Moving On

Inspirational song: Living on Tulsa Time (Eric Clapton)

Yesterday I promised fireworks to compensate for a horribly boring daily post. They aren't taking the form I might have expected. Today one of my mother's supremely interesting friends said something (totally unrelated) that triggered a memory that is actually very dear to me, for all that it encompasses weeks of stress that culminated in an explosive argument at highway speeds. I had long suspected that the Animaniacs character of Katie Kaboom was based on stories of me (until I had teenaged girls of my own, and realized that they are all always one heartbeat away from nuclear meltdown level drama). In the weeks before I left my Oklahoma home town, to the foreign land of the People's Republic of Boulder and my freshman year of university, I was a delicate mix of fear and excitement, akin to jogging with a jug of nitroglycerin. I found myself in a relationship I had no business entering, and my friends advising against it only increased my angst. I was so tied in knots, I went five days without eating, and I mean five days, not a bite of food. But the melodramatic hunger strike eventually ended, and we loaded up the car, borrowing a giant Pontiac from my grandfather, as our cars were too small to hold everything that went to college with me. My driving shift started somewhere north of Oklahoma City, after dark. From the beginning, my stepfather pushed me to stay at the speed limit, which at the time was still a mind-numbing 55 mph, even on the interstates. I was far too interested in getting out of the state, and getting on with my new life (does that sound familiar to anyone who has been reading this blog since I started it?) I didn't make it to the Kansas border before I was in a full-blown screaming match with him, threatening to run us all into an overpass if I wasn't allowed to drive like I wanted. (My poor mother, in the back, not wanting to takes sides in this fight--sorry, mom.) But like most of my life, I paid attention to the music playing on the radio, the constant soundtrack that always seems to match exactly what is happening around me. As I drove across the Kansas state line, Eric Clapton sang, "Well I left Oklahoma, driving in a Pontiac, just about to lose my mind..." All these years later, I wonder, how did that DJ know? He turned a miserable night into one of the funniest memories from that year.

When I'm ready to leave a place, I absolutely commit to it. I leave and don't look back. I remember the first time we lived in California, in the central coast, in a place that was actually quite lovely. But I had been creeped out by my daughter's guitar teacher who kept making inappropriate passes at me, and I associated the whole town with that one guy who didn't understand the word no. So leaving there was no hardship. A few years later, I happily put North Dakota in the rear view mirror, swearing I was done with 44 degrees below zero and winters that last until well into April. (Do you read me, Mr Man? Done.) And there are two desert towns I can think of that I will never call home again. I am conflicted about where I am now, though. We've been here two years (two years next week, actually). I still really, really like it here. I know the chances of this being my forever home are slim, bordering on none. But I am not ready to leave it yet. I dread what must happen to make me ready to leave here, because it will have to be significant.

I finally mustered up the courage to clean out the spare bedroom where the first two kittens were. I washed all the bedding and towels that I'd left in place, and carried out all the trash. I think I've finally put that behind me now. I started clearing my other spare room as well, although I haven't heard the final decision on whether my friend will rent the room. I am not going to rush her. She needs to be absolutely certain it's the right thing for her. I am going ahead and starting a collection to take to the consignment shop. I need to do that regardless of whether she moves in. 

I keep watching the top of the crape myrtles, visible from my bedroom window. They are just starting to bloom, and there are buds just about to burst any day now. Every time I see them, I sing in my head "skyrockets in flight." My soundtrack is a little silly sometimes. But I keep listening to it, because it is so often right in tune.