Forget spring, autumn has always been my time of renewal. In Illinois, the days would change in light, scent and even texture, transforming my freckled cheeks into smooth-skinned apples by Halloween. We lived on a large corner lot full of oak trees that rained leaves continuously from early September until the first kick-ass storm. Weekends found us outside, raking and jumping into the piles, again and again until either we tired of the game or our father tired of us. Leaf burning has long since been banned, of course, but in those pre-green days of the 70s we gleefully burned those musty, nearly damp leaves. Grown children of the suburbs need only catch a brief whisper of incinerated leaf in the air to be once again back home, sprawled on cool, hard earth with the neighbor kids, the dog of their youth begging for one more stick throw.
As an adult, or almost adult, football games, the new course schedule, a nubby, cherry-red sweater and pub crawls restored my sense of possibility. The slant of light, the rush of wind promised another good friend, another love, another chance. And at last I could tumble into a book without summer coaxing me out to dance in her sunlight and green, green gardens.
Maybe spring is just too sloppy, with the melting mess of snow, mud and sprouting green things underfoot. Spring showers never brought as much drama as autumn storms. Moving to Northern California 21 years ago I didn't understand that I would be sacrificing thunderstorms for a monsoon season. The first year I kept waiting for the rain to let up and finally asked a neighbor, a native, if the deluge was normal. "No, we're in a drought," he lamented.
My ritual observation of the season metamorphosed into an annual pilgrimmage to Chicago. Every October or November I would make the trip, usually timed to celebrate my mother's birthday or Thanksgiving. Elaborate preparations evolved. New clothing was purchased, leather shoes were hunted and acquired, visits with friends and family coordinated. Because I wanted to return to my San Francisco flat and find it welcoming and cheerful (to balance the inevitable homesickness) I would become a whirling, frenzied cleaning fiend for weeks before leaving. Projects untouched for months had to be completed before departure. Since I normally had someone stay to care for my pets this added another wrinkle; I prepared for my "house guest" with the attentive detail reserved for visiting parents and first dates. Everything had to be perfect, and I hoped the petsitter would be of the tidy persuasion and leave my home in like condition for my return.
The journeys home ceased with the death of my parents. Some traditions survived; my husband and children know all too well that the house must be showcase-ready before we leave on vacations. One of Mom's little eccentricities, like having to unpack immediately upon arrival and creating a homey nest for everyone. This current trip back to Chicago is bringing up all the old tendencies that have been dormant for a decade. I've been preparing the house, readying the family, advance-planning the kids' schedules so as not to be avalanched with errands upon return. Today I found myself shredding documents that my husband finally weeded from his bill-paying stash. As I was feeding them one-by-one through the steaming machine, cursing myself for not having invested in an industrial strength model, I noticed the date on one statement: 2003. And I felt the need to shred these documents a few days before leaving for Chicago because...? Because I want my office space, the space I evicted my husband from in order to have a writing area, to be clean and inviting when I walk back in the door. When I come home in eight days I know my house will be unrecognizable. Two young children, an insanely wild Australian Cattledog, several cats and a husband less attentive to environmental conditions than I guarantee it. But I need to leave home with everything in order.
A simple calendar is in place for Joe and the kids to follow. It lists what they do each day and what I'll be doing. There's a page of phone numbers of all the people I'll be seeing and when I'll be seeing them. The laundry is done, and food for snacks, lunches and dinners will be in the cupboard. A present for a friend's party is wrapped and ready to go. Invitations have been sent for our daughter's birthday coming in just a few weeks; her gifts are nearly purchased, the cake ordered, party favors gathered. Today I had the carpet cleaned; it needed it, and the cat who has been mistaking it for her box will be seeing the vet before I leave.
The goldfish seemed to be well -- there's a history of goldfish tragedy and demise related to my trips -- until yesterday, when my daughter noticed that Tigger seemed to be staggering in the water. A gorgeous three-inch-long comet, she did seem to be awkwardly trying to move about, like the drunk who makes a good effort to show she really isn't drunk at all. Pooh was spending too much time hiding at the bottom. An inventory of symptoms, a trip to the fish store, and I've just enough time to treat my 3-year-old friends before leaving.
Does it really matter if I get everything done? Nope. I know this. Does putting my home in order, preparing my family for my absence, taking care of my pets have as much to do with my renewal as it does with practicing to leave? I've been wondering if and how I can ever leave them behind. My little trips are helping me understand how this is done, taking my fear away and I hope building their confidence in themselves, and in my returning to them.
