Many years ago, a teacher friend gifted me a copy of Avi's little gem The End of the Beginning. The story speaks to my view of life, framed by my spiritual and religious upbringing. There is no end. Even in death, we live on in the cycles of humanity, my progeny carrying my DNA, now unique to them. I hope that the best of me is shared with them as I watch my young adults being driven by their creativity. I am both proud of and sincerely amazed at what they conjure.
Where I got my creative abilities, no one seems to know. Neither of my parents was particularly creative, although they tried to be. My mother spent many years making silk flower arrangements when such things were popular. She worked with another woman who eventually became a prominent oil painter. I don't know where the two of them learned the art of flower arranging, or if they just went with what looked good and could be purchased on the cheap, as they were volunteers working for a religious organization. Eventually, what my mother learned about color translated to how she decorated her home. She continues to have a penchant for white, more than any color. Sitting in her kitchen at her second home, a small condo on the Gulf Coast, I am surrounded by white, with splashes of blues and yellows. Beach decor. The walls in the small living area are white. The curtains are white. The sofas are cream...as close to white as she was willing to dare knowing some suntan lotion was bound to get on them, even though we were admonished to sit on towels. The appliances in the kitchen are white. The countertop and cabinets are white. The backsplash is white tile, with tiny cream accents. Her bedspreads are white. She keeps her spaces immaculately clean.
As I gaze out the window, I am reminded how rare it is to have this view. The position of this place allows full beach views 30 miles in either direction on clear, sunny days. Because the building is constructed as a high-rise "X," the view from the windows of the bedrooms is a beautiful, huge freshwater lake and the inland urban life that changes with the seasons. It is healing, in any kind of weather, including hurricanes. I have watched water spouts form, seen lightning strike the water, and observed the strength of the palm trees as they struggle to withstand 80 mph winds. I am safe behind the hurricane-resistant glass. Fear not, when there is a mandatory evacuation, we heed it.
But my time here is quickly coming to a close. An era of thirty years is ending because my mother can no longer make the six-hour trip unless I bring her. She is becoming weak and more fragile. Walking her dog multiple times a day is difficult. The shifting sand presents other challenges, especially in the heat of summer when she forgets to drink enough water. She wanted to gift the place to my son, not understanding that we cannot afford the association fees, taxes, and maintenance. When I explained this to her, she offered to pay half. I worked hard to stifle my laughter. If I had that kind of money right now, I would replace our 15-year-old mattress that 'sings' when we press down on the springs and the disgusting carpet that we inherited when we purchased the townhouse we are currently in, having downsized due to necessity.
It is my life's dream to live on the coast somewhere, but not in a high-rise condominium where 70% of the units are rented to families on a weekly basis. They are often loud and rude. There is a sense of entitlement that seems to be attached to paying a lot of money to be here temporarily. Additionally, believe it or not, there are still many smokers in this part of the country. I'm not talking about barbecue grills. I can't handle second hand smoke, and it is everywhere here on the beach, along with beer cans and trash that renters leave behind for "someone else" to pick up. This is a home for some people, but most renters don't seem to care. On vacation, they are paying someone else to cater to them, apparently.
I care more about the bird and sea turtle population. I saw more sand and blue crabs this year than in the past ten. The ecosystem here is recovering. Unfortunately, I saw four new houses being built in the nearby neighborhood. More people, less nature. It is a constant battle. So, as I help my mother through the emotional transition of selling her favorite place, I too am experiencing a tug of sadness. There are so many reasons why selling is the right thing to do. At the same time, the sense of respite I get by sitting on the balcony, staring at the horizon, is not something I can find in my land-locked home.
This trip is the last before we hand over the keys to what we hope will be the new owner. The purchase is contingent upon his selling his current house. I truly hope it works out, because the transition would be such a clean and easy one for my mother, and would eliminate one more stress factor in my own life. For today though, I will be open to all the feels, as we slowly close the chapter on this book.
Where I got my creative abilities, no one seems to know. Neither of my parents was particularly creative, although they tried to be. My mother spent many years making silk flower arrangements when such things were popular. She worked with another woman who eventually became a prominent oil painter. I don't know where the two of them learned the art of flower arranging, or if they just went with what looked good and could be purchased on the cheap, as they were volunteers working for a religious organization. Eventually, what my mother learned about color translated to how she decorated her home. She continues to have a penchant for white, more than any color. Sitting in her kitchen at her second home, a small condo on the Gulf Coast, I am surrounded by white, with splashes of blues and yellows. Beach decor. The walls in the small living area are white. The curtains are white. The sofas are cream...as close to white as she was willing to dare knowing some suntan lotion was bound to get on them, even though we were admonished to sit on towels. The appliances in the kitchen are white. The countertop and cabinets are white. The backsplash is white tile, with tiny cream accents. Her bedspreads are white. She keeps her spaces immaculately clean.
As I gaze out the window, I am reminded how rare it is to have this view. The position of this place allows full beach views 30 miles in either direction on clear, sunny days. Because the building is constructed as a high-rise "X," the view from the windows of the bedrooms is a beautiful, huge freshwater lake and the inland urban life that changes with the seasons. It is healing, in any kind of weather, including hurricanes. I have watched water spouts form, seen lightning strike the water, and observed the strength of the palm trees as they struggle to withstand 80 mph winds. I am safe behind the hurricane-resistant glass. Fear not, when there is a mandatory evacuation, we heed it.
But my time here is quickly coming to a close. An era of thirty years is ending because my mother can no longer make the six-hour trip unless I bring her. She is becoming weak and more fragile. Walking her dog multiple times a day is difficult. The shifting sand presents other challenges, especially in the heat of summer when she forgets to drink enough water. She wanted to gift the place to my son, not understanding that we cannot afford the association fees, taxes, and maintenance. When I explained this to her, she offered to pay half. I worked hard to stifle my laughter. If I had that kind of money right now, I would replace our 15-year-old mattress that 'sings' when we press down on the springs and the disgusting carpet that we inherited when we purchased the townhouse we are currently in, having downsized due to necessity.
It is my life's dream to live on the coast somewhere, but not in a high-rise condominium where 70% of the units are rented to families on a weekly basis. They are often loud and rude. There is a sense of entitlement that seems to be attached to paying a lot of money to be here temporarily. Additionally, believe it or not, there are still many smokers in this part of the country. I'm not talking about barbecue grills. I can't handle second hand smoke, and it is everywhere here on the beach, along with beer cans and trash that renters leave behind for "someone else" to pick up. This is a home for some people, but most renters don't seem to care. On vacation, they are paying someone else to cater to them, apparently.
I care more about the bird and sea turtle population. I saw more sand and blue crabs this year than in the past ten. The ecosystem here is recovering. Unfortunately, I saw four new houses being built in the nearby neighborhood. More people, less nature. It is a constant battle. So, as I help my mother through the emotional transition of selling her favorite place, I too am experiencing a tug of sadness. There are so many reasons why selling is the right thing to do. At the same time, the sense of respite I get by sitting on the balcony, staring at the horizon, is not something I can find in my land-locked home.
This trip is the last before we hand over the keys to what we hope will be the new owner. The purchase is contingent upon his selling his current house. I truly hope it works out, because the transition would be such a clean and easy one for my mother, and would eliminate one more stress factor in my own life. For today though, I will be open to all the feels, as we slowly close the chapter on this book.