In 1970, when my twin brother and I graduated from high school in New
Jersey, my parents sold our home and moved the family to southern
California. They wanted us to go to college in California, and they
liked the idea of not having to put up with New Jersey winters anymore.
So, my twin brother, younger sister, and a friend of our older brother's
drove one of the family cars across country to start our new life. We
had never been further west than Pennsylvania! We had never even gone
camping before. It was quite a journey, with well-planned campsites in
Ohio, Illinois, and Kansas and a lovely stop over in Longmont, Co at a
beautiful hippie commune. We made it to southern California and our eyes
began to tear from the smog. Seriously. We had never experienced
anything like it. That was in July. I applied for a job at some hippie
art shop that was in Topanga Canyon half way between the San Fernando
Valley and the Pacific Ocean. I hitchhiked to work. I trusted the world.
And you readers of this blog know how that turned out for me.
My experience of southern California was not a pleasant one. By May of
1971, I decided to head back to New Jersey and spent the summer trying
to figure out what to do with the upheaval of my life. Then, I drove
back to California, spent the winter of 1971-2 with my parents and left
again moving north to Portland, Oregon. I never lived in southern
California again. Why is any of this relevant? Because my parents
stayed. And now, I have not lived near my mother for more than 45 years.
 |
My dad helping build the cabin in southern Oregon |
My
parents and I visited each other every year, sometimes more than once
depending on how close we were. They came to see the 10 acres of land I
bought in southern Oregon in 1974 and even helped a bit with our little
home-made cabin. They visited me in Boulder, Colorado many times, when my
then-husband was the videographer for the CBS affiliate, and I was a
student. On one road trip, they went on to Mount Rushmore and then
across country to see the east-coast family. A few years later they
came to see me in Rhode Island when that same then-husband had a job at
the university and I was in graduate school. I like to think that my
restlessness helped them see our beautiful country.
 |
Roger's mom, my parents, and us in Capitola 1991 |
In
1988, I moved back to California and conveniently moved in with my twin
brother and his wife in Santa Cruz while I nursed my broken heart after that crazy
marriage ended. I met Roger on New Years eve that year, and we stayed in
Santa Cruz until 2004. That was the longest I had stayed in one place
since I graduated from high school. Sixteen years. An amazing thing for
me. This blog has chronicled our moves since then. Santa Cruz to Port
Townsend (2004-2008). Port Townsend to Arcata (2008). Arcata to Santa
Cruz (2008-2009). Santa Cruz to Grass Valley (2009-2014). Grass Valley
to Arcata. Here. Now. Happy. Not moving.
Still,
even with all the distance and moving, there is something about love
that seems to have bridged all of it. I often think of my grandmother
when I am lamenting how far I live from my mother in this waning time of
her life. My grandparents came from Germany to this country in 1921. My
grandmother left her mother and two brothers and their families in
Leipzeig. The only communication they had after that was letters written
that crossed the Atlantic. They never saw each other again. There
really are things that we can do with pen and paper that carries the
heart as far as you can send it. When I think of my mother, I think of
all the cards I have sent her in the past three months. Once a week, a
love letter and a photo of something beautiful. They were all in her
room when we visited last month. She looks at them and re-reads them.
Letters are tangible love. Love, love, love in the land of time and
distance.