From the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, I remove several fingers of ginger root.
“What’s that?” asks G, looking at the beige segmented cluster inquisitively.
“Ginger.” I reply, holding it out for his closer inspection.
“How long has she been dead?” he asks with incredulity.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Two Months
“Yeah, you don’t seem to be thinking ‘I wish she’d go home’ about me,” I say to G as we talk over dinner on the two month anniversary of my moving in with him.
“Oh, I think that a lot, actually,” he says casually, “but only when I’m at home and you’re not.”
“Oh, I think that a lot, actually,” he says casually, “but only when I’m at home and you’re not.”
Nevermind
We return in my car to his workplace, where his motorcycle is, on the industrial side of town after dinner and socializing downtown. He goes into work to get his helmet and leather jacket while I leave for home, having agreed we’ll meet there. I head east on Hall Street, to the 131 North onramp and hop on the freeway. I cruise along at 82 mph, a rate that is somewhat above the limit, true - it’s a beautiful summer evening, and I’m feeling good.
I take the I-96 interchange and head west into the sunset, thinking about G. We take a couple minutes to watch the sun set together most nights, and it pleases me to know that he is some miles behind me in traffic, seeing the same sunset, and that he is probably thinking much the same.
I am a few miles away from my exit when I notice a motorcycle approaching from behind at a fairly good clip. I know that it cannot be G, because I have been traveling at 82 mph continuously, and he’d have to be going quite fast to catch up with me, considering the late start and all. Quite fast. At the rate the motorcycle behind me has been traveling, I expect it to pass me fairly soon. When it does not, I check on it in my rearview mirror. It’s keeping time with me now, oddly enough.
I take my exit, as does the motorcyclist, and by now, I can tell that it is G. I start to wonder how fast he was going to catch up with me, and ponder this the last few miles home. We pull into the drive together, I get out of my car, and start towards the pole barn where he parks the motorcycle. As he emerges, my first words to him are, “How the hell fast were you going that you managed to catch up with me?”
He grins widely and says “I was ONE light cycle behind you - how the hell fast were YOU going that it took me over 20 miles to catch up with you?”
Oh.
Right.
Nevermind.
I take the I-96 interchange and head west into the sunset, thinking about G. We take a couple minutes to watch the sun set together most nights, and it pleases me to know that he is some miles behind me in traffic, seeing the same sunset, and that he is probably thinking much the same.
I am a few miles away from my exit when I notice a motorcycle approaching from behind at a fairly good clip. I know that it cannot be G, because I have been traveling at 82 mph continuously, and he’d have to be going quite fast to catch up with me, considering the late start and all. Quite fast. At the rate the motorcycle behind me has been traveling, I expect it to pass me fairly soon. When it does not, I check on it in my rearview mirror. It’s keeping time with me now, oddly enough.
I take my exit, as does the motorcyclist, and by now, I can tell that it is G. I start to wonder how fast he was going to catch up with me, and ponder this the last few miles home. We pull into the drive together, I get out of my car, and start towards the pole barn where he parks the motorcycle. As he emerges, my first words to him are, “How the hell fast were you going that you managed to catch up with me?”
He grins widely and says “I was ONE light cycle behind you - how the hell fast were YOU going that it took me over 20 miles to catch up with you?”
Oh.
Right.
Nevermind.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Grilling at home with G
G is about to start the grill, and asks how much chicken we're grilling, so he can gauge how much charcoal to use. I look over the three of everything from the pick-of-the-chick package and answer, "About one and a half chickens".
He is silent a moment and then asks, "Metric or English?"
And that's one of the things I love about our home - we both laugh a lot.
He is silent a moment and then asks, "Metric or English?"
And that's one of the things I love about our home - we both laugh a lot.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Day 12 in the Country
Today, I set out to mow the lawn early in the day, before it got too hot. I hopped on the mower, and got to work. I started to round the fire pit, and had to go around the bush that G had pulled into the yard with the truck and the chain days before.
I got in close to the bush. The grass was tall.
The grass hid the chain. (See Day 8 in the Country post.)
Wow. Did hitting the chain ever stop the riding mower fast. And hard.
I threw in the clutch and the brake, disengaged the mower, put it in neutral, and thew the key to off, not that it was running at that point, anyway.
I spent the next two hours outside in full sun with my arms under the mower (I know, I know, I know) trying to get the chain unwrapped from the blades. The blades didn't bend (much), but it has to have damaged them a little. Once I finally got the chain free, I got the mower started again. It runs. It cuts. All good.
Except for the nicks in the blade from a frickin' huge chain.
I'm a little tempted to not mention it to him, as he might get pissed at himself for the chain being in the lawn, but it's not like I wasn't there when the chain was deposited in the lawn, so I SHOULD have known it was there. I blame me. And so, I don't want to not tell him, as I want to come clean on it.
And all this is skipping the Day 11 in the Country post, which was really just a bit too much of a day for me. It included cats escaping the house, aerial antennas, and other interesting events that I may, or may not, muster the strength to post.
I got in close to the bush. The grass was tall.
The grass hid the chain. (See Day 8 in the Country post.)
Wow. Did hitting the chain ever stop the riding mower fast. And hard.
I threw in the clutch and the brake, disengaged the mower, put it in neutral, and thew the key to off, not that it was running at that point, anyway.
I spent the next two hours outside in full sun with my arms under the mower (I know, I know, I know) trying to get the chain unwrapped from the blades. The blades didn't bend (much), but it has to have damaged them a little. Once I finally got the chain free, I got the mower started again. It runs. It cuts. All good.
Except for the nicks in the blade from a frickin' huge chain.
I'm a little tempted to not mention it to him, as he might get pissed at himself for the chain being in the lawn, but it's not like I wasn't there when the chain was deposited in the lawn, so I SHOULD have known it was there. I blame me. And so, I don't want to not tell him, as I want to come clean on it.
And all this is skipping the Day 11 in the Country post, which was really just a bit too much of a day for me. It included cats escaping the house, aerial antennas, and other interesting events that I may, or may not, muster the strength to post.
Day 8 in the Country
It is hot and humid, and G and I are discussing the air conditioners, and which windows to install them. His preference in the master bedroom is a window blocked by a large thorny bush. Because of the thorns, G hates the bush, and dreads installing the air conditioner. However, the other window is over a slope, and is difficult to reach, at best. I mention how a chain and a truck could probably rip that bush out in minutes. I see a light turn on in his eyes. Five minutes later, he has a chain wrapped around the bush and attached to the tow hook of the truck. He is excited. He hops in the truck, backs up some, and then goes forward, swiftly giving the bush a yank. It lifts some, but does not quite leave the ground. He backs up and then gives it another swift yank. It nearly frees from the ground. He stops and backs up again. “You can probably just go now - it’s pretty much free but it’ll come out with just a little tug.” I say. “Oh, I know,” he says with a grin, “but I want to see it fly.” He gives it another swift yank, and it leaps from the ground behind the truck. G keeps going, across the drive, into the side yard, behind the pole barn to the fire pit. He stops the truck there, releases the chain. He is still grinning.
Good fun.
Good fun.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Homeward Bound
G left with my stuff this evening.
It was an odd feeling to watch him pull away, all my stuff in the bed of the truck or the small Uhaul trailer behind. Part of me wished the stuff was just gone, that I was unburdened from it all, that I could just pick up and go, let the wind push me which way it might.
But then I realized that much as I don’t care about the stuff and whether I ever see any of it again, I want to see the man driving the truck away again. Again and again.
So, west I’ll go, to G.
G left earlier than he normally would on a Sunday, both of us knowing it was the last weekend that one of us would leave, and that I’ll be home to stay on Thursday of this week. Those are the words I used, “I’ll be home on Thursday.” He didn’t skip a beat in replying, “I’ll see you at home on Thursday, then.”
That’s a big word: home. He knew what I was saying when I used it, and he knew what he was saying when he replied with it.
I spoke with J on the phone earlier this evening. She’s still in limbo in Ohio with the family farm up for sale, not knowing if it will sell or if it won’t, if she’ll come back for her teaching job or won’t. The not knowing is hard on her. I can understand.
That’s where I’ve been for a long while, too. When S said he was selling the house now instead of in two more years like the original agreement, or even next year like the revised agreement from this March, it killed me to not know what I was doing, and where I’d do it from.
G immediately offered his home, but I couldn’t just agree to that. We’d been boyfriend and girlfriend for only three months, even if we’d known each other a year and a half. To me, that felt powerless, it felt like running to a man to ‘save me’ and I couldn’t work with that idea. I had to find a way to take care of myself without relying on him.
So I said no, and explained my reasons. G accepted them, and let it go. As I continued to stress over how and where I’d live, I found myself repeatedly coming back to why I couldn’t live with him. I looked into my other options, found some, and chose to go with those, even though they weren’t a great choice for me, the cats, or for the others I’d be staying with. But it would have worked, and still will, if I need it to. They’re family: If I need them, they’ll be there for me.
But if I was going to rely on them, why wouldn’t I rely on G? Wasn’t he also a friend, also family?
And then there was that conversation with G, in which he asked “You have choices, and you’re choosing one which will be harder on you, but you’re sure it’s NOT a commitment issue?” As G expected, I couldn’t answer that. I had to reconsider what I was doing and why, and the only reason I could come up with to not live with him, was fear. And as A pointed out, I wouldn’t want to be making my choices from there.
There are still so many questions for me in this move, so much to live my way into the answers on, but where to be in the here and now, where to call home, I finally have figure out. And I’m grateful. Not just for a place to call home, but for the reason I would call it home: G.
I couldn’t walk away from him. Even if he didn’t have all my stuff.
It was an odd feeling to watch him pull away, all my stuff in the bed of the truck or the small Uhaul trailer behind. Part of me wished the stuff was just gone, that I was unburdened from it all, that I could just pick up and go, let the wind push me which way it might.
But then I realized that much as I don’t care about the stuff and whether I ever see any of it again, I want to see the man driving the truck away again. Again and again.
So, west I’ll go, to G.
G left earlier than he normally would on a Sunday, both of us knowing it was the last weekend that one of us would leave, and that I’ll be home to stay on Thursday of this week. Those are the words I used, “I’ll be home on Thursday.” He didn’t skip a beat in replying, “I’ll see you at home on Thursday, then.”
That’s a big word: home. He knew what I was saying when I used it, and he knew what he was saying when he replied with it.
I spoke with J on the phone earlier this evening. She’s still in limbo in Ohio with the family farm up for sale, not knowing if it will sell or if it won’t, if she’ll come back for her teaching job or won’t. The not knowing is hard on her. I can understand.
That’s where I’ve been for a long while, too. When S said he was selling the house now instead of in two more years like the original agreement, or even next year like the revised agreement from this March, it killed me to not know what I was doing, and where I’d do it from.
G immediately offered his home, but I couldn’t just agree to that. We’d been boyfriend and girlfriend for only three months, even if we’d known each other a year and a half. To me, that felt powerless, it felt like running to a man to ‘save me’ and I couldn’t work with that idea. I had to find a way to take care of myself without relying on him.
So I said no, and explained my reasons. G accepted them, and let it go. As I continued to stress over how and where I’d live, I found myself repeatedly coming back to why I couldn’t live with him. I looked into my other options, found some, and chose to go with those, even though they weren’t a great choice for me, the cats, or for the others I’d be staying with. But it would have worked, and still will, if I need it to. They’re family: If I need them, they’ll be there for me.
But if I was going to rely on them, why wouldn’t I rely on G? Wasn’t he also a friend, also family?
And then there was that conversation with G, in which he asked “You have choices, and you’re choosing one which will be harder on you, but you’re sure it’s NOT a commitment issue?” As G expected, I couldn’t answer that. I had to reconsider what I was doing and why, and the only reason I could come up with to not live with him, was fear. And as A pointed out, I wouldn’t want to be making my choices from there.
There are still so many questions for me in this move, so much to live my way into the answers on, but where to be in the here and now, where to call home, I finally have figure out. And I’m grateful. Not just for a place to call home, but for the reason I would call it home: G.
I couldn’t walk away from him. Even if he didn’t have all my stuff.
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