Next chapter update: my life

So I just moved across the country with my wife to live in the high desert one point three miles above sea level, and a lot of things have changed (this is largely why I have been radio silent except for sharing memes on Twitter, and will continue until we get the new house squared mostly away). It’s — difficult. Particularly the part where I slice open the next cardboard box and find parts of my and Arkady’s life shattered into tiny little pieces.

But I’ve been lucky. My favorite things have not been broken. Some have been chipped, but not destroyed — except one of a set of four Waterford martini glasses given to me by some of the kindest people I’ve ever met.

(Also I’ve found my two-part epoxy. When I was little it was called Araldite and it was brought out to mend mugs and bowls and important things, and we have two very important objects I need to use it on. So far.)

I’ll talk about what it means to me to ditch the place I’ve been lodged in, like a foreign object in a bronchus, for decades — but not right now. Right now is for telling you about these lovely, impossible strangers.

Where I used to live with my parents was a suburban development from the sixties south of Baltimore; our house was on a steep hill with split-level houses set like steps down the sides of it. Our house was a sort of mildew-sage green with a tin carport and a tree in the front yard that exploded because lightning hit it when I was standing approximately ten feet away behind the picture window. Across the street was an almost identical house in mirror image, with dark brown siding and white trim, and a gorgeous, scarlet, entirely pneumatic Firebird parked in its driveway. (Car people: remember the pregnant curves of the late 90s generation of the F body? That. Lovely, but bulbous.) There was also a colossal bright white crew-cab dually pickup parked out front with a boat on a trailer. There was very clearly money involved.

I have no idea how they and my parents made friends — only that they, I’ll call them Kate and Preston, came over to introduce themselves to me and ask if I’d be willing to watch their elderly cat and less-elderly Sheltie, and of course I said yes and went across the road to their house and — they had clove cigarettes, and were free with their beer, and their ancient cat and their very friendly dog were enormously companionable. Kate and Preston let me sleep in their enormous gel bed (think waterbed, but slower), drink their beer, smoke their Djarums, drive their scarlet Firebird, cook in their kitchen, and use their exercise equipment. Not only that — but they gave me some of the loveliest gifts I’ve ever had. A black jersey halter dress that channels Marilyn Monroe’s Seven-Year Itch outfit. High-heeled leather boots. A carved greenstone paperweight from Belize. Handblown glass ashtrays. And — as a housewarming present when I moved out of my parents’ into the Baltimore apartment — these martini glasses.

(Kate and Preston also gave me the microwave I used for fifteen years. It had been in this country for one year longer than I had — it was a 1986 model — and it was a fucking tank. I miss that thing. I always will.)

I loved their pets. The very, very elderly cat who was as sweet and engaging as any dog; the Sheltie and the second Sheltie who came along a little later, both of whom would hop up on the bed and try earnestly to lick my face when I was sad, with the determination of a nurse. I loved them as if they were mine, and it was always a pleasure to go over there and take care of them.

They helped me carry my shit up those godawful stairs. I will never, ever, ever forget their hospitality, their kindness, their generosity, their willingness to jump right in and help no matter what. I have treasured these glasses ever since as a beautiful, fragile, ephemeral record of these two humans who were kind to me when I very much needed it, and if the movers had to break one of them — as they have broken many of our things, so far, sigh — I appreciate that it was my least favorite of the four.

You can squint and see it as a metaphor for this entire move. The things I love best made it through, and the things I have loved less but still care about may have been foxed around the edges — but we are here, and (to quote Ruthven quoting Henry V) let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we will live.

And settle in, and live, and love. Perhaps laugh, from time to time.