Selling House- Buying House-Do not Attempt During Grief

         Before my mom died, we had been contemplating moving. Our neighborhood had been undergoing a transformation during the last ten years and it had made us question staying there. 

       When we had first arrived, it was composed of residents who were in their seventies and eighties. During the cool evening hours they would work in their yards; trimming perfectly shaped hedges and neatly trimmed edges along the sidewalks. Their houses were always freshly painted, and if their garages were opened, all the tools were lined up in perfect rows on peg boards. They always had a small amount of change for buying fundraiser items - candy bars from the orchestra kids, popcorn from the Boy Scouts, and Girl Scout cookies. Were they all friendly elderly people who ask about your day or greeted you during your walks - absolutely not. One older gentlemen had stopped caring about the state of his house many decades ago, and the latest addition of an old and greased stain recliner chair on the front porch was only the most recent eye sore of the street. Additionally, the children avoided his house for fundraisers because he often came to the door in various states of undress. Nothing exposed, but a lack of concern for his condition. 

      And then the older residents would move out. Some went to nursing homes or assisted living places. Other residents went to - well, I don't know the state of their eternal souls, so we can only wonder where they went. As they left, the houses, being part of a working class neighborhood, were bought by investors for rental properties. It didn't take very many years for the hedges to lose their sharp edges or for the yards to fall apart. The street started to have another beat, another rhythm to it. On weekends, you could listen to the neighbors two doors down yelling, shouting, and threatening each other. The more drink, the louder it was. And they weren't afraid to reprimand the neighbors either. Oh, and if your dog is barking louder than their fight, they're going to band together and start yelling at you. One time the neighbors above them couldn't keep their break up private and they were yelling in the street. They yelled at them to take it inside. 

      One time someone on the run had dumped a gun in one of the yards. My daughters woke from their sleep because the movement of flashlights in the backyard had awoken them. It was law enforcement trying to find the discarded weapon. Another night it was gunshots just a few doors down. The drug houses had started moving in. I'm sure our experiences were nothing like the inner city, but for our once quiet and family friendly neighbor, it was a troubling change. 

     Two weeks after my mom died, a house came up for sale across town, on the Westside. Ohh, a different zip code. The desired zip code of our town. Yes, our small town only had one desired zip code. The other zip code included the North side, the downtown, and our neighborhood. The post office had a separate zip code for the PO Boxes. If you lived in the annexed part of town that had bad water, roads that ended in weird dead ends, and where people could get a way with shooting off illegal fireworks, that was the last zip code. 

     We just had to put our house up for sale. It only needed a new bathroom, the sheetrock fixed in the basement, and a new roof. Suddenly, I put a frenzy of energy into preparing the house for our listing. I enlisted Hero Hottie into putting in a new vanity and floor into the bathroom. Enlisted? I think I was half crazed with something that had overtaken me. It wasn't grief -- it was the opposite of grief. It was avoidance. The more energy I shifted into preparing the house, the less I had to think about the state of my heart. You would expect that as I repaired, cleaned, and organized my house - the ever widening grief would diminish. 

     Hero Hottie liked the idea of moving Baby Blueberry into a different school district and so he poured his energy into the bathroom. Which as we pulled up the floor, we realized it needed a whole new sub flooring. He gritted his teeth and got to work.

     Grief blossomed and bloomed like the dandelions taking over my lawn. What was a house, a home, except something you escaped from when the pain was too much. My parents haven't given me an anchor of wood and shingles in my childhood. The only stable thing in my life had been my parents, especially my mom. 

     And she was gone. 

The Good Witch Lied, You Can't Just Click Your Heels and Go Home or Grief Covid Style

         By the time I had reached the age of eighteen, I had moved at least fifteen times. Take a moment to think about the implications of that statement. The math would suggest I moved an average once a year. If only that was the case, it would have been easier. But the funny thing about averages, is they don't mean much. Some years I moved two or three times. The longest length between moves was about four years. It was the most stability I had - those four years.
        A few years ago when I was writing for my local newspaper I would interview people working in the social work field. They all seemed to have big hearts and a desire to make peoples' lives better. They also all seem to have a lack of personal experience of what it means to live in less than middle class. But who attends college? The middle class. The upper class. Sometimes a person from the working class manages to bridge that gap. Or claw their way through the middle class language, vocabulary, and invisible barriers.
      In my town they would hold seminars for the working professionals in social work in which they would pretend to be poor. They would be given cards that would give them scenarios to work through. Examples included your car broke down and you can't make your doctor's appointment or the food pantry is half a mile pass the last bus stop, how do you pick up food?
       I was often asked when I conducted these interviews if I had a background in social work before journalism because I knew what they were talking about.
       No, I don't have a background in social work.
       I have a background in social class. In working class. In poverty.
      It wasn't until later when I grew up and started experiencing other social classes, (If you don't think American has a class system, then you're not working class. Consider yourself lucky and just make sure your town puts a bus stop out to the damn food pantry.) that I began to realize that moving fifteen times in a childhood wasn't normal. Moving half way through a school year wasn't ideal.
     Yes, I was always that kid. "Hello, class. This is so-so and she's new today. So everyone be nice to her." Do teachers realize how much a new kid loves to be told to stand up, have the entire class' attention on them and made to tell something interesting about themselves to the class? Yeah, I didn't think so, because if they realized how difficult it was to be the new kid, they might not make them the center of attention.
      I tell you these details about me, not because I ever thought they were relevant to my life today or because I seek some kind of sympathy, but because my mom suddenly passed away on March 30. And if that connection doesn't make sense to you, don't worry. I have found that in my grief, I struggle with putting all kinds of thoughts together. Some of them click as they should, and some don't. But neurons don't care when they are being destroyed by grief. So weird things happen in the brain.
    My Mom was only 59 years old and because of Covid, the hospital had strict restrictions about visitors. I wasn't even there to say goodbye or to be there for her. Hell, my dad wasn't even allowed to be with her. I was allowed to say goodbye through FaceTime, while she was sedated. But not completely, because her brow furrowed when I talked to her. When I said goodbye. And I couldn't make it better. I think the only thing she feared was dying without family by her side.
     Since that time I have struggled immensely. with grief. with a sense of failure for not being there. for failing to give her a house at the end. My Mom grew up in broken down trailers, and in tiny rooms of the back of bars, and in conditions that were not suitable for a child. If I don't know what the meaning of home means because I never stayed long enough to figure it out and I've been searching ever since,  than she wasn't even aware that she was looking for something.
    My parents moved seven more times after I turned into an adult. They might have stayed in the farmhouse, but 9/11 destroyed her business, and took nearly everything they owned after that. They house surfed after that, driven by storms they had no buffers against except for the weak ones two of their children managed to provide. Their third child, had to run to Texas to escape her poverty made demons, and I would tell her, if she was talking to me, that there is never enough distance in the entire world to run away from our own personal demons.
    My heart aches with the fact that my Mom died in a broken down trailer, with a leaky and moldy office room, windows that allowed the fierce Midwest winds in, and rats that crawled through her kitchen drawers. There were holes in the sub flooring which trips you on the way down the hallway, and the deck was falling apart. My brother had purchased them the trailer outright when they couldn't afford the rent on their last space. If he could have bought them something better, he would have.
    For years they had lived in my basement, before Baby Blueberry came along and we needed more room. I gave them shelter for the cost of running the Cove heaters because damn, those are expensive.
    I couldn't do more. I wanted to do more.
    I wanted to give her what she had spent her hard and difficult life seeking and I failed.
    But even had I provided a house for her. For my dad. Would they have finally found it? And what is it? I thought I knew. That's why I bought a house three days before I got married to Hero Hottie. And then my mom died and I find that I don't know what this idea of home means.
    I thought my lack of decorating was because I believed I wasn't artistic enough to decorate. I thought it was because the only thing I ever saw growing up, was that my parents would get permission from the landlord to paint the walls a light blue. In every single house. I thought my lack of style was because my mom used cheap, garage sale knick knocks and passed down doilies to decorate our spaces and I didn't like that style, so I didn't do anything.
    Then I had a realization as I spent hours thinking about my mom and my childhood, after she passed, I never took the time to decorate my houses, because even though Hero Hottie and I have been in our current house for over ten years, I expect to pack and move without a moment's notice. I'm always in waiting mode, ready to clear out. Ready to leave. Why decorate a space that you're going to leave? Heck, I have numerous dreams where I have to pack a bag and just leave. And in my dreams I'm always worried about taking the items that mean something to me.
    My mom has left me lost. As Baby Blueberry said, the first week of quarantine we did okay, the second week we started getting grumpy with each other, the third week Grandma died. And then counting the weeks stopped.
    Dorothy just clicked her heels and she found her way home. I lost the only stable point I ever had and I'm spinning like a tornado who might land in Oz or Kansas, or back in Oregon. And it doesn't matter, because no matter where I land, I've tried clicking my heels, and I still haven't found home.

Where Did the Queen Go? Subbing in the 2nd Grade

      Unless you already know the teacher, the uncertainty of subbing starts when you accept the job. Through the digital platform my school district uses, besides the day and time, I get to see the teacher's name, their subject and grade level, and their building. The rest is a mystery. It's similar to scheduling an interview for an article - you might have Googled them, but so much is a mystery until you're sitting across from them.
         On the sub software, the teachers have an option to add files or notes, but I have found most of them don't fill that field out. Occasionally, I will run into one that says, I have morning duty, please be here on time.
      I thought a sub had to arrive on time, and I think most of them do. Okay, perhaps that isn't correct. Half? I was late one day - the first time since I started this gig. Ten minutes late and I was about ready to trip over myself with my readied apologies that I had composed in my head all the way over to the school.
    "Sorry I'm late. My six-year old decided to be sick today. Today. I don't work everyday, why couldn't she had picked a day when I'm home doing college? So anyway, I really sorry that I'm arriving seven minutes before the bell rings," I composed in my head as I missed my turn to the school and had to go around the block. Twice.
      Can I get lost in my neighborhood? Perhaps.
      I hurry into the office and the secretary hands me the paper to sign in and only half the subs have signed in so far. A pattern I have started to notice at other jobs. I pause over my apology.
       And then the secretary says something about being a sub herself and I swallowed my readied apology. She doesn't seem concerned, probably because she is involved in the mystery that consists of subbing at the office. At this point, I'm not going to worry about being ten minutes late. She tries to explain where my classroom is and by that point - remember when I mention how often I can get myself turned around - well, it includes walking around these different school buildings too and I'm completely lost. But this could also be because by this time she has pointed down three different hallways trying to remember which way the second grade wing is. Finally, she stops trying to explain where the room is and grabs a passing teacher to take me towards the right area. The kindly teacher offers to take me to my classroom and uses a shortcut through the literacy rooms and the library. I don't even know which main hallway to use. It was a nice gesture, but unless you want me taking my entire second grade class through the literacy room, then please, please show me the main hallway next time. 
      I have only a few minutes to turn on lights, read the sub notes, figure out what programs I will need to have up on the computer and the Promethean board. A neighboring second grade teacher pops in and says if I need anything, then she is right down the hall. And I could tell she actually means this! Relief floods my voice when I tell her thank you. I have quickly found in the last three months that not all the teachers want to help the sub, and in fact I was in one school last week where I made a minor mistake with grabbing my students from recess and our classes sort of tangled in the hallway. No one was hurt, injured or otherwise maimed, but I had destroyed - albeit for thirty seconds - the routine of the hallway. The horror of it. After that she made it her mission to glare at me and ignore anything I said to her. Seriously, ignored everything I said to her. I even apologized, and nothing except a dark glare.
     The second graders pore in and say hi and then tell me everything I'm doing wrong with the sign- in system for hot lunch. I quickly get it fixed and we move onto morning meeting. Which has turned into one of my favorite parts - because I get a chance to chat with them before we move onto assignments.
     Between writing assignments, preventing the class clown from taking over, (although to be fair, he was funny) and messing up on explaining the math lesson, we managed to work amiably towards the end of the day. I had two students stay in for recess and lunch because she was recovering from a tonsil removal and couldn't be outside. Again, back to the mystery of the subbing. I didn't know I would be having lunch with students that day.
    And then we got to the guest speaker, our last assignment of the day. I thought, whew, Miss B is coming in and leading the class and I can take a breath. And that's when Miss B showed up, not a teacher like I assumed, but a eighteen year old senior in high school state beauty pageant winner. 
    She came in wearing a stylish sweater, her hair swept back into wavy locks, thin high heels on her feet that clicked against the classroom floor, a small, but shiny tiara on top of her head, and a sash across her chest with Miss HomeTown State. This was our guest speaker, doing a Veteran's Day project with a classroom full of second graders. Mmm, I was going to have to make sure they listened to a teenager. Oh, boy.
    And then I realized that all the second graders were staring at her, their eyes wide and they were listening to every soft spoken and perfectly articulated word she said. And when she said it was time to grab the construction paper and create cards for veterans - they eagerly got to work. She circled the room, visiting with each student. I was helping a student with his card when he gives me a panicked look. "Where did the queen go? Where did she go? I wanted to see her again."
    The queen?  Oh, my. Tiara. Sash.
    "Miss B? She's over there, helping your classmate."
    "Oh, good. I thought she left."
    His classmate across the desk looks at us. "She's a princess. I'm so glad she's here. We got to see a princess today."
   I look at Miss Hometown State and tried to see what the classroom of second graders are seeing and I can see it, with her poise and her grace and the way she softly and royally makes her way around the classroom. All those hours I know she has spent learning how to glide have paid off. I didn't know you could even glide in high heels?
   But I think it might really be the tiara too. It's shiny and pretty and Disneyish.

   Mmm, perhaps stickers aren't the key to subbing - wearing a tiara and sash is. And then I remember how I don't glide in high heels, my words are not always articulate, and I don't own a tiara.
    I decide to buy more stickers. They're cheaper than a tiara anyways.