Restless Vacation - Antique Stores and Finding My Way

With serendipity, I ended up  in an antique store in Lowell, MI where the circles of my life (a la Harry Chapin) started spinning around with a fury. I was supposed to be in Maine, but my watercolor plein air class was cancelled and I decided to create a sta-cation and paint in locations around my home in Chicago... that lasted three days. I was restless.

By Wednesday afternoon, I agreed to meet a high school friend who lives in Ann Arbor for lunch in Kalamazoo halfway between us... By his map. I threw my toothbrush and contact lens supplies in a bag and took off confidently thinking I could find somewhere to paint in Michigan and maybe stay overnight. I called friends (obviously good ones) in Lansing and found a place to catch up, drink some wine, watch the last Jon Stewart and crash. They were leaving early the next morning so I could too. By then, I'd decided to take back roads toward Ionia to check in on my parents, both resting in a sunny spot at Mt Olivet with their parents, grand parents and the village that raised them.

Driving down Ionia's Main Street I stopped for over an hour and sketched my mother's family home, a once gorgeous Victorian with a porch that wraps two sides. My grandpa saw patients in the parlor there after hours.

Directly across the street, I spent many Free Fair weeks with my paternal grandmother in her tiny one bedroom apartment, sleeping on the scratchy horse-hair couch that she made up for me each night. She probably thought the highlight for those "vacations" was the Free Fair midway with the rides and games. It wasn't. It was her tiny white Jiffy mix muffins with a swipe of white butter frosting and the hours I got to play canasta with, as May Sarton said, the "girls" with the grandmother faces, her friends.

Remembering, feeling nostalgic, I continued on Main till I recognized the steep hill to the left and followed it to the crunchy dirt and gravel drive into the cemetery.

My dad visited my mother's grave, then in Florida, every Friday until he couldn't drive. For me, a cemetery is not where or when I remember those who've passed on. Yet, I found something comforting in a reminder of the inevitability of life. That cemetery holds the people that were mythological in my growing up. The owner of the drug store. A much revered great-uncle who helped my dad. The Fred who owned a furniture factory near where when my grandpa laid dying and turned off the noon whistle to not cause him pain. Another Fred along with my grandpa Fred, and the factory owner, Fred (They were known about town as "the three Freds") who started the Free Fair (Both my dad and brother have the middle name of Frederick, AND coincidentally, I married a man whose last name is Frederick. A seventh grade teacher dubbed our son, Alex as “Fred”... a nickname which remains.) Within feet of grandpa's monument there are (at least) three stones of relatives holding my name, Mary E. Longe... another reminder of life here and gone.

I stopped to remember and sketched the scene.

I let the paints dry while I took a swig on a bottle of water and decided the rest of the day.  I  meandered up and down a few streets, but even the plethora of yard sales didn't tempt me to stop. While waiting for traffic to clear on Lincoln, I saw that the road also had a road number, M21. I turned lef, west onto it, figuring my GPS would eventually figure out, a way home. I wasn't ready for the expressway. The trees and grass were too green, the flowers in gardens too vibrant, the sun too bright to not take it in at a slower pace. I needed time to process the day so far.  M21 led me to Lowell.

Maybe as a child with my parents I was in Lowell, but not in any conscious way. I drove into town, decided I was hungry and would pick one once I could see the options.  I drove three or four blocks of downtown, crossed the river, where the antique stores near the west end caught my eye. I circled around, parked, went into one, and promptly bought a new camp chair, still in its original bag, that the owner explained was left in the store when they took over. It appeared perfect for sketching with its back and a little hideaway compartment for, in my case, a sketch book, pens and  paint. Cool find. I walked next door into Glass House Designs and walked out with Christmas presents made by Michigan artists. Cool finds. Walked into Dovetail Antiques. it was the first shop where I wasn't the only customer. There were voices and activity in the back.

None of them heard me yelp. Over in a corner holding dried flowers or something inside it sat a greyed and slightly bowed wood crate with black block lettering, FRIARS ALE, Grand Valley Brewing Company, Ionia Mich… My father was the brewmaster there before I was born from just after prohibition until 1948. Prior to this, the only item from that part of his life that had been passed to me was a small promotional sign, probably made for a bar. The aforementioned Alex/Fred, a craft home-brewer himself, owns the best memorabilia from my brother's collection … Dad's little black leather-bound book, with his notes from brew school (in  Chicago) and the recipes from that brewery.

I left Lowell, after a fantastic lunch a few feet from an old paddle boat that looks like it belongs in New Orleans, by the water at Flat River Grill,. I felt better than elated… content, maybe. Coincidence? I think not. I can’t help but connect dots of having spent time with friends who knew my grandmother and parents,  of visiting the cemetery where I saw the names of the three Freds and “the girls” who taught me card games and my own name on gravestones and, of finding the Friars Ale crate, something my father may have seen stacked in shipping or loaded on a truck. I was ready to come home feeling connected with those who came before. I felt good for having sketched - my present, and a peace about what is to come. I have an unfamiliar sense of being in the right place in my life… not restless.

Conversations... As Long as We Both Shall Live

What a great week when dots and spots collide and conversations go from life headlines to in-depth reports and paragraphs of dates and octopus and a salted caramel tart, movies that still haunt me, and a forest so colorful my eyes lost focus. This week held conversations with old friends, a work buddy and my son that could be put to song or hung with prayer flags.

I skipped work for a day when Jeff and Denise whom I haven’t seen in a year, came to Chicago with a friend. Alex and I decided over texts as our offices began to clear on Friday to see Cloud Atlas and grab dinner, both of which would have been worth planning. Lonni and I unfurled a Portuguese lace, figural tablecloth with zodiac signs, measured, photographed and learned the words to describe it for sale on eBay, as she dismantles her home for a move she’d rather not make.  A co-worker, not known for drama or obfuscation came into my office, shut the door in a way that made her turn completely around like a swing-dance move and said, “I hate it here.” Libby and I walked Ryerson Woods, shared a long meal where conversations started and actually completed, and saw Perks of Being a Wall Flower that surprised us in its authenticity and brought us both to tears.

In nearly every set of discussions the topic of the future occurred. We all have one, for as long as we both shall live... Alex talked about his near term vacation trip to Japan and upcoming new job responsibilities. My co-worker Teresa looked for a way to get beyond that day’s frustration, not a new job, Jeff and Denise described traveling home to France and then to Italy, with Thanksgiving in-between. And Lonni who’s making a cod liver oil move for mobility sake, that takes her from her garden, gorgeous built ins and tree tops to a condo and allows her a time to write and make art again.

Me, I examine and adjust the columns I continue to use to choose my future: Accessibility to Family and Friends, Interests, Money, Location, Health, Comfort. Every time, when asked - whatever I’ve been mulling most recently gets discussed first, but I don’t come to a decision.

I posted an article from the Wall Street Journal this week which described a couple who sold their home to become virtual vagabonds. They live in different towns all over the world for months at a time, their belongings in storage. Waiting for Perks to begin, Libby asked if I’d want to live that model, her twenty seven year old daughter sent her the article and said she wanted to do that now.  For me, I recognize that way of living certainly speaks to interests, location and maybe comfort, but accessibility to friends and the money aren’t aligned. “No, I told her, I just liked learning about the option.” Maybe there is something in-between, maybe we create our own social network of places to stay among friends. This nugget morphed into the Friends with Beds post below to explore the idea.

Clearly, I am still exploring, though I feel I am way behind. By now, my parents knew they would retire to Florida, they’d narrowed it to the Florida Gulf coast, but were still choosing a town and a style of home. Each year they’d vacation in a different place even testing a mobile home among the condo and single-family homes. I don’t have a vision for where or how I will spend my time, though friends have advised to let that go until you punch the last time clock…but I can’t imagine walking into such a void. I just feel behind... and alone in the decision.

Coaching and writing continue to feed me. I do both now but on the side and rarely for remuneration. In neither have I found my voice, but I continue to receive positive feedback for both. Working for someone else remains safe. The paycheck, benefits, obligatory social network and the sense of contribution offer comfort on all levels.   Consulting is a possibility… maybe I should call it weaning.

The conversations this week propelled me into new thoughts. They taught me and they touched me. I am forever grateful to the people in my life and always wish them the best as they move into their future for as long as we both shall live.