I Thought...

1980s

Sis and I were talking the other day and I said I'd like to retrieve my things in storage (in NJ) some time next year.  The conversation drifted to 'things' not turning out the way we figured but the way they're supposed to, often much better.  How many times have you said, "I thought..." only to explain your delight, disappointment or astonishment?

"Have you written about that?" Hillary asked after I rambled through the following trajectory.  Pretty much, over time; but not all together so here we go (links are to previous stories):

After Mom died in 2016 I thought I'd be back in a year or so to pick up my things, mailed over the decades from distant shores and held in Mom's attic for safekeeping (r).  I'm kicking myself for not taking a photo BEFORE I cleaned out her house, but imagine everything you own fitting in such a space, in your 60s. The really important stuff.

2005

One day, staying with Mom between marriages, I whined that I'd never have a home of my own.  Everyone I knew seemed to own a condo; a co-op; something.

Mom replied, "You have a home.  You just don't have a house to put it in yet."  She meant a sense of home, so I'm sure she appreciated the irony of what came next.

'King Tut', aka Ruff Life, wasn't exactly what I thought I'd buy, but in hindsight she was much better - for the experience if not the lodging. I still pine for a safe, solid space; an anchor to call my own.  I may not have total control of the outcome, but I can develop a better mindset to alleviate any angst.  I remain hopeful, for I've still got time.

The monthly storage rate has gone from $25 to almost $60, but I'm not multiplying that out for I'd go nuts, considering the contents are mostly seashells and gourds.  I thought I'd be back sooner so I've mentally prepared for the worst, considering the passage of time and weather.  Doesn't really matter, what's gone is gone.  Besides, anything worth selling in my Etsy store will only have increased in value.

While 'wandering in the desert' in 2017, searching for affordable housing, or in my case parking, I discovered Community First Village, a tiny-home community for the homeless of Austin, where I became a Workamper for the first time.  One month turned into nine as I primarily refinished thrift shop furniture for the homes in exchange for a space (r).  The village, growing in leaps and bounds, will eventually  house over 2,000. I am unable to adequately express how the experience affected me, in a good way.  I always say, "I went there to paint...I thought."

Then why leave such a great place, since it fit my finances and gave me purpose?  For one thing, Austin's too damned hot and humid, plus I hate holding my breath during hurricane season with such flimsy protection.  More and more people were moving to 'cool' Austin after binge-watching Austin City Limits, so I knew in no time things would become over-crowded and even more unaffordable.  Politics were left at the front entrance but still, my mindset doesn't fit with Texas, no offense.

But more than that, I found I was internalizing too much of the resident's 'burdens,' for lack of a better word. All volunteers, in whatever capacity, were also 'good neighbors,' helping to lift up and rehabilitate residents by offering a smile, a few kind words or an ear.  Some of us are able to deal with the misery and heartache of others without becoming overly-emotional; some of us not so much.  I left after 9 months for that reason - I needed to replenish what little I had inside.

When I left Austin I had two choices: back to 'Jersey for the goods or back to Oregon; and since I didn't have a permanent place in which to place said goods I headed west, accepting a Camp Host position near my home of record in Southern Oregon for the summer.  Duties described verbally differed from those in the contract, so I gave notice right away but said I'd stay until a replacement came through.  It was 10 weeks of hell, but the one thing which made it worthwhile was helping that Veteran from the midwest find housing while he attended college.  So while I thought I failed at Camp Hosting, I realize now I was wrong.

The plan was to take care of business and save some $$ prior to my next trek, so I took my motorhome in for a pre-trip checkup, where my mechanic declared,  No more gettin' over the mountains for you.  I feared homelessness, wondering how far down I was destined to go, but at least I was somewhere familiar.

I also feared being stationary, not knowing what to do with myself after being on the road for so long, but I pulled up those big-girls and got involved in the community.  Needing a car but without much savings, I thought I'd have to settle for a piece of junk; but after a grueling search I found a very nice 2004 Volvo sedan for a price I could afford.  BC and I settled down on a friend's property.

How could I get my things without the motorhome?  Rent a U-Haul?  I thought it better to buy a simple 4' x 6' teardrop trailer, empty inside, which could also serve as a place to sleep along the way.  Perfect for my purpose.

And then Covid hit and we stayed put.  Turned out to be a good thing, for BC was diagnosed with diabetes and we were able to go through that learning-curve in place.  One pandemic year turned into two as I painted, then once over, I prepared to strike out in a much cuter rig.

 

And then my name reached the top of the Section 8 Housing List after 3 year's wait.  I was so excited, thinking my dream was materializing; until I learned the truth of the 60-day scramble for scarce affordable housing, here's The Hungry Games.  Everywhere I could afford which wasn't a total dump had the rule, "No Pets," and BC was not negotiable.

I managed to extend the timeframe to 120 days, still without success.    So I settled down again, except I was extremely angry: about the lack of affordable housing for such a large segment of society; of being cheated time and again; and particularly with God.  It was too cruel, making me wait all those years, just to have a number of carrots dangled in front of me then snatched away.  (He) doesn't exist;  I'll make my own way; so when the weather turned warmer finally we'd head east, leaving the motorhome where it was.

But two weeks later, without warning, I learned the homeowners were divorcing, putting the property (with water) up for sale so I had to move.  How much time did I have?  About a month, considering the farm's prime pot-growing environment, with a potential buyer already on the radar.  (Photo:  what legalized pot does to the landscape)

And me with a too-old, broken down RV, I already knew what to expect.  I'd have to move to another county, more rural, in order to find an affordable spot, unless I bought a newer RV.  I had to act fast.  Preparing for the Section 8 I'd cleaned up my credit rating, and thanks to Covid had a bit of savings.  I thought I had a loan in place but at the last minute it fell through. 

With the help of friends and family I scraped together almost enough and made an offer on a 27-foot 2016 model, new enough to fit RV resort's '10 year age limit' and the layout I wanted.  The offer was accepted, despite the salesman's skepticism.

Next was a place to park that I could afford, thank goodness I didn't have a payment.  I never thought I'd be able to live on the coast but whaddaya know - within short order I found the ad for my current position.  Sold the old RV, towed the teardrop and had the trailer delivered, since it's too heavy for my car.

It's a beautiful place, right near the ocean and the work isn't strenuous.  I like my co-workers.  "At last, I thought, we can relax after all those years of struggling."  I was thrilled with our good fortune.

But after only 3 months, BC suddenly became ill and died, I thought we'd have more time.  It took 18 months to stop weeping each day; and after the 2 year mark I can report I'm beginning to feel like my old self, only wiser and certainly more mellow.  No more pets for now, I reject future heartache, plus I'll be free to volunteer at will.  I have more time for another pet, too.

So as I explained to Hillary, BC stayed with me long enough to get situated nice and safe.  If she'd died sooner I'd probably be trapped in one of those ratty subsidized apartments, struggling with inflated prices.  If I'd headed for 'Jersey after Austin, we may have been trapped in the middle of nowhere when the RV broke down, BC got sick or when Covid hit.

I imagine most everyone could write their own tale of, "I thought; if it weren't for; and then's."  In my case I've arrived at a comfortable place which I consider perfect for rejuvenation.  Not forever, but until I'm ready for next steps, wherever they may lead.

I sold the teardrop, since any trips hereon out will be via air and rental cars.   I never did camp out of preference but necessity.  A neighbor lamented, "Your beautiful teardrop...the plans you had with BC...so sad."

"No.  I may have been the one who painted and decorated it, but I now realize that the teardrop was meant for its next owner.  And that's alright with me."  My place is waiting.