March 2, 2013

Six-month Anniversary and smashing something

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under beginnings, cancer, death, Design, Education, Family, friendship, grief, marriage, mourning, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , |
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Perry Road workshop after a spontaneous sleigh ride down the hill, a week ago. The sun was quickly melting a new fallen snow.
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It was fortuitous that the workmen would come today (Friday, 3/1/13), the six-month anniversary of Keith’s passing. They moved up their starting day to remodel the master bathroom at home. The room had been a running joke in our lives, but also a sore spot Keith would ignore in favor of taking on other projects, commitments, or just going for a ride on the motorcycles. I admit that I enabled this. I much preferred to ignore it myself and go have fun, then to fight over it= and cause unrest in the house.

Yet there it was, in all it’s ugliness, the focus of which was the freezing shower with the cracked tiles, the shower door falling off its hinges, the moldy ceilings, etc. When I had packed up many of Keith’s things, I came across a drawing and notes he had made for remodeling this room. My own drawings were not too far off. The difference was the custom cabinet which I could not supply. And so other solutions would be needed. In the end, though, I was forced to make a last minute change, bumping the wall out into the bedroom about a foot so that the cabinet I ordered wouldn’t block the doorway. This was the part Keith would have customized, creating a slant to ease the entry while still allowing for the larger cabinet. But mine was 20 inches deep, and the wall next to the door was only 16. I could not put it tucked into the corner as planned. And I couldn’t move it over due to the toilet space needed. So the wall would be moved.

I listened as the guys smashed and cut away old fixtures and floors, while I worked on a paper in the cozy little cocoon I made of my bedroom behind plastic sheeting hanging from the ceiling.

It was exciting to start this project. Nearly 16 years after moving to Michigan, and about 15 years after moving into this house, that bathroom was always the target of my disgust. Cracked tiles, continuously moldy grout, shivering cold, a tiny vanity, all added up to a room that I just wanted to smash. It became a running joke (and point of terror) that when the kids misbehaved, they’d be threatened with scrubbing the shower tile in mom and dad’s bathroom.

A need to break something…
So when the guys showed up this morning and started the demolition, I asked them to give me a chance to smash something, just one thing to get out my frustration. I took aim at the soap dish, broken for the last three years where the mold had seeped into the crack and degraded the already cracked and ugly ceramic dish now hanging jagged out of the wall.

SMACK!! and crash, I swung the hammer at it with my eyes closed tight, the guys behind me cackling at the sound of the pieces hitting the tile floor of the shower. I was anything but satisfied. I was angry. Angry that it took 15 years and the death of my husband to get to this point. Angry that I was doing this on the 6 month anniversary of his passing. Angry at Keith for abandoning me. Angry at myself for feeling guilty about wanting the embrace of another man in Keith’s absence. Just plain angry at the world.

I handed the hammer back to Joe who shook his head still laughing at my overly dramatic swing, and so I managed to summon a smile in return. My last big assignment for a doctoral course was calling me. So I slipped through the plastic sheathing that hung between the work area and the rest of my bedroom, climbed back onto my bed where my iPad and reading sat waiting for my attention.

Counting down to the other side
Later that evening, after the workmen left, i let out a sob. Pent up emotion that needed a release. It lasted only a moment and then I went back to my work. But as the hour drew near, I had to stop and write in my diary… a countdown of sorts:

The countdown weighs heavily on my heart, 55 minutes, 54, 53, 52, 51… Keith died at 7:55 pm on September 1st, exactly 6 months earlier. Just a few days ago, visible in the pre-storm night sky, the nearly full moon loomed overhead, stars sparkling and taunting me in a bittersweet reminder of the date to come. But tonight, this last hour has been painful.

The other part of the remodel project ws to replace the vanity in the kids bathroom. Keith had made it and painted it with analine dyes a scene of seaweed and deep blue waters. Unfortunately, he hadn’t accounted for the doorframe trim and the kids were never able to pull the drawers out as far as intended on one side. I feared that any new owner of this house would simply pull the cabinet out and toss it. So I ordered an inexpensive white cabinet the same size and had the guys swap it out.

From my diary…

It’s 7:45 pm. 10 minutes before that moment when we knew Keith made his last breath… 6 months ago. Stassia is busy texting me about how much money she’s losing from her free trip to Florida. I try and restrain my impatience and simply remind her that it will all work out, I had planned to help her out anyway, knowing there would be some impact on her missing work. She has already been stressed due to a cutback of hours so I try not to feed her anxieties. I have enough of my own.

Four minutes now. I’m beginning to feel a little better. Time is passing quickly and I focus on the passage of this sad milestone which will put me on the other side of the hump between the first half of a year after he died, and the second half when looking forward should become more common than looking back.

I moved a photo I have of Keith that sat on my side of the bed. It was the one where he has that silly smirk on his face. But more often recently, that smirk has looked more like disapproval, and even hurt. I couldn’t face it any longer, at least not every moment when I sat on my side of the bed we used to share. I moved it over to “his” former side, the side where I keep my powder puff from crabtree and evelyn, and my button jar, the side where I moved my flickering lamp when I swapped it for his working lamp.

It’s 7:55 pm now. My heart sinks a bit. I have already shed some tears in exasperation. But the moment has passed. It’s time to move forward. I love you Keith. I will always love you. But I cannot live with the pain of your loss. I must live with the hope for a new future. Otherwise, my grief will consume me, a feeling I have occasionally faced in a depressive moment, ready to give up on going forward.

Moving forward…
Yes, the moment has passed, an inauspicious milestone. Six months to the minute since Keith died. I breathed deeply and tried to go back to my work, knowing I am not alone on this road. And that there are angels – or ghosts – who watch over me, too. My dreams, and those of a good friend, make that clear.

So now looking forward, I thank goodness for many things. For the friendships I have, my children who remind me why I cannot sink into despair. And the touchstone of a good counselor. And for a fulfilling career surrounded by interesting, supportive people…

And oddly enough, more recently, I am also thankful that, even if it does not grow into anything further (or I refuse to let it), there’s a little guy up north who is willing to talk to me, listens to my tears, and even then still calls me cutie, and offers me a virtual hug. We have never met, but I have grown more fond of him. Maybe it’s because at this point it is still fantasy. But, at the moment, I can live with that.
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And the demolition begins, at home on Jerome Lane.

 

December 21, 2012

Getting through the holidays at the 4-month mark

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under cancer, death, Family, grief, marriage, mourning | Tags: , , , , , , , , |
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Photo: Family Christmas 1989, our first as a foursome after our youngest daughter was born. She recently graduated from university in April 2012.

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Adaptation Fight or Flight

A fellow who worked for the Peace Corp in the South Pacific office in Fiji once told me that they had done studies that showed a volunteer would have their toughest time at about the four-month mark. It was at that stage in their adaptation to their new situation in a foreign place where they were truly reaching the depths of homesickness. The strongest would endure, powering through it in spite of their emotional turmoil, forever changed by their new lives outside of their full control. While the weaker ones would give up and return home, soaking in their traumatized perceptions, refusing to accept life that isn’t fully predictable.

So here I find myself in a parallel space. That four month mark since Keith’s death where I am reaching that first major turning point in my adaptation to life without him. In thinking about this, I was struck by another parallel from our past. It was on September 1st, 1991 that Keith and I arrived with two very young daughters in Fiji. And it was in December 1991 where I found us on that pivotal moment where I would either run back to the states in tears and frustration, or tough it out and find a way to adapt. Back then, in Fiji, the holidays were an amusing attempt to create normalcy on the other side of the looking glass. In the end, we stayed six years, choosing to adapt, and even thrive. But it wasn’t easy.

And I find it just a little too synchronistic that Keith would die on September 1st, 2012, 21 years later. Five years before our arrival in Fiji, our first daughter was born two weeks late. She was due on September 1st but chose to wait a couple of weeks longer in the womb. Apparently an Emerson Lake & Palmer concert was finally enough to coax her out.

It’s funny (not haha funny) that I am only thinking of this now, that September 1st would be such a day of note in our family history. But then again, I was always amused by numbers and patterns. To this day (for at least the last decade or more), I find myself looking at a clock at just the moment where it reads 9:11. It’s almost as if life is not in balance if I do not see this time upon my glance at the clock. So when the World Trade Center was struck on 9/11/01, the date more than seemed significant. When Keith died, it was 9/01/12. Another dear friend and mentor died on 01/09/10, bit since he was overseas, it would have been written 09/01/10. So maybe there’s a pattern. Or maybe I just like playing with numbers. No meanings inferred here. It’s just interesting.

Now here we are on 12/21/12, or even as 12/21/2012.. Interesting rhythm to it. Not quite a palindrome, but a nice pattern nonetheless. Some believe it is the end of the world on the Mayan calendar. But anthropologists say it is what the Mayans say is the end of an “era”, a 13-round cycle of 52 years each.

For me, it is just another day. But the end of an era is already here for me. I feel it in my body, physically aching each night as I fight sleep. Days are long, but nights are longer still. Each night, after keeping myself busy with work, school, laundry, family, etc., I come to bed and Keith looks back at me from his photographic perch. In one picture he can look almost stern, mocking my lack of attention to him and my heart sinks. Reality hits me again, like a repeating torturous blow. I kiss my finger and place it on his lips on the photo. “I miss you,” I whisper as I sigh deeply with watery eyes before turning away.

And then I face the truth. No, he’s not coming back. No, he’s not out of town. No, he’s not going to walk into the room. No, you will never hold him again while you curl up in this bed.

It hurts.

And as another holiday looms, I know that when I come back from our annual service at the soup kitchen where we’ve been cheerfully taking photos of children on Santa’s lap on Christmas Day for 8 years, my home will be quiet except for the two dogs curled up asleep. Keith will not be sitting there with them asking how the event went. He will not be there, ready to open a few presents with the kids, or sit down with us for a meal of whatever we’ve decided to experiment with that year.

I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. And what’s worse… there’s not a damned thing I can do to change it. So, unlike the homesick peace corp volunteer who still has the option of running back to the familiar, I’m going to have to push through it until I get to the other side of this holiday.

Grief sucks.

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The woodworking shop(s)

My husband was a woodworker. And a very talented one at that. I’m beginning to realize that more and more. I guess I took it for granted that others were as meticulous as he when it came to work they were hired to do. Granted he had his off days. But he knew it and more than once he would take a mistake and toss it out starting over again when something didn’t come out exactly as he wanted it to.

And, like any talented and meticulous woodworker, he had his tools… LOTS of them, admired by others for the over all completeness of his shop. What makes my role harder as his widow, however, is that not only have I inherited HIS very modern shop. But I also have the project of dealing with the shop and lifetime of items left behind by another woodworker, Mr. Maurice Reid, at Perry Road, the property Keith and I had purchased a year before Keith’s death. Mr. Reid left behind more than 100 years of accumulated tools, supplies, and various pieces-parts of furniture, etc. There were also albums, notes, letters, assorted artifacts going back to the mid-1800s left behind in the 1840s era farmhouse on the property. Fortunately, Keith and I had already gone through much of that, with arrangements made to donate these to a university museum. But the 4000-sq-ft workshop was still chock full of vintage machinery, tools, and supplies.

So it shouldn’t surprise anyone that I have begun to sell some items, if only to make way for the art studio that Keith wanted me to arrange for the girls and myself. I even wrote about the first round of sales in a previous post where it felt like a very positive experience.

But the more recent effort left me emotionally drained. And after they left, I went to my bed and cried. It didn’t feel right this time. And so, after talking to my daughters, I’ve decided to hold off with any future sales. Both shops are closed to any sales now, especially the kind where people wonder through as if at a garage sale in search of unrecognized treasures.

Frankly, it was one thing to see people going through stuff at Perry Road where Keith had only begun to play with the big giant vintage machines to make them his own. But it was quite another to see people I didn’t know touching and talking about equipment in the shop here at home. It was just too painful seeing them playing with knobs, etc. on Keith’s machinery, commenting here and there about it’s failings. I know there was no disrespect intended. And under other circumstances, I probably would have been just fine about it, maybe would have even cracked a joke about it.

But this time, as I watched and overheard their murmurings, it took every bit of strength I could muster not to break down in front of them. In the end, after thinking about it for a couple of days, I cancelled the sale of the last two items that would have been picked up in January. I couldn’t go through with it. And the girls convinced me that it was okay to just leave things where they were, even saying that they wanted to use these machines themselves.

This last part amazes me. For I often forget how much time Keith had with them working in the shop. They’re much more knowledgeable than I am about the operation of some of these tools. That’s a beautiful gift that Keith gave them… the confidence to handle these tools and make things with their hands.

Such are the precious gifts of memories and meaning that are the comfort I seek to get me through this holiday season.

 

December 3, 2012

Dream of Journey on the 3-month anniversary

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under cancer, death, Family, grief, marriage, mourning, Travel | Tags: , , , , , |
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20121203-001739.jpgPhoto above: Keith and me on my college graduation day in 1982 and also the day of my bridal shower. I was 21 and he was 24 years old, both so young and at the start of a beautiful 30-year marriage.
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I haven’t dreamed in such a vivid way in quite some time. But as I awoke this morning after a brief sleep, I lay there stunned that my reality upon awakening didn’t match the dream I had abruptly left. I lay in bed nearly 20 minutes grasping at the threads of memory in an effort to return to the dream.

This morning’s dream occurs just 3 months after Keith’s death and must have occurred during that brief hour between 8:30-9:30 am this morning. I know it was not from during the night because I had gotten up earlier after being awakened by Lenny, my husband’s 18-month-old Silken Windhound, who makes it known that he needs to go out to relieve his small bladder by whimpering relentlessly next to my ear.

Although some things are fuzzy about the dream, some things are quite clear. I’ll do my best to relay these details here:

The Dream, 3 month anniversary

In my dream, there was me, Keith, Sarah and Anastassia, with the girls both grown as they are today. We were preparing for long road trip. It was AFTER Keith’s death… yet he was there, speaking to me. It seemed that the trip was as much for him as it was for the rest of us. The girls were there, too, but not so much talking, just along, watching Keith and I as we busied ourselves getting things ready. Keith was wearing a yellow polo t-shirt with wide white stripes and thin blue stripes and a breast pocket. The shirt would have been one of his nicer ones, though he always preferred ones with the pocket.

During the dream, we were loading up a station wagon – probably my old Volvo, but it could have been Keith’s truck. It seemed more like the bed of a truck. Maybe like an El Camino if it had a back seat. An El Camino might be significant only because it was the car Keith had when we first met. But the car in this dream was somewhat ambiguous.

We were piling things on top of each other into the bed of the truck/back of station wagon. Not boxes, but lots of tools, metal, wood and other awkward-shaped items that didn’t really fit together so there were lots of open spots between the pieces. Gaps that seemed ready to fill with smaller pieces but lay empty now.

Then we were at a gas station, and it seemed important that I had to put air in the tires of my bicycle. Keith was telling me it was important to do this now and helped me by providing instructions. That was when a young female attendant with curly auburn hair asked me about Keith and brought to my attention that this trip was happening with him after his death. I know this because I recall the conversation in the dream where I say to her:

“Yes, this will be hard to explain to my mother. But it’s simple really. It’s like that DNA thing…”

I can’t recall explaining much more than that. But it made complete sense… in the dream. It was natural for Keith to be there, for him to be a part of the activity and conversations.

And then – as I had done all summer – I was driving us all, Keith in the seat beside me and the girls in the backseat watching. I remember at the end of my dream, just before I awoke, I drove up over the bump of a curb before pulling out of the gas station onto the road.

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Now for the analysis:

I like dreams for they are a place where the imagination and reality can collide, where nonsense makes sense, and where time is irrelevant. So when my dreams have been this vivid, I have tried to write them down.

This is not the first time I have dreamed of Keith. But it has been awhile. The last time was only a few weeks after he died. But I’ll save that one for another day.

A close friend who also has a strong interest in dreams and has been studying their potential meanings encouraged me to share this latest one. And I think his analysis is spot on:

Very interesting dream… The idea of taking a long journey is like moving to a new place or leaving a current state… The fact that the packing was not neat and organized, things won’t fit together well on this journey moving forward… Putting air in bicycle tires suggests the importance of managing pressure and maintaining balance… And finally, the curb is so suggestive that it will be a bumpy ride moving forward but you are not alone, with Keith by your side on the journey, and the girls close by. And no one is flustered.

Some might say that your animus has chosen the persona of Keith and is helping you to pack up and move forward.

It’s interesting to see the connections with my dream, my friend’s analysis, and some recent events. This week I was with another friend who turned a little close to a curb and bumped over it. I also took on moving the trailer with Keith’s truck for the first time on my own. Although I had checked and re-checked the trailer, it only took a half mile before I hit a bump and the trailer popped off the hitch, left dragging by the chains. Fortunately, nothing was damaged and I was able to get my daughter to come and help me get the trailer back onto the hitch. It was stressful, yes. So was backing the damned thing with that giant crewcab diesel truck. But I managed. Then I turned it over to others. That is the privilege I’m taking… choosing when I need to step back and let others take it on. I am trying to muster courage to do these things that I always took for granted that Keith did. But I am also mindful of my limitations, emotional and physical. It’s a self-preservation technique I am beginning to cultivate more intentionally.

So maybe the dream was a culmination of these various adventures from the week. And maybe it was, as my friend suggests, a psychic effort to bring Keith beside me as I journey forward. And yes, maybe there will be bumps in the road, and my daughters will be nearby to help. But I also do need to put some air in my bicycle tires. The bike sits upon a stationary stand but the tires are flat, making it unusable for picking up for a ride outdoors. But I guess it’s not a bad thing since the weather now turns to the cold winter with its long dark nights.

As for the young woman with the auburn curls, I know who that is. It is me as a young woman, the girl I was when I first met Keith. I’d even worked at a gas station when I was 17, earning money that winter pumping gas and checking oil at a full service gas station in order to pay for a new exhaust system for my first car. Hmmmm…. so the young me was attempting to give the old me a bit of a reality check.

But each day, I try and make some headway on this journey. I visit our Perry Road project, wander around to check the progress, check the locks, and listen to Keith’s wind chimes in their Himalayan harmony as they echo over the hillside facing the setting sun. I think about what I can build new here, a sanctuary that seems remote facing down the hillside, yet part of the family’s journey with my daughters and yes, even Keith… in spirit. With that in mind, I know I’ll find ways to fill the gaps while bracing myself for those bumps in the road ahead.

 

November 24, 2012

Life, gratitude, & denying the grip of unfairness

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under cancer, death, Family, grief, mourning | Tags: , , , , , |
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Above: Thanksgiving 2011, what was to be our last one with Keith (deep frying the turkey). We deep fried a turkey this year, our best one yet, in Keith’s honor. Missed him terribly. But celebrated our family, too. He’ll always be a part of our lives, for which I am forever grateful.
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During this holiday season, it is too easy to fall into despair and self-pity. Missing Keith brings me to tears, crying myself to sleep at night. But I have much to be thankful for in spite of our loss.

Unfairness in life is all around us. It’s what we call it when we are frustrated, angry, despairing over what life has thrown at us. How unfair is it that Keith’s life was cut so short? How unfair is it that I would spend this holiday knowing I will never have another holiday with him, or to hear his laughter, feel his embrace? My best friend, husband, loving father… How unfair is it that I spend each night alone?

Do you see how easy it is to fall into self pity? Yes, there are times when I indulge in it. There are times when I cannot fight the ache in my heart and therefore feel the overwhelming pressure of the waters that must flood their banks in the form of tears and wails.

But unfairness, or to wallow in the notion of its cruel facade, is to neglect the true beauty that life has gifted me. I had 34 years with Keith, a life that had its ups and downs, yes. But it was also a time of great beauty, when we grew up, grew as humans, artists, responsible and caring people. We shared our life together and supported each other, experiencing the world, raising two beautiful, intelligent daughters. Saw each through college, and walked one down the aisle. Yes, we experienced a lifetime of love and joy and wonder together.

Each day, each week, or year, we may experience what can be described as unfairness. Yes, it is painful. Yes, it is heartbreaking. And yes, there is the feeling of incredible loss and pain, seeing something or someone you care about slip beyond your reach. Feeling the sting of an unfair act, or unfair words.

I could choose to measure life’s unfairness each day, tallying it up like a scorecard each week, letting it tighten its grip on my life with each passing month. But then I would be denying myself something far more important. I would be denying myself the ability to treasure the life that I have had in the past, or the one I wake to each day. If I counted up the daily unfairness tally, I might spend all my time counting. I would deny myself the joy and gratitude for the gifts I have been given. The stories of our lives that we’ve shared, and the future stories yet unwritten.

Yes, there are times when life seems so unfair. But I can’t bring myself to deny the life I will build upon the foundation of a beautiful life I had with Keith.

So, here’s to being thankful for my life with Keith. And to the future, watching my children build their lives, and being part of that. Here’s to whatever life will throw at me. I will not tally the unfairness of Keith’s passing. His life and our life was full and wonderful. With tinges of occasional sadness and cheeks yet slick with occasional tears, this first Thanksgiving and holiday season without him, I choose to remember him with a loving gratitude.

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Below: This is the photo I mentioned earlier this week, taken at the Beachouse in Fiji in 2001. Love that sly grin that also said “you did it to me again, stuck me in the middle of all these Mott students.” He’d complain in a good natured “grumpy old man” sort of way. But he always had a good time anyway.

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November 19, 2012

Sometimes there are angels…

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under cancer, death, Education, Family, grief, mourning | Tags: , , , |
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Sometimes angels come when you really need them. They’re not always in the form you might expect, nor does their form always remain constant. Yet I have seen them recently, a brilliant smile that says I’m here if you need me, a flash of hope for young futures full of promise. The shedding of unplanned tears when a damn bursts, complete and generous patience from a stranger – now new friend – who feels your pain.

There were joyful noises emerging from the workshop this weekend at Perry Road. They were not without a few tears of grief. But the spirit of Keith was so strong it was like he was in the room, providing pointers, guidance, and not least a bit of wise-ass humor. While two of Keith’s closest woodturning buddies took on the task of dismantling the giant 1870s-era band saw, a crescent moon hung over the sky as the sun set deep on the horizon. The cheshire grin hung brightly over the shop and the hillside, reflecting off the ponds below. It seemed that silly grin shining through the bare trees, witnessed the laughter and goodnatured ribbing going on inside as the guys tried to break down the 2000 lb machine into smaller less dangerous pieces.

Yet every now and then, as it seemed like they were about to push the limits of safety, and shorten their AARP memberships, it felt like there was a virtual tap on my shoulder and I would feel compelled to suggest a safer approach. Maybe take off the 20 ft blade? How about removing the 2 giant wheels? Yes, that 8-blade dado attached to the same massive motor probably could come off, too. Piece by piece, the beast was carefully disassembled and its parts laid out where they could be recovered again for the trip to Tawas.

All the while that this was going on, there seemed to be energetic angels in the form of two of my students who had cheerfully volunteered to assist in this endeavor. One young lady, one young man, they each drew from a fountain of youthful strength and goodnatured attitudes that kept up with the joyful noises emerging from around the workshop. Loading all of the woodturning lumber into the 14-ft U-Haul, this was a thankless task as the lumber was in odd shaped chunks that only nature could endure. And every now and then, but especially at the end, they would stop and help with the big cast iron beast that the old guys were trying to move.

It wasn’t easy. But it took all four of them to finally manage to move the giant iron horse-shoe that was left after the rest of the pieces were removed, and shimmy it over to the tailgate of the U-Haul before tipping it into the truck. Before long, it was wedged in tight and packed around with all the lumber, ready to make its trip up north for refurbishing and reassembly. We all sighed in collective relief and shared a few more laughs as I reinforced that it could not be returned and all pieces attached to that beast must go with it!

The week had not been so good up until then. I’m not entirely sure I can put my finger on it. But it began early in the week. Maybe the fact that it was the week before Thanksgiving, a holiday that Keith always seemed to look forward to, getting the chance to show off how he could deep fry a turkey. That was a somewhat new tradition from only the past few years. But it had worked out so I could have the oven for other things, and it tasted good, too! But this year obviously things would be different.

Maybe it was my suffering lack of sleep. I haven’t yet found a way to get to sleep much before 2 am, and in the last few weeks, it has slipped to 3 or even 4 am at which point I know my day will be less than productive.

Or, maybe it was the combination of dealing with the mid-term stresses of students, or being reminded of how fragile life is by the absence of another student due to her mom’s brain cancer. Or, dealing with the banks on matters related to Keith’s accounts. Or reminiscing during a meeting with one of Keith’s best clients, an interior designer who came to the house upon my request to talk about remodeling bathrooms and the kitchen so that I could enjoy them, but also be ready if I ever want to sell the house. Or even the unnerving apprehension about the visit by Keith’s woodturning buddies. This was to be the first real sale of any of Keith’s personal effects and at one point I almost chickened out before they had even arrived. I wasn’t sure I’d be ready to deal with it, or them.

As it turns out, they were as nervous as I was. So was the interior designer. It seems that they were all mourning, too, and to come here, to Keith’s house, or Keith’s shop was hard for them, too. More than once, I could hear the crack of an unsteady voice that wasn’t mine, or see the reflection of tears barely being held back. It was comforting, in a way, to know that I shared Keith with so many others who cared for him very deeply. And here they were, moving through their own pain, to revisit these memories, and be so supportive at the same time.

Thursday I called in sick. I could feel the jitters of nerves too close to the surface. So I tried to rest and regroup. By early afternoon I finally ventured out to visit a church turned into an Art Gallery. How ironic? But as I sat there and attempted to start talking to the artist about my ideas for a memorial piece for Keith, I suddenly couldn’t speak and instead broke down crying. Here was a complete stranger and she was so very sweet and genuine in her support.

Once I recovered, we went on to talk about my ideas and also how Keith had always admired what she’d done to the building he once wanted to buy, but couldn’t afford at the time. While Perry Road was truly the dream shop for him, he had often driven by this church on the hill and expressed how if it ever came up for sale, it would make a great gallery. Sure enough, it did. The artist sitting across from me said that now she felt the pressure to do well by the project more than ever knowing how Keith had admired and even envied her having that building. She’d done a beautiful job renovating it and it felt very much like a beautiful and spiritual homage to creative work. Keith would have approved.

So when I woke up this morning after yet another late night, I no longer felt as stressed as I’d been all week. The woodturning lumber and giant bandsaw were on their way to Tawas, the memorial art piece was well-planned, some designs for the Jerome Lane house have been measured for, and even Sweet Pea, my Russian Wolfhound, has a new hairdo after being completely shaved of her matted and neglected fur, and groomed to a new sleeker look. I did a full set of yoga this morning and pursued getting work done for my doctoral class and later writing a lecture on Fiji Art for an Art Survey course I was subbing for Monday. By mid-day, I thought it best if I stopped to plan and then shop for Thanksgiving.

It was a productive day in spite of the fact that I write this after 3 am. The new normal is becoming fixed.

I still talk to Keith. There’s a new photo I printed where I’d cropped out the rest of the scene on the Beachouse cafe’s deck, where he was sitting looking back at the camera over his shoulder, a bit of a smirk on his face. He’s looking straight at the camera and I cannot help but think that he is still there… on the other side… ready to send new angels when I need them most.

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The photo above shows the gang moving the 1870s-era band saw, stripped down to its last 1000 lbs of cast iron. A crescent moon hangs in the branches of the trees, smiling its cheshire grin, as if Keith was adding his own smile of approval to the joyful noises that emerged from the hillside workshop.

 

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