How We Made It to the Curb and Other Wonders: Part I

The wheelchair guy who met my mom at the door of the plane looked something like this. Do you have luggage? he asked. I told him we did, and he said not to worry, he would help us. Counting the time that he waited outside the ladies room, we probably spent an hour together. He was smooth. The whole process was smooth. We arrived at the curb with my mom in her wheelchair and our mountain of luggage just as the beautiful M pulled up. I tipped him generously, but forgot to thank him for giving up his Bollywood career just for us.

This morning our house looked like this.

Here are some of our treasures.

Don't worry, it gets better.

Um...that's a tiny bungee cord and a pair of those non-skid hospital socks.

Well, this is sweet. "Someone in Iowa loves you!" it says.

Check out the matchbox cars in the tin and the box. We have dozens more. My mom's older sister crocheted the afghan. I washed it three times this morning to get the cigarette stench out. The purses are stuffed full of family photos. And hiding in the back is a boxed set (still shrink wrapped) of Anne of Green Gables. 

And what was my mom doing with the matchbox cars you ask? She and her twin sister searched the streets, trash-picking, for many years. They routinely washed, repaired, and refurbished tons of stuff, saving it from the landfill and giving it to people they thought would like it--and every so often having a pretty profitable garage sale. The cars were kept for my nephew, whom my mom and I now call Big Jacob since he's 15 years old. We brought them back to California so my grandson, whom we sometimes refer to as Little Jacob, can play with them when he comes to visit.

Is there more? Oh, my. Yes. But I refuse to get up right now and take more photos. Later.

But wait!--we did find her martini hat.

It was a busy day in Margaritaville. Roberto the painter and his crew arrived early with pistolas and paintbrushes to caulk and paint the new moldings that went in after the floors. Night stands for one of the bedrooms were delivered.

I began a wall of old family photos in the alcove next to my mom's room, and I talked for a while with my brother's girlfriend about the doctors my mom will need--cardiologist, pulmonary specialist, neurologist, etc., and whether or not there's a smaller version of her oxygen machine that can make the move with her from Maryland to California. I called the utility companies, and the phone company, and made plans to cancel my old homeowner's policy, and my internet, and changed my address. There was more unpacking, and my kitchen island is heaped with things that go here and there and who knows where.

The swallows are still nesting above my patio doors, flying in an out, tending and rebuilding, and I feel they are kindred spirits as I feather my new nest. Come September when their nesting season is over, and they are no longer protected by law, I will encourage them to go elsewhere by having the old nests washed down, and a "bird slide" installed. It seems that it's impossible to have just one or two nests, and the bird poop is currently raining down a little too liberally.

The reality of this move is raining down, too--that I'll be more than an hour away from the man who loves me. That I'll be the point person for my mom without any family nearby to serve as back up. That my traveling days are done. But every time I step outside here and smell the ocean air, it feels like what I've been waiting for--that this spot is a destination.

I'm picturing a patio full of friends. Walks on the beach. Kayaking. The blender will be working overtime. People will be too tired to drive back to L.A. The extra bedrooms will be full, and we'll have to break out the air mattresses.

I'm ready. I've got toothbrushes and  razors. Sunscreen and aloe vera. Q-tips, cough drops, and Dramamine. Tequila. Coffee. Open arms.