failure aren't in my notes, only my memory. I spent each day in the ICU with him, reading, working, staring at him, interacting with the staff. Some days I had to leave because his suffering was too much to watch. There was little relief in leaving as I was terrified that something horrible would happen while I was at home sleeping.
I began to feel the first degree of relief after I crawled into bed late January 1st; I have nothing in my notes to indicate a big change, but I knew intuitively that he was on his way back; a week later he was extubated and was able to breath completely on his own again. That small degree of relief was tempered by his inability to speak above a shaky whisper, the hallucinations, and the lack of gross and fine motor skills. He couldn't feed himself or bring a cup to his lips to sate his thirst; I fed him ice cubes. His skin, that had been stretched so far by 50 lbs. of water retention, had shrunk back down and clung to his bones; it was so wrinkled and he was so thin that he looked 40 years older.
But he was awake and cracking jokes. The ability to laugh with him brought another degree of relief, as did the move to a regular hospital room. But I'll be honest, I was terrified that they would send him home before he could care for himself; I didn't think that I could have to care for him, and myself, around the clock. It was a relief when the discharge nurse agreed that he would be transferred to a rehab facility.
Yet, once he was home he still needed a great deal of help in order to function. He leaned heavily on a walker. Getting in and out of the car was slow and at time precarious. His first shower at home, although wonderful, required a slow trek up then down the stairs; he needed a shower chair for stability and two days to recover from the exertion. He moved slowly and tired easily. He could eat and drink by himself, but it was not safe for him to be alone for long periods of time. Friends and family had helped me set up a bedroom downstairs in what used to be our dining room. He woke every two hours that first week, with pain or anxiety or a trip to the bathroom. I woke up with him, still unable to allow myself much deep sleep. I was terrified that he would need me, and I would sleep through his calls or the noise of his body falling to the floor.
That gradually changed. Bit by slow bit. Relief has come in small, sometimes unnoticeable increments.
This is the first time in two months that I feel a sense of palatable relief; our life is finally moving back into normalcy. Once our bedroom was put back together last night, my tears didn't surprise me. Even now, the next morning, I want to sit and cry. No psycho-analysis needed: I'm good in a crisis; I fall apart once the coast is clear. I can finally see the clearing through my tears.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Blessings During a Difficult Time
In the last three weeks, I have been blessed by and with:
Lunches with friends that give me a reason to leave the hospital room for an hour or two and be distracted by interesting people and conversation
Phone calls from concerned friends and family, near and far. Even if I don't feel much like talking, or don't answer the phone, the contact is comforting
Text messages (see phone calls)
Nurses in the ICU who answer my questions
Nurses in the ICU who take good care of my honey
Nurses in the ICU who encourage me to take care of myself
The best brother-in-law a woman would ask for: Atwood. He has spent every non-working day here with Joe and me. He translates the medical jargon, answers questions I didn't know I had and is wonderfully supportive (sometimes literally holding me up).
Atwood's wife, Bobbie, who is willing to share him and help out as well.
My son who texts me everyday even if it's just to tell me that he loves me; he set up our caring bridge site
My daughter who stepped up and took charge of a one broken paw and one runaway dog
My daughter's boyfriend who made and delivered soup
My extra daughter Emmy who does a daily check in to make sure I am eating/sleeping/taking my meds
My hopefully-someday-soon-daugher-in-law Nichole who makes me goodies, loves us so much and helps me stay sane
The Caring Bridge site where I can write once or twice per day and answer most concerned questions all at once
The time, need and space to write everyday for the first time in years
A chance to cuddle with my grandbaby last night for the first time since Christmas
My neighbor who gets groceries for me
My best gal-pal Annie who helps me hide my gray hair in time for the new semester to begin
Kimmy who put my Christmas decorations away upon request, then tidied the rest of the house.
Homemade ready to eat or reheatable meals from multiple sources
Folks who insist on bugging me about what I need, and getting answers that help
Supportive co-workers
The chance to reestablish cordial relations with my in-laws
Andrea who came to do energy work with Joe and support me, and her husband Kevin who holds my hand and lends me his shoulder
Karen, my friend the medical transcriptionist, who gives me nearly as much info as Atwood
This is not a complete list, and it continues to grow. I promise to continue to recognize and appreciate the many blessings in whatever form they take.
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
Lunches with friends that give me a reason to leave the hospital room for an hour or two and be distracted by interesting people and conversation
Phone calls from concerned friends and family, near and far. Even if I don't feel much like talking, or don't answer the phone, the contact is comforting
Text messages (see phone calls)
Nurses in the ICU who answer my questions
Nurses in the ICU who take good care of my honey
Nurses in the ICU who encourage me to take care of myself
The best brother-in-law a woman would ask for: Atwood. He has spent every non-working day here with Joe and me. He translates the medical jargon, answers questions I didn't know I had and is wonderfully supportive (sometimes literally holding me up).
Atwood's wife, Bobbie, who is willing to share him and help out as well.
My son who texts me everyday even if it's just to tell me that he loves me; he set up our caring bridge site
My daughter who stepped up and took charge of a one broken paw and one runaway dog
My daughter's boyfriend who made and delivered soup
My extra daughter Emmy who does a daily check in to make sure I am eating/sleeping/taking my meds
My hopefully-someday-soon-daugher-in-law Nichole who makes me goodies, loves us so much and helps me stay sane
The Caring Bridge site where I can write once or twice per day and answer most concerned questions all at once
The time, need and space to write everyday for the first time in years
A chance to cuddle with my grandbaby last night for the first time since Christmas
My neighbor who gets groceries for me
My best gal-pal Annie who helps me hide my gray hair in time for the new semester to begin
Kimmy who put my Christmas decorations away upon request, then tidied the rest of the house.
Homemade ready to eat or reheatable meals from multiple sources
Folks who insist on bugging me about what I need, and getting answers that help
Supportive co-workers
The chance to reestablish cordial relations with my in-laws
Andrea who came to do energy work with Joe and support me, and her husband Kevin who holds my hand and lends me his shoulder
Karen, my friend the medical transcriptionist, who gives me nearly as much info as Atwood
This is not a complete list, and it continues to grow. I promise to continue to recognize and appreciate the many blessings in whatever form they take.
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
Sunday, January 5, 2014
What Day is it Again?
What day is it?
According to the pill box that I use to dole out my daily supplements, today is Sunday. Is that right?
Yesterday my brother-in-law and I were discussing the timing of his trip home to avoid commute traffic. Then someone pointed out that it was Saturday, so likely traffic wouldn't be an issue. On one level we knew what day of the week it was, but without the regular daily routine that made up our lives before my honey's stint in the ICU, the names of the days simply don't hold the same significance and signals.
I have a new daily rhythm that is very different from those I have relied on in the past. It is different enough from the school/teaching rhythm, from the vacation rhythm, or the semester break rhythm to be disconcerting. Beyond the physical and emotional stress that is to be expected, there is a lack of connection to the reality of time.
I use the Note app in my cell phone to keep track of information every morning at rounds as each person on that day's team shares their observations and insights. Each entry begins with the date, and I use that information to write the Caring Bridge site update. Still, I am getting my dates confused.
It's not just dates and days that I am losing track of; time is an issue. Hospital time is strange. The sense of hurry up and wait is exponentially higher here. The clock at times moves so slowly; the first few days Joe kept falling asleep for short periods of time and waking up to look at a clock whose hands were still in the same spot. At other times the hands move so quickly, I pause to breath and 10 minutes have gone by. As I write this it feels as if we are still in the first few minutes of a sedation vacation, but it has been over 2 hours. Instead of that linear feel, time has become waves of movement, sometimes flat, other times ferociously fast and furious, crashing over our heads and carrying us away while we focus on breathing or blood pressure or heart rate numbers.
According to the pill box that I use to dole out my daily supplements, today is Sunday. Is that right?
Yesterday my brother-in-law and I were discussing the timing of his trip home to avoid commute traffic. Then someone pointed out that it was Saturday, so likely traffic wouldn't be an issue. On one level we knew what day of the week it was, but without the regular daily routine that made up our lives before my honey's stint in the ICU, the names of the days simply don't hold the same significance and signals.
I have a new daily rhythm that is very different from those I have relied on in the past. It is different enough from the school/teaching rhythm, from the vacation rhythm, or the semester break rhythm to be disconcerting. Beyond the physical and emotional stress that is to be expected, there is a lack of connection to the reality of time.
I use the Note app in my cell phone to keep track of information every morning at rounds as each person on that day's team shares their observations and insights. Each entry begins with the date, and I use that information to write the Caring Bridge site update. Still, I am getting my dates confused.
It's not just dates and days that I am losing track of; time is an issue. Hospital time is strange. The sense of hurry up and wait is exponentially higher here. The clock at times moves so slowly; the first few days Joe kept falling asleep for short periods of time and waking up to look at a clock whose hands were still in the same spot. At other times the hands move so quickly, I pause to breath and 10 minutes have gone by. As I write this it feels as if we are still in the first few minutes of a sedation vacation, but it has been over 2 hours. Instead of that linear feel, time has become waves of movement, sometimes flat, other times ferociously fast and furious, crashing over our heads and carrying us away while we focus on breathing or blood pressure or heart rate numbers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)