Hometown: Blank (and P.S. a give-away)

1st edition cover

"In the loveliest town of all, where the houses were white and high and the elm trees were green and higher than the houses, where the front yards were wide and pleasant and the back yards were bushy and worth finding out about, where the streets sloped down to the stream and the stream flowed quietly under the bridge, where the lawns ended in orchards and the orchards ended in fields and the fields ended in pastures and the pastures climbed the hill and disappeared over the top toward the wonderful wide sky, in this loveliest of all towns, Stuart stopped to get a drink of Sasparilla."

This passage from E.B. White's Stuart Little always takes me back to the town I was born in, the town where I began my growing up, the town that, in some ways, still feels like my hometown. Here, I was known, I was my mom's and dad's daughter, I was the middle sister sandwiched by two boys. With the other kids, we ran around the neighborhood in a pack. We went sledding on Davie's hill and walked our way lost in the woods. It was just like Ames Crossing, the loveliest of all towns in Stuart Little, except that the orchards gave way, westward, to dunes and we drank Faygo Rock'n'Rye or Vernor's instead of Sasparilla.

But then there is the town where we lived amidst field after field after field. Where the noon whistle reminded us of lunch time and the six o'clock whistle told us it was time to go home before our parents got cross. This was the town with the old fashioned wooden water tower that darkened to silhouette against the evening sky going down toward dusk. And this was the town where my BFF and I would sit on the swings at night at the little town beach, drinking diet cherry 7-up and wondering where life would take us. The town that had a town drunk called Sundown, where you could walk across M-66 by waving your hand at the traffic to stop, and it would even though there was no stoplight. This is the town where my BFF's grandpa was the Village President once, and then her dad was, and now her sister is. In this town I graduated from high school and tried to graft myself on to the history of farming families, many of whom are still living and working there today.

And then there was New York City, that amalgam of thousands of small towns held together by the stitching of cross-streets onto Broadway, the Asian grocer where I got my coffee "light," the trembling of the 1/9 below the streets, the barely-there restaurants where you could get black beans and scrambled eggs and pressed Cuban bread for $4, thank God. Because that was all you had till you got your sliver of a paycheck the next week, and you needed a full belly to get through your finals.

Next came the Township, strung between the dark blue bay and the every-color brilliance of the lake. We swam at the drop off, walked to the fruit stand for sweet corn in the afternoons sun-soaked and happy. In the evenings we reached up to touch the stars that looked so close, we saw ourselves in the sparkling wash of the Milky Way, we walked through tunnels of fireflies. Then played euchre late into the night; always sit the way the bathtub runs if you want to win (ancient family secret). This is where we brought our first loves, our first real loves, the people we joined ourselves to in marriage. This is where we brought our babies home to meet their grandparents. This is where we go home to now.

Next there was the biggest small town in the world: Saint Paul. There everyone is Catholic, and everyone grew up there, and we lived in John and Millie's house even though John and Millie had died long ago. This is where my babies were born, where my dearest friendships took root and grew as rich and tall as the trees in the boulevards. This is where I learned to expect flood, to take shelter away from the basement's rattling windows, to huddle together and keep the fire burning strong during winter's long residence.

Now we are here in this little peninsula town. We have put down shallow roots in its here-and-there streets that are a patchwork of House Beautiful and houses slouching down to their dotage. We find our way to the best dry-cleaners, the semi-secret produce market, the library quiet and nourishing as the womb. We sleep with our windows open, hear the song of crickets and the Caltrain going through downtown. We walk through our days hemmed in by mountains: to the east, the blonde foothills curled like so many hips and thighs under the sun; to the west, the blue-dark Santa Cruz with its mantle of cloud bank off the ocean. Here we have landed: taken by surprise, but together. Our life unfolds day by day as if we have always been here. This is where those babies are growing up, at least for now.

Which is my hometown? I've been wondering lately. My field for 'hometown' on Facebook has always been blank. I have never known for sure, and still don't, what makes a town a hometown. If, as Joan Didion says, "a place belongs to those who claim it hardest," then the Township is mine all mine (don't worry, I promise to share!). But still, I hesitate to say it's my hometown -- there are families who have been there generations; it's their hometown. Sometimes I think my hometown is wherever I am right now: so, here on the peninsula; except when I'm visiting Mom and Dad at the lake; and then, near Ely, Minnesota, on vacation -- that week, the northwoods is home.

What's your hometown? How did you decide? Is it the place you were born and grew up? Is it the place you've been longest? Is it the place you raised your children, had the best library, or your favorite orchard of all time?

I would love to know how you, Reader, define hometown for yourself. Or if you're not sure, then something about your hometown or several of your hometowns. Anyone who comments will be put in a drawing for a copy of Today's Special Dish by Nina Lindsay, a hometown poet: born and raised and still working in Oakland; a poet who uses characters and scenes from her hometown to make her art.

Wherever you are today, I hope you feel at home. Happy Friday.

PS. I forgot to say I will draw the winner next Friday 10/28/2011! And also, if you're kinda shy like me and would rather "comment" via e-mail, you'll still go in the drawing.

Mid-week Missive Full of Nothing Much

*photo attribution below

We live near a fire station (amongst other things) and many, many dogs. Right now the sirens are wailing and the neighborhood dogs have begun their empathetic opera of howls. It cracks me up every time it happens. It feels like we're living inside the movie 101 Dalmations when the dogs of the countryside raise their snouts and call to the dogs of London to pass along the location of the puppies.

At any rate, my pups are all at school today. This seems to be the exception rather than the rule. One pup after another has had one virus after another. As there is no back-up for the mother, I have not written as much lately as I might have. But by my count I have seven new drafts since school started, which feels good. Last week was a good week for revision. This week I have grabbed hold of kronos whenever possible, and "played" in my notebook. This has freed me in some way that I can't quite articulate. I have felt freer to write several different drafts of the same poem, rather than feeling attached to a particular, hard won (in terms of time) draft.

I am starting to put some feelers out into the Bay Area literary community. This has taken the form of sending e-mails to people I don't know at all. While I know some people who do this easily, it has required me to screw my courage to the sticking-place. I'm shy. But I've had encouraging responses, and I'm hopeful that they'll lead to some sort of writing community over the long haul.

Many folks have been asking how we're doing in California. I never know quite what to say, but here are some of the responses that go through my head:

1. Same routine, different place. It can be very comforting to have kids because their needs keep you focused and busy. In many way our family life is very similar to what it was in South-of-the-River.
2. What's not to love? -- great weather, no mortgage, and we don't have to mow the lawn.
3. Pass your millage election or levy referendum or whatever the school funding election is called where you live. I have seen the future and it's not fair. Also, while you're at it, fall on your knees and give thanks for the School Bus (no bussing in California!).
4. I miss my friends.
5. I miss my mom and dad (not that they lived in South-of-the-River, but they were able to visit often because the distance was drive-able).
6. I've pulled a few successful u-turns.
7. I don't know.... I feel like we're some of the luckiest people alive no matter where we are: enough to eat, a roof over our heads, access to education and health care.

So, we are doing fine. It's not without its challenges and it's sometimes a bit lonely (probably mostly for me) but we're doing fine. Thanks to all who have wondered and sent good wishes.

And now, I'm off to dash across town to pick up Sister from school, and then dash back across town to get home in time for the boys' dismissal (O, school bus, O yellow magic carpet ride, how I miss you!).


*Photo by Firefighter Dayna Hilton (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

Gratitude Journal: 'The Isn't-it-nice-to-be-home-again' Edition

What poet wouldn't feel at home in a city that embeds poetry in its transit stops?

"Late last night so far away... I dreamed myself a dream... "


After what felt like 40 years -- but really was only a few months -- of wandering in the proverbial desert, I'm starting to feel at home again.

I am so grateful for that like-none-other feeling, and for:

~Six hours of quiet in the house today. The Introvert in me got her batteries way charged up.

~My bookshelves, arranged(!).

~The time I spent sorting and organizing notes from old classes and my fabulous former writing groups. It was a sweet walk down memory lane to remember the faces, voices, and stories that surrounded so many of the poems we studied together.

~The 3-inch stack of prompts, jumping-off points, ideas, and other similar poem-seeds that I now have in the second drawer on the left in my writing desk (the Resting Drawer's wise old grandmother...... I'll have to think of a name for it).

~The drafts I had forgotten about, some of which probably have a future.

~The city up the peninsula, San Francisco, and the chance to get to know it like the back of my hand in the coming months and years. The sense of coming home to a city I've only visited once before. Frisco, you were waiting for me the whole time, weren't you? (And yes, I'm a nerd, I just said 'Frisco').

~One word: Kepler's. Okay, more than one word: it's a friendly neighborhood independent bookseller where I would gladly live out the rest of my days (yes, I would miss Husband and the children, but..... the books! the books!). Although it's not in my neighborhood, it's only 20 minutes away and worth the drive. They had me at: "Kepler's presents: Jane Hirshfield, Monday September 12, 7:00 p.m."

~All these things combining to remind me that I'm a poet. Not just a mom. Not just a packer and a mover and an unpacker. Not just a phone caller, school form filler-outer, grocery shopper, bathroom sink wiper-downer. A poet.

Hey, Whoever You Are that's in charge of this crazy life, thanks for the reminder.

(And now for those of you who have James Taylor on the brain):

Baby Steps

Not the greatest photo, but a photo.

Reader (are you still out there??), I find the only way I can operate these days is in baby steps.

The desk is unearthed (or is that un-boxed?). Have I sat down to write at it? No.

The wall of boxes that once filled half the living room is gone. Are all the boxes unpacked? No.

I have a small table/cabinet to house the printer and my writing files. Have I put my writing files into their new home? No.

Do I unpack one box a day? No. Maybe more like a half a box a day.

Are the bookshelves all arranged? No. But they're part way arranged.

Do I have a new writing schedule in place? No. But last night I wrote writing day on every Tuesday and every Saturday in my calendar.

Do I have a new poetry collection to study this fall? No. But I ordered it today from my friendly neighborhood independent bookseller. It's Nina Lindsay's Today's Special Dish. Please go read this lovely poem by her right now.

Sometimes I wish I could take some giant steps. Like have all the boxes and the detritus of moving cross-country gone from my sight. Like have all the laundry folded all at the same time for even just five minutes. Like sit down at my desk for three hours to read and write and create something new. But right now, baby steps are working for me so I'm just gonna go with it for a while.

I think there are some poems tip-toeing up behind me... I can't wait to get to know them soon.

I hope you are baby-stepping when you need to, too.

In Which, Armed With Documentation, We Obtain Our Library Cards

It was a very good day at The Casita (which is how I've begun to refer to our little house).

Today the Mamacita found a copy of the lease. With this lease, a utility bill with the Mamacita's name on it, and the Mamacita's picture ID, the four readers* of the family were able to obtain real, live library cards at our new hometown public library.

Do I hear a "Hallelujah!"?

The days leading up to this event have been sheer agony, particularly for a certain reader of the bunch. This particular reader has read every age-appropriate book in the house at least twice, (and probably some that aren't age appropriate but I don't want to think about that right now). This particular reader was, and I quote, MISERABLE! without any new books to read. The Mamacita tried to buy him off with a book purchased at our friendly neighborhood independent bookstore, but that only lasted one day. Then he was MISERABLE! again (I confess, the complaint of being MISERABLE! without a book is one of the few complaints I can abide, as I'm sometimes guilty of complaining about the same thing).

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. There were pleas and negotiations. There were mumbled concessions: fineI'lljustreadHarryPotterfortheFIFTHtimethengeez.

Reader, what can I tell you? I was trying. But did you ever try to find a copy of a lease in a casita into which you've just moved, where, in fact, many boxes are still unpacked and there are piles of stuff lots of places where stuff doesn't belong? I confess, it was almost as hard as finding Kit Kittredge, American Girl, who was at the bottom of the.very.last of boxes labeled "toys" that I looked in.

And also, since when do hometown public libraries require multiple forms of identification including one home-based utility, not a cell phone bill? Kinda makes you feel paranoid for wanting a library card. But I digress.

I found the lease, girded my loins, and took the kids downtown. The hometown public library is beautiful, full of friendly staff, and houses an impressive collection from what I've seen so far. Which, of course, is the Children's and Middle Readers collection. And, after the last several days, it seems quite fitting that one of the streets bordering the library is Mercy Street. Mercifully, the MISERABLE reader, and the other two readers (one came home with the library's entire Kit Kittredge collection), and the mamacita have spent much of today lost in the pages of a book. Bliss.

And speaking of how important and completely wonderful hometown public libraries are, take a look at this beautiful sketchbook a San Francisco artist made about her hometown public library. I think you'll find that her art and her sentiments are right on.

Which reminds me... there is one hometown public library that I've been missing lately. It involves an island house, a glassed in porch, and a view of the bay. But that's another story for another day...

Now, I'm off to read.


*As the three youngest readers made clear to library staff, Husband is not so much a reader. Don't ask me how I ended up marrying a non-reader. He's wonderful in many ways and we were in love. Still are.

Dispatch from Northern California

Well, here we are.

After almost two weeks of hotel living and several days of utter unpacking chaos, here we are in our little (and I mean little) rented house in the golden state.

Here I am, sitting in the near-dark with the windows open, listening to the crickets chirp, watching out the window for the moon, knowing not where to begin.

I believe my first txt msg that went from California to South-of-the-River said: "Freakishly large geraniums."

It's true. They're like shrubs.

And I really don't know where to begin -- everything is so new and different, I'm just taking it all in. What I can tell you is this:

~Yes, it's true what they say about the weather. It really is lovely. In the midwest, we'd call it "good sleeping weather" -- you know, warm days then cool nights perfect for sleeping with the windows open. In a stunning departure from expected midwestern behavior, I have stopped checking the weather forecast every morning. Every day is the same: overcast morning, clouds giving way to bright sun and blue sky by 10 a.m., temps 70-75, steady light breezes, nights cool enough for fleeces, no rain. The midwesterner in me keeps looking over her shoulder, like it really can't last.

~Yes, it's true what they say about the produce. Also very lovely. Delicious, fresh, and cheap. Still not quite reaching the perfection of the Michigan sweet cherry, and yet the avocados nearly make up for it. I have already found my favorite produce market and it has become my second home. When I first entered, I had to pause for a moment of awestruck silence to say to my fellow shoppers: The produce snob in me (insert solemn bow here) greets the produce snob in you.

~California driving requires lots of u-turns. I have not, uh, mastered the u-turn. It's not pretty. Instead of embarrassing myself, I've figured out how to go about a half-mile out of my way on any given errand to avoid having to attempt a u-turn.

~California requires lots of documentation. So far, my dossier is not complete enough to get a library card, or to sign the kids up for little league. Note to self: must get one utility in my name.

~We have people here! We have relished spending time with my brother and his family, my uncle and his family, and an old college friend of mine and her family. It makes a huge difference to have these ready-made circles of love and laughter as we settle into our new home.

~The kids are happy. Our street is quiet and they are forever on their bikes. There's a lovely playground right around the corner. See above re: weather. They are brown as berries, and every night they come in with absolutely filthy feet. Every mother knows that absolutely filthy feet are an indication that all is well in the world.

~My desk is here somewhere. I know it's true because I saw it come in. Husband promises it's in the corner by the window with a view of the lovely fuchsia-flowering tree whose name I don't know. My own view of the alleged desk is obstructed by boxes that, alas, are too heavy for me to move. But never fear, my bookshelves are confirmed to be present and are slowly filling with all my best, dust-jacketed compadres.

~Speaking of compadres, I'm missing mine. Leaving my circle of friends in South-of-the-River was, of course, gut-wrenching. It involved lots of tears and hugs and the shocked silence of at least one casual observer as one dear friend and I wept into each others bosoms outside my house. Which isn't my house anymore. Leaving the house wasn't easy, either. I feel strangely untethered, a bit suspended between the ending of one chapter of life and the beginning of another. Dear compadres, nota bene: "I miss you" doesn't begin to say it.


Thank you to everyone who has sent, or even thought, good wishes and words of support. It makes all the difference to know that the people we love are wishing us well. And thank you, as always, for reading even as I haven't been writing much. I hope to be back here more regularly very soon.

The Storm Before the Calm

I've been up since four with a thunderstorm, the moving to-do list running through my head, thoughts of leave-takings that once were theoretical becoming actual, wondering what it will be like to live in the absence of thunderstorms.

The movers come on Monday. No, I am not ready.

This week, a friend sent me a poem by William Stafford called "The Way It Is." Here's a bit of it:

There is a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn't change.

The poem ends in the imperative:

You don't ever let go of the thread.

Well, I'm wondering: Can I have two threads? Mine have always been just what this blog is about: family (which, for me, also includes dear friends) and writing. As one life begins to fall away and another begins to unfold, I'm just going to hang on to my threads and believe that all will be well.

I'll be back here when we resurface on the edge of the continent. Until then...

Recalculating!

Have you ever used a GPS?

I never had until we went to California in May (yes, this post is way overdue) to "look around" as we said then. If you haven't used one, I am here to tell you that they have let the Voicemail Lady -- you know the one who says, "(insert name here) is not available. To leave a call back number, press 5. If you'd like to leave a message press one, or simply wait for the tone." etc. -- out of the phone, and they've put her into your car.

With a GPS you punch in your destination, and the Voicemail Lady will tell you how to get there: "in point two miles veer left on Oregon Expressway. Veer left on Oregon Expressway."

If you miss Oregon Expressway, the Voicemail Lady goes eerily silent, then comes back with a hearty "Recalculating!"

And yes, she will dutifully dictate an alternate route to your destination.

Well, Recalculating! is my new motto. After the trip to California we are recalculating all kinds of things like:
~home ownership: where 1200 square foot houses go for $1million, we may be lifelong renters
~deliberation time: in a place where rentals are advertised and filled, sometimes in the same day, we have  had to let go of our tendency to deliberate over such decisions. We rented a house sight unseen, on the recommendation of my wonderful sister-in-law.
~Stuff: while we have less Stuff than many modern American families, we will have to have even less as we move in to a rental house smaller than any of our houses have been.
~that new car Husband needs? to replace the 15 year old one held together buy duct tape? the one with no air and no heat and no god-knows-what-else? We'll just wait 'til it falls apart on the 101 someday. Then, maybe a new car, or maybe we become a one-car family.

I'm Recalculating! wardrobes. Chilly mornings, chilly nights, warm days. Linen doesn't seem to be necessary; it doesn't get that hot. Lightweight fleeces? yes. Wool sweaters -- lightweight cashmere only, methinks. Socks often but not always. Winter gear only if going to the mountains or to Grandma and Grandpa's. But hats? mittens? Probably sometimes? Just not sure what we're all going to need. Except for skinny jeans. Skinny jeans everywhere out there. I have acquired some skinny jeans, and even though I'm of the generation who thinks the words "skinny" and "jeans" do not belong in the same phrase, let alone the same sentence, I have to say - Recalculating! - they look awesome and I love them.

I am also Recalculating! some of my own ways of being, or at least realizing that they may need to be recalculated. Seeing the Bay Area up close made me realize that we are moving into a very different culture than the one we're familiar with in the staid, steady, uber-reasonable Midwest. I'm not sure I can pinpoint how it's different yet, but I had a distinct we're-not-in-Kansas-anymore feeling out there. We are told of pressure-cooker high schools (which we'll try to avoid), people paying cash for houses, and celebrity sightings (tech world celebrities, that is, like Hello! That's Mark Zuckerberg in line at the deli!). We are also told of 320 days of sun, outdoor living spaces, parks on every corner, wonderful restaurants, and citywide WiFi. One thing I can say is that, as overwhelmed and bewildered as I was out there, I saw a remarkable number of people who look just so damn happy! I think that can only mean good things.

My landscape-o-meter is Recalculating! as well. Just as I was barely getting to know the landscape in and around South of the River (and yes, definitely still mourning the loss of my landscape of origin -- my beautiful Michigan), I'll be headed to a very different place of soaring hills, microclimates, houses built practically on top of each other, towns that blend into other towns, a bay that looks hard-working but down on it's luck, bridges that defy understanding, and just over the hills, that awesome (in the true sense of the word) Pacific ocean, its enormity, its rolling thunder even on calm days, the greyish sand it carries to shore, that far horizon, next stop Japan. Oh, and, um, earthquakes. As a person who is and has been formed by landscape, and as a writer whose poems are full of landscape references, I know I am beginning again, starting from zero, to learn my new terrain.

My poet's heart is aching. Calculating the loss of my po-friends in South-of-the-River is impossible. I blubbered like a baby when I told my writing group what lies ahead. I will miss regular coffee&poems with the Poet A.O.D. I will have to learn the pathways of the literary scene out there, seek out like-minded poets. I wonder how to do it. Believe me, I have considered putting ads up on telephone poles: "LOST POET. SHORT, GLASSES, PURCHASED BLONDE HIGHLIGHTS, OFTEN DISTRACTED. WILL RESPOND TO RECITED POEMS BY ANNE SEXTON, LOUISE GLUCK, NAOMI SHIHAB NYE, DENISE LEVERTOV, AND RILKE. NEEDS GOOD HOME. CALL *Recalculating! What's my phone number??*

I am Recalculating! what can count as a writing life. I am committing small acts of literature like: going to writing group even when I feel I should be getting ready to move; reading and responding to the work of po-friends; reading small poems, or a poem at a time, but not a whole collection; jotting down ideas, but not writing poems. Just for now.

And now the Recalculating! has turned into a counting-down of days. The movers will be here two weeks from tomorrow. This is going to happen. Soon. The thing I have been avoiding is looking Loss straight in the eye. I am moving away from a network of friends -- po-friends and civilian friends -- that is amazing beyond belief. These are not people I kind of know and like. These are people I love deeply and dearly. It will be like surgery to leave them. That loss, I cannot begin to calculate now. That loss will hit me -- when?-- sometime after the fact.

By the time it does, I hope I am also adding up all the good things about life in Silicon Valley: all the nice people I've met, the literary world connections I've made, the hours of sunshine, the smiles of my nephews and cousins seen not via webcam but face to face, the bushels of fresh fruits and veggies from the year-round farmers market (What!? Did you say year-round? RECALCULATING!)

And by then, I hope I'll know my phone number.

Confession Saturday: Cross-Country Move Edition

I confess, I'm drinkin' out of a fire hose.

This is what my big brother used to say to me every time I asked him how he was during his grad school years. Me: How are you? Him: I'm drinkin' out of a fire hose. I thought I was drinkin' out of a fire hose during grad school, too -- two jobs and full-time school. I confess, I had no idea.

I confess, I have committed ZERO acts of literature in the last two weeks. Unless you count getting lost late at  night in Wuthering Heights and The Deep End of the Ocean. Perhaps it's a little strange that my old reliable escape-into novels are, well, utterly heartbreaking. But it works for me.

Even though I truly believe everything with the move will work out fine, and that we will find happiness and abundant life in California, my body doesn't believe it. I confess, I haven't eaten or slept very well since the news came down from on high. I confess, Advil PM is my new best friend. Ensure Plus is my old arch nemesis, but I've resigned myself to it for now.

As usual, all my favorite people in the world are rushing to my side to help. Those near are stripping some very-80s wallpaper, replacing cupboard pulls, and hanging pictures. Those far are sending their good thoughts and words of support. My parents have come from far to near to do all sorts of helpful things. I confess, I have the best friends and relations.

I confess, I'm getting pretty good at getting houses ready to sell. Lots of practice recently. I confess, I'm afraid to jinx anything, but let me just say I could live without this little song and dance for a good long time after this go-round.

I confess, I miss poetry right now. I know it will be waiting for me when I can get back to my desk. Which has been moved downstairs at the stager's directions. Sigh.

I confess, when people ask me how I'm doing, all I can think of is the bookmark my BFF gave me a million years ago. It says:

Oh, I'm fine.
Just fine.
Perfectly fine.


Really.
I'm fine.


Fine.


(Really, I am!)

I confess, I've missed my bloggy-life during all the hubbub. I'll be around as often as I can until the fire hose turns off.

In Which Led Zeppelin Plays on Loop in My Head

In the soundtrack of my life, Led Zeppelin looms large. They were hugely popular when I was a child, and their music filtered down into my world via babysitters and uncles and Tommy Stevens down the street. I left them behind for a while in the late 80s; Depeche Mode, New Order, big hair, and tuck-n-roll jeans seemed so ultra-cool then. On behalf of all the 80s kids, I would like to say: we see now that we were wrong about that.

The best music sticks, and in college and grad school I made my way back to the oldies but goodies, including Led Zeppelin. When I hear certain of their songs, I am transported to a country road heading north in Michigan with my brothers, on the way to the Lake. Or to a tiny, dark, and steaming hot apartment in New York City, where I lived with my dear friend, A., during graduate school.

Fast forward to now. I have this song playing in my head nonstop, and here's why:

Last week, we learned that he who is known as Husband is being transferred to the Silicon Valley office of his company. It came as a complete surprise to me, although now that I look back I see that it shouldn't have: the company's headquarters are there, and Husband is a go-getter.

My brain is still catching up with this development, and I suddenly have a very long list of things to do. I am comforted and excited by the fact that I have a brother and sister-in-law, and a nephew and a nephew-to-be, an uncle and aunt and two cousins just my kids' ages, and a dear friend, A., (the same A. I mentioned above) who all live in the Bay Area. We will have People there, thank goodness!

And we will NOT have winter. Dear winter, hasta luego. Don't miss me too much because I won't miss you.

On the other hand, I am sad to think of leaving my friends here, nervous about finding a school for the kids and a house and community for all of us, and overwhelmed by my long to-do list. I trust that all will be well, but there are a million question marks between here and there. My goal is to go one day at a time, one thing at a time. Wish me luck.