2014: You Had To Be There

There's a saying, "You had to be there," which people use when they make inside jokes around people who obviously weren't there.

Well, 2014 was no joke, and it seemed I spent a good part of it sewed up inside myself.

Still, I was there. I was present for the good and bad, not always taking it in stride, but feeling it all and noticing everything.

Why take the time to write out the highlights, low points, and mundane passing of days of a year? It's tedious to recount, so I have no idea why you would actually read it. Wait, yes I do.

It's a year of your life. Good or bad, with life, you have to be there. If you skip out on the bad parts, you might not make it back in time for when it gets good again. It's an important appointment that you can't miss.

You have to be there.



2014: I was There (Pictures here.)

The first four months of 2014 were fantastic. I had a job interview the last day of 2013 and was offered a position on January 2. A blizzard hit the Midwest early in the month, which effectively shut down the city for over a week. I loaded up on food, books, movies, and hope, and nestled in and enjoyed the quiet beauty, not bothering to dig out until absolutely necessary. I had my pets, a book to write by January 20, and a new job to start January 21.

I had closed out a 2013 full of ups and downs and new discoveries, ending on an up. As I waited out the relentless days-long blizzard, I remember drifting off to sleep in my bed, imagining myself an artist or homesteader in the North Woods, expertly mustering all the fury that mother nature had to offer in my quiet and cozy cabin, as I spent the days doing...homestead-y things that could have involved...um, butter churning or hide tanning or darning socks or mending fishing fishing poles, and taking moonlit walks through the snowy wilds, then settling under wool quilts with my cats and dogs to keep my company while reading by candlelight. It was the first time I realized how powerful my imagination is, and that using it properly could bring me private peace and joy. It was like settling down to watch a movie, only the movie was playing in my head, and I was the star, and only wonderful things happened to me.

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I believe these imaginings were inspired by a documentary I saw one weekend afternoon on PBS when Primo was in a leg cast and I was awaiting my trip to Thailand. Until that point, I never liked winter very much, not since I was a kid when it meant sledding and snow days. I was flipping through the channels aimlessly (I've never had cable, and this was before all the .1 rerun channels, so I had maybe six.) Stunning scenery caught my eye, and I watched this show, riveted: Christmas in Yellowstone. No, it's not about Christmas. It's about animal survival in the coldest months. The photographer actually camps out in a tent to follow the animals. You can watch it here.



    



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I finished my book (yay!) and then started my new job and my new commute, determined not to complain about the drudgery of either. I would arrive in the parking lot and take a moment to take in the scenery of the season: ice giving way to tentative yet tender buds, buds giving way to blossoms, blossoms dropping off and making room for the full globes of green, green giving way to yellow, yellow to brown, and brown to bare.  My life was following a similar pattern.

The Ice Months:

We spent the winter months taking in performance art: an upstart poetry slam at Indy Artist Colony. Larry's first exposure to the art form, and I was so happy--he "got" it; several performances at IRT "And Then They Came For..." a beautiful and heartrending story of  the people who knew Anne Frank. "Who Am I This Time"...a play based on some short stories that Kurt Vonnegut chose to not publish--and for a reason. Neither of us enjoyed this play very much. "Other Desert Cities"...this one got rave reviews and was really well done, but it reminded me of a television show and also acted as a mirror--do I write like this? I cringed a little. It felt so familiar--the current story, and the undercurrent of a much bigger story between the lines. It made me a bit uncomfortable. Reading the liner notes, I learned that the playwright used to a writer for the mediocre television show "Brothers & Sisters," which I sometimes watch/listen when I'm doing dishes or cooking. The characters and situations on the show annoy me because I can predict them. Am I a predictable writer, or is it like when you meet someone you hate, and everyone tells you how much you're alike? Recently, I was painting my kitchen, listening to the show, and one of the episodes is nearly identical to the play. See, I would never do that. So, no, I'm not like this writer. The thing is, even when we don't really like the plays we see (which is rare at IRT), we just love going. We get dressed up. We have dinner afterwards and discuss. We walk the city streets. We love it! Other highlights included Dance Kaleidoscope "Kings and Queens of Country" with friends Jodee and Willard on St. Patrick's, and the audience being chock full of rowdy gay men dressed as leprechaun cowboys.


We had a beautiful winter hike in Turkey Run, the canyons frozen and quiet, and lots of winter walks with Primo, who was like a new dog after a rough couple of months.

The Bud Months

I was offered another book project in February, again given just weeks to write it. This one was on Lady Gaga. In addition to reading and watching everything about her I could get my hands on, I listened to all her music. I somehow did not know a single song by her, but did learn that her music is best listened to while running. I worked like a slave, and suffered through two terrible editors who insisted on changing the direction of the book (established by the series editors). I navigated through the challenges of standing my ground while being professional. I haven't seen the final copy, but online descriptions of the book (I assume written by the editors) are incorrect and contain false information about her. This was a very frustrating affair altogether, but at least for a little while I felt in touch with a younger generation, and I learned that Lady Gaga is pretty cool! I even streamed some of her concerts.

Larry gifted me a gas fireplace for Christmas, which was installed at this time. A simple twist of a knob, and I could light up my evening with a warm fire, complete with fuzzy slippers on feet, fuzzy cat in lap, book in hand, and glass of wine leading to fuzzy mind. I attempted to write a play I had been thinking about for months. It may or may not have had some really good parts. I decided to shelve it and resolved to write more fun and for personal reasons. I didn't really hold up on that end of the deal.

The Blossom Months

I went to Michigan for Easter and my birthday. My mom had a little birthday party for me--just my parents and Earl and Lori and kids. We had our first weenie roast of the season. It was a clear and beautiful night, a chorus of tree frogs in the ravine. I took the kids out for a day of fun--the newest Muppet Movie, visiting Grandma (their great-grandma), playing on the pier and the windy beach, getting lunch, then going to my mom's house to color Easter eggs. The next day we hid eggs and surprises for the kids.

Back home in Indy, Larry and I celebrated by attending the Stutz Artist Association open house, which was a yearly tradition for me for a handful of years. Larry had never attended. We got a little snazzy, and he was instantly hooked. We drank wine, listened to various singers and musicians, saw a little performance art, and five factory floors of visual arts.

The next day we packed up a beer/fruit/sandwich picnic and headed back to Turkey Run. The drive was gorgeous with purple and white and pink blossoms dotting the forests. This was our first visit to a state park on a weekend, and it was quite a different experience. First, some knucklehead evangelist had littered miles of trails with...those fucking hellfire comics. Second, all the fatasses who were there killing time before the restaurant buffet opened were clogging up the trail with their smoke, litter, cackling, and lollygagging. At this moment of realization (should be no smoking rules in our forests, for fuck's sake) that not everyone who comes to the woods respects the woods, I had a tiny epiphany: my brief unemployment during the -ber months of 2013 was not all bad.

The next day we went to the IMA, for a bike ride, then invited Ralf and Jim to the movies (Bears) and to dinner at Seasons 52.


*I remember 46 as being my favorite birthday ever.*

We extended the celebration to the following week for Dance Kaleidoscope "Picture This" at the IMA followed by an Arts party in the main gallery.


The next week Jodee rented the famous-in-Indy Chicken Limo (an old 70s mafia type Limo that looks like a giant chicken), and she and Larry planned a "Magical History Tour" around the city. I remember walking the golden sunlit sidewalks thinking everything in life was perfect. I remembered at that moment that the last time I had felt that way was that day I was walking the streets of San Francisco, and then getting laid off a week later. (The layoff, thankfully was recalled weeks later, and I managed to squeeze 2-1/2 more years out of that place.)

That night, I received a call from my brother: my cousin Adam had to take my Aunt Gini to the ER, where she was diagnosed with advanced stage cancer. 


This was Mother's Day, and it's when the year took a sharp turn. I rushed to Michigan the next weekend, and we visited Gini and family. It was the last time we would all be together while she was coherent. She was given about six months to live and died six weeks later. When she died, she took a part of all of us with her.

The advanced stage of the cancer and her sudden death were due to not only negligence but greed, yes greed, on the part of her doctor. She had been sick for months, begging her doctor to see her, but being a medicare patient (over 65), the doctor chose to put her off. Gini complained of feeling a lump in her stomach in January, and her doctor made her an appointment for June, because the greedy doctor did not see Gini as someone who could provide her with income. Doctors have a minimum quota of medicare patients they are required to see, and anyone on medicare is pushed to the back of the line. 

Sadness and anger swept over all of us, but mostly a great sense of loss and inability to fill the void. This is how it felt to me, so I can't imagine how it felt to my mom and to my cousins.

Not long after, I got new a neighbor, and things got worse, which I'll cover later.

The Green Months

I planted a garden for the first time in about nine or ten years. I had a wonderful time of it. My backyard started to be my favorite place in the world. Primo would investigate every inch of yard, and I'd sit in my lounge under my locust tree, the golden sun filtered by the green leaves.

I hired a landscaping crew to do some of the excavating to get rid of grass to make room for my native species prairie. It was with the best of intentions that I hired a not-for-profit group who employed at-risk youth. In the end, the work was unfortunately pretty shoddy, but at least it helped me complete phase 1. I spent the next few months planting, transplanting, seeding, and studying various species, which would attract bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.

I had every hope of launching my shabby-chic wine bottle art, but did not exactly deliver. My glass cutting tool did not really work, and work got hectic and overwhelming. I did manage to make my wine bottle borders, which turned out great.

Over the Fourth of July, I gardened, dug, planted, and transplanted three days in a row for about 10 hours each day. This resulted in a knee injury that put my running to a halt and which I still feel today.

We had another outing to Shades State Park, where we encountered fewer people.

My job began to take over much of my free time and weekends.

Things in the neighborhood became tense as it became evident that the new tenant was not the doting father and fiance he claimed to be but a dealer with bruiser employees, at least three busybody baby mamas, six vandalizing kids, a steady stream of customers, and a used junk car business. He added a dog he neglected to the mix, and around the end of July, I said goodbye to sleep. His dog barked all hours of the night most nights of the week. Things only got worse.

I hardly got to spend any time in Michigan as I was working so often. In early August, I finally broke away. I had a slumber party with my nieces on Friday then took my mom to dinner the next night. I had a few hours at the beach before the rains swept in.

IndyFringe, in which I have been a contributor for the past eight years arrived at the end of August. I shelved my own writing project but recruited Cincinnati spoken word artist Curtis D. Shepard to take my slot. I hosted him all ten days of the festival, and made a wonderful friend. His show was well reviewed, and I realized that I enjoy being a curator as much as being a creator. Nevertheless, I could feel something stirring in me that suggested I might be nearing the end of this road. Larry and I decided to treat the festival as if it would be our last, and we took in several shows each night, as well as volunteered to tend bar at the beer tent, and joined the closing night parties. I said a quiet goodbye, and I've yet to determine if I'll be back. I wanted to leave on a good note, and I did at least accomplish that.

Unfortunately, I was not able to attend my Aunt Gini's memorial as I had performances scheduled at that day. Sara told me it was a beautiful morning on Lake Michigan, and she played "Paradise" by Cold Play, just as Gini requested.

As the warm, dry, silent winds of September blew in, t, and I felt an explicable sense of dread creeping in. Between being overwhelmed at work, saddened by Gini's death, worried about Primo, whose condition was worsening, I felt the onset of a low-grade depression. 

The situation with my neighbor became untenable. He encouraged his kids and baby mamas to vandalize my home and to harass me, his bruisers to block my driveway and deal in my yard, and one night he personally came after me. Terrified I barricaded my doors, called 911, and for the first time in years, took my personal firearm out of the safe. The next day I had a security system installed. After nearly two months of getting no sleep due to the barking dog next door, my work started suffering, and my boss noticed. I thought I was on thin ice, and I struggled daily to remain focused, but instead I was constantly fearful of my neighbor, worried about Primo, sad about Gini, and scared about my job.


The Yellow Months
I joined the neighborhood watch committee, attending meetings, and recruiting neighbors, and keeping in close touch with the police. I soon got word that the asshole was being evicted. I made some new friends, and lost someone I thought was a friend. The night the asshole and his friends beat down my door and surrounded my front yard, I called the guy across the street for help, and he basically ignored me. Later I found out that his skanky niece was engaged to this thug next door. 

I was able to regain my footing at work. Thank goodness for the wake up call. On top of everything else, I did not need to lose a job. I simply began double and triple checking everything, and read articles about communications daily on LinkedIn. It also became apparent that my boss realized that he had held me accountable for some things over which I had no control, and he seemed apologetic.


At the end of September, my grandma died. My mom had revealed to me that during her last month, she refused to speak to or acknowledge my mom when she came to visit. My grandma was 99. She had wanted to die for a few years by the time it finally happened. Later my mom learned that this isn't uncommon and wondered if this is how people prepare their loved ones for life without them. I wonder if it's the loved one checking out as a form of resilience to face death.

Her memorial was actually very beautiful as we celebrated her life. Her pastor shared her stories and her favorite hymns and scriptures. Larry accompanied me for the funeral.

The next day, we went for a hike through Grand Mere--my brother and his family, Larry and I, and my mom. My mom rarely accompanies us, but perhaps she was having one of those moments of Live While You Can. It was a beautiful day.

I took the next day off work to help my mom with my grandma's belongings. It didn't go as planned. I woke up in the middle of the night to Primo howling and crying out in the living room. He couldn't get up and was spinning around in desperation, having soiled the carpet. This was the third time I had found him unable to get up himself, and a sinking feeling came over me that we wouldn't be able to be left alone again.

I actually don't want to write about this. This was Primo's last day on earth. I will write about it separately.

In October, we took a road trip to Cape San Blas,where we had rented a beach house for a couple of weeks. We had entertained the idea of Acadia National Park in Maine or Glacier National Park in Montana, but I didn't want to leave Primo for any length of time, and I didn't want him to travel very far by car. CSB is a one day trip, about 12 hours. I felt trepidation about going to a place we specifically chose for Primo--a dog friendly beach and hous. We had been there at the end of 2012, yet it seemed so many years ago. It was very difficult at first, but soon my spirits lifted. I decided to let myself be totally transported.

Everyday was filled with sunshine, blue sky, long walks, brisk runs, bike rides, key lime pie, fresh seafood, books, swimming, laughing, and playing. I read two really great books while I was there--better yet they were "found" books--books I found on the bookshelf of the home that I had never heard of. 

Both books turned out to be treasures, especially the first:

The Light Between the Oceans

I have never been so transported by a book in my life.

The second was

Little Bee.

I started a third but didn't finish it.

CSB is a place I feel I belong. There are places I love (San Francisco), but belonging is completely different. Every night, I would cook a simple, healthy, delicious meal and we'd eat it at our tiny dining table, looking out over a sinking sun. We made a date every night to meet on our bedroom veranda for sunset, and then I'd make dinner. I'd stop by the fisherman's market and pick up a fresh catch, season it, and Larry would put it on the grill. He kept offering to take me to dinner, but I couldn't bear to leave our beautiful place. (We went out one night and had a pretty disappointing tourist type dinner.) We also went on a ghost walk one night in a centuries old graveyard in Apalachicola. I went to bed early every night, around 9:30, exhausted and happy after a day of fun exertion. I would crack open the door to the bedroom veranda and hear the rush of the tide rolling in, and the laughter of people and children at their nightly fire pits. On my daily walks, I got to know many people on the beach. On our last day there, the beach was deserted as most people had packed up. I took a walk and saw ghosts of Primo on the shore from our visit two years prior. 

The trip was wonderful and terrible. I felt so relaxed and recharged that I couldn't imagine ever going anywhere else again. 



The Brown Months

The leaves were dead and brown, yet precariously clinging to the branches. This is how I felt. When I returned from vacation, I made a few dinner dates with friends, and started some creative projects at home, namely, I started work on some quilts that I hope to give to my nieces some day. My grandma left me all her material from her decades long career of being an independent seamstress. Growing up, she always made us patchwork quilts from the leftover material. (Married during the Great Depression, she never wasted anything.) She made the quilts for us in the 70s, and the material really shows it. I like calling them Pantsuit Quilts. I made a couple of quilts more than a decade ago, and getting back into it felt nice and peaceful. I'd put something on Netflix, and start my cutting and measuring. I also took to drawing and Zentangle, and found myself relaxing and enjoying being creative again.


The Bare Month 

December. No leaves no snow. Purgatory

I felt pretty desperate by December, and made a last ditch effort to not lose all the peace and beauty I gained while in CSB. I suggested we take in as many holiday shows as possible. At this point, I didn't feel like socializing but I knew I had to get out. Performances and events were the perfect antidote. First I went to see my friend Dave in the play "A Christmas Carol," which is one of my favorites. Dave, Tristan, and I had dinner afterwards.

Next we went to Dance Kaleidoscope Broadway Meets Motown. As usual, a total blast. We had dinner before at McCormick and Schmick. 

Next, we accepted an invite from Ralf & Jim to attend the Butler University Holiday Concert Symphony Chorale. The performances were outstanding, making for a beautiful night. We had a lovely cheese and wine reception at R&J's afterwards. Next was Handel's Messiah with The Indianapolis Chamber Orchestra. I enjoyed it but don't need to do that again. Finally we went to Indiana Ballet Academy's Nutcracker. I'd never seen this (or any) ballet. I didn't love the ballet itself and later read that it is often criticized for being boring and having nothing to do with the actual (wonderful) story of The Nutcracker. Still, I was mesmerized watching the beautiful moves and thinking about how hard artists work. It definitely made me want to see more ballet. 

The verdict was that my experiment worked. All of these activities took my mind off my sadness and made me remember the bigger world of which I am a part, and more importantly got me excited for a holiday with my family. 

I suggested to my mom that we take in a Christmas Eve service at my Grandma's church, and it was really nice and kind of quaint, but I tell you the truth. I thought I would feel my grandma there, but I did not feel her at all. Perhaps this means that she is truly in a better place, and thinking of it that way, helped put me in a better place.

I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with mom and dad and Earl's family, and we had a really good time. I had to work the next day, at least log in remotely, so I left the day after Christmas, short and sweet. 

I surprised myself upon my return. I finally got the motivation to start the projects in my kitchen I had thought about for so long. I wanted to start with staining my honey oak 90s cabinets, and figured it would take at least a week. It took me only a day and half, and I moved on to repainting the walls (ballet white) and the pantry door a deep red. Next I had a great time doing all this work. I worked slowly and diligently, enjoying every second rather than rushing through it. Next up, I'll tackle my countertop project. 

We went to a really fun birthday for friend Jerry this week. He's one of my favorite friends in life, and we brought in his 50th with a wonderful "roast," which people complained was far too nice to be a roast, a giant human paddling machine, dancing, and love. I love my friends.

Just a couple days of left of 2014, and I'm ending on a positive note, because whether we feel like it or not, we have to be here. Let's be present while we're here.

2014: I was There.