what I did on my summer vacation

I am a summer girl. I love the way that everything slows down, the way the heat is an excuse for any self-indulgent behavior you can imagine. I look forward to it all winter long when the snow piles up and when I can’t sleep for shivering. This summer hit me like a baseball bat to the back of the neck, though. It was ushered in on the arm of shock and grief, and I’m pretty sure it tried to kill me. The only thing you can do sometimes when your inescapable friend tries to kill you is wait it out. So I did.

Look at this book. WHY do I still have this book? Because look at that faux-Nagel-style artwork. It has to go. But god, part of me still wants to keep it. John Waters would not throw this shit away, you know it. He would always keep reference to the truth about herpes.While I waited, I looked at thousands of pieces of paper I had carried with me through move after move. I’ve lived in a lot of places; I should have let these things go before now. I threw out all sorts of things that I had no business keeping for so long. The people in the neighborhood may very well have thought that I chopped Myron up into pieces and put him at the curb in one of those many black plastic trash bags. To keep myself focused, I read a lot of decluttering and minimalist blogs—not that I could ever be a true minimalist, but I do want to feel more strongly about the things I do have, and one way to do that is to have fewer things. I realized a lot of my possessions were curiosities, oddments that I wanted to rescue from used book stores or to remind me of some random Thursday night in college when we walked along the levee and sang Doors songs. Things that students gave to me, or my mother, or a waitress or a lover. And I felt strongly about so many of them that picking and choosing felt inappropriate to impossible—there was no way to rank things more important or less, sometimes. But moving—especially the kind of moving where you’re charged by the pound—will make you rapidly unsentimental about belongings. Almost a third of my books are not coming with me, and more mementos than I could tell you. I took a lot of photos before I let things go. Are they digital clutter? Maybe. But I’m more able to sweep a bunch of photos into my recycle bin than I am the article itself, so every bit that went into the trash was a success story.

It may surprise you to know that I left the house when I could no longer bear to look at papers. I did! I even left for some very good reasons. Back in June, I was selected to read at Blog Out Loud, and almost immediately after my selection I berated myself for having the balls to apply because then I had to go and actually read the post out loud, in public, with other people who were intimidatingly talented and funny. Lynn, the organizer, wrote a lovely intro to my blog and when the day came, I went down to the city, got my eyebrows done, and finally got to give a big hug to Patti, Allison, and Karen. I read to the group about my mother and the kitchen at home, and I managed not to cry, and I was glad that more people got to know her, even that little bit. One of the saddest things about leaving Ottawa is that I won’t be able to do this again, but I was so grateful to do it this year.

And then there was Social Capital, which packed my brain full of so much information and strategy. You may not know this, but I only reluctantly started a Twitter account in order to volunteer for Reverb10, even though plenty of people told me I would enjoy it. And boy howdy, look at me now. I went to the conference hoping to gain new perspectives for a potential next round of The Scintilla Project and wound up with so much more than I bargained for. Most of the discussion there had to do with social media as used by organizations and companies, but in two sessions I gained deep insight into the mechanics of sharing what I share on a personal blog, one that I have no intention of monetizing in any way outside of the occasional free book that I may or may not review. Sometimes amid the swirling miasma of what passes for Meta-Blog Discussion and Advice, the personal blog is the bastard stepchild, especially when the sidebar isn’t given over to advertising. After the conference, I was proud of what I’ve accomplished here, both as a partner in a shared blog and now on my own, and I have a renewed energy for what I hope to accomplish here once I’m settled into the new house. (Also, we gossiped about you. Yes, you.) I’m super grateful to the organizing committee for putting on such a rewarding event, one that I would love to come back for next year.

In the heat of it all, I jumped on a bus and went to Montreal to meet Shakti when she came up for a visit. For all the time I’ve lived here, Myron kept saying we would make it to Montreal for a long weekend, and it never happened. This has always been maddening, because Montreal is so temptingly close. I got to do two wonderful things at once—immerse myself in a glorious old city and spend a few hours with my vibrant, whip-smart, and beautiful friend. I should have taken her photo—don’t ask me where my brain was at the time—but I’m glad I got the chance to be with Shakti amid the wild street theatre, the gorgeous architecture, the thousand perfect typefaces, the people, and all the beauty. I can’t wait until I get back there, especially if luck and timing align so that I can walk those cobbled streets with the nip of autumn in the air.

In between all of this were smaller summer moments. Tending a lawn that crisped up beyond recognition during a record-breaking drought, coordinating the various upgrades to the house, lunches out with Patti, Allison, and Karen, days in the city, sunshine blasting a sandal tan into the tops of my feet, a long weekend visit with Myron. I took a fair amount of August Break pictures, which may have bored some of you to distraction, but I say again, “break”. There was bad stuff, too: the incident with the pinched nerve that is only just now allowing me to function and pack again, the friend-of-a-friend handyman whose “repairs” to our front steps caused us even more expense and work, the relentless humidity that had me wondering how I could have ever thought I wanted to move back to Georgia. But it’s September now, and summer’s on its way out, and my to-do list has gotten shockingly shorter. Things are coming to an end here. And I will say that again and again over the next two months, but I’m still wrapping my head around it. I have lived in this townhouse longer than anyplace I’ve lived since the house where I grew up. Inertia doesn’t want to let me shuck off the moss just yet.

#augustbreak: thirteen + thirteen + thirteen

I remember thirteen. I remember twenty-six. If it occurred to me then to look ahead to thirty-nine, I’m pretty sure I thought I’d have everything wrapped up by now and that I would feel well and truly grown. That I would know who I was, instead of just knowing a handful of things that I’m not.

Birthdays are as weird and arbitrary as can be. These days, they aren’t about me so much as my mother—it was her big day back then, when I was coming into the world while General Hospital was on. (Ruining your plans since Day One, that’s me.) I’m sad to miss out on her telling me my ridiculous birth story every year, I’m sad to spend the day without her singing “Buon Compleanno” to me in her I-will-do-anything-to-make-you-laugh voice. My friends swoop in and remind me how much I am truly loved on a birthday without her. My grandmother calls and lets me cry to her about the pain (my god! the pain) in my shoulder and the dozen things that have gone so expensively wrong already during this moving process. She remembers just enough of the birth story to recount it for me, to laugh at my dad’s devastating comic timing and the way he lightened the mood while everyone else panicked. I haven’t cried to my Grammy in years, but it felt okay to be thirteen upon thirteen upon thirteen and doing it just then, and to believe her when she said that everything would be all right.

My mom didn’t get to keep my dad very long and she was very careful with the treasures he gave her during their time together. In her photo albums, she kept the little florist’s cards from every bouquet he gave her, and there were many bouquets in that short time. (There were not enough; there could never have been enough when you lose your husband young.) I used to read them and trace my fingers over his signature when I was little. So precious. This is something people throw away, some people.

By the end of the day, I had my own bouquet and my own florist’s card, and I do not have thirty-nine figured out, or much of anything else, really. I do know that more ill-equipped people than me have sold houses and survived a pinched nerve (my god! the pain! you think I’m kidding!) and that once upon a time I myself was one of the Together People. I lived that delusion. And now I am okay with the fog of mystery and tiny orange roses and the weight of this year. If I had everything figured out, there’d be nothing to entertain me for the rest of my time here. You can build a lot of life out of knowing a few things that you’re not.

#augustbreak: miss edith speaks out of turn

Miss Edith is sentient, I swear it. And ballsy, and a broad. Earlier this summer, though I had given up all hope of her ever growing again after a dismal showing last year, she went about the business of sending a few canes up into the world. And I noted them, and praised them, and did all the things you’re supposed to do. When the drought hit, the canes crisped up like overcooked bacon and I cut them away. Not exactly the thing you want a prospective buyer to see, even after a brutally hot year.

Then a little rain came. Not much. Not nearly enough, you would have thought. But god damn it, here she goes again. She doesn’t care that there’s not enough time left this summer for her to flower; she just wasn’t going to take that drought—or my presumptuous pruning—lying down. If I had half her gumption there’s no telling what I could do.

(Earlier: Miss Edith after an ice storm; Miss Edith’s only flower ever. Also, I name everything, not just shrubbery, and now you know this about me.)

a double #augustbreak: miracles and dirt

Sunday it rained. It was practically a miracle, after the stifling heat of the summer. And it was one of those bright (if brief) rains, and for just a few minutes everything was better.

Then I got some news about a death in the family back home, and I couldn’t post this picture because nothing was really better after all and I did not care about Things and everything felt dumb and I said it’s a Break, August Break, and no1curr if I do not post a photo today. And we watched NASA do its thing in the middle of the night and I teared up, I did, about everything.

And then there was today and two sets of gardening gloves and a good full-body soreness (just wait until tomorrow…) and I was just glad to be alive and able to take in the world. To see photos from Mars and Myron at the other side of the table are both miracles in their own way.

#augustbreak: valediction

Amanda talked today on Twitter about her blog having a case of the tumbleweeds, but mine has been even worse. (So grateful for Laura’s panzanella for brightening up the place.) And I really would like to write a better post telling you more about actual stuff that happened in the past few months, but instead everything looks like this: boxes and things where they’re not supposed to be and the long list of things we always meant to spruce up around here that are now being spruced for whoever buys the house from us.

If you couldn’t tell, a month of upheaval is as good a time as any for August Break. Last year, this project threw my writing mojo for a loop and I never quite bounced back. This year, I’m in the opposite situation—instead of blogging too often, I haven’t been blogging enough. Last year I didn’t dare to say a tenth of what was pushing at my throat. This year, I’ve been ready to speak but haven’t had the time… or energy, when the time came to me. Last year, I was holding all my friends at arm’s length, not knowing if I’d scream or cry or laugh or where I would be living by the time fall set in. This year, I am loved, joyfully, resiliently, and fearlessly. And I know where home is and who lives there.

This August I turn 39 and I submit my home, my sanctuary, to the abacus eyes of real estate agents and prospective purchasers. Every decision represents a dollar that will go toward our new house. This August is not just documenting the everyday of a summer month—it’s saying goodbye to the home where Myron and I were newlyweds. I haven’t lived in one place this long since I first left home at eighteen. It’s grown around me like a shell. And shells crack open.