Many years ago, I was given the opportunity to move to San Francisco. I say opportunity because in those days I lived hand to mouth and owned little more than could fit in my car. I was good with it as I hadn’t ever bothered with any big, tomorrow questions and I’d covered a lot of territory this way. I was living in Denver, a bit bored and rather frustrated with my current situation and girl friend who’d been having a tough time of her own offered to let me stay on her floor till I got my act together. She’d recently lost her lover and companion to murder – never solved and not quick. I’d known him as well and she had found some comfort in sharing her loss with me. He was a crazy and fun man, may he rest.
So, all my ‘stuff’ piled in a ‘70 Impala, to California I went. I’d picked up the car for $200, traded my ’72 Maverick for new tires and a tune up. We were set!
On the way, I had only one mishap. It was where I always think of as the top of the world. That flat land stretch on I80 that sprawls across the bottom eastern half of Wyoming. Its relatively flat but you know you’re on higher grown. The wind is rather blustery through here and this day was not only not an exception but a rich example. To make it really interesting, this wind, that was actually nudging and shoving my 3,780-pound car around, had light snow and sleet whirring in it. I was plodding along at 85 due to visual constraints when something caught my eye from the rear view mirror. Then again, and again. Thank goodness there wasn’t another sole in sight because I’m now spending more time looking behind me than in front.
What I think I’m seeing is red and yellow and glowing but that’s just not registering. After the third little molten lump spits out from under my car I begin to find ways to justify that this just can’t be what I’m seeing – flames and lava. I’m thinking the car is still running so it can’t be. The engine sounds fine; I think… what I can hear through this blasted wind. Then the lumps start getting bigger. I’m definitely looking at hunks of car, heated to such a degree that they’re melting and dripping on to the road and staying lit in this frigid, wind battered moonscape.
I determine it best to pull over.
With great trepidation, armed with a hand towel and bottle of water, I attempt to slowly lift the hood. At about the half way mark the gale whips the hood from my hands and tugs it to its full extension with a grunt and a waddle from the old girl. I look down to see an AC compressor fully engulfed and dripping molten pot medal to the pavement. It’s belt a rubbery gelatinous spaghetti like substance still being tugged at by rest of the pulley system – the communication center of my engine and torque. I realize that against my request, the mechanics who tuned my car for this adventure have replaced a non-existent belt. And now, I clearly know why the seller was so adamant about NOT doing that.
After about 10 minutes of staring, wishing I had a camera, I decide I simply need to cut the belt. I trade my water bottle for the butter knife I’ve been using to slice sharp Vermont cheddar for my toast points and boredom. I’m sawing back and forth, back and forth and seem to be making no progress. The knife is covered in black smoking goo and getting hot fast.
The wind is so loud, I’m rather startled when a head pops around the hood. The cherub-like face of a boy roughly 10, toe-headed who recently finished off something either chocolate or muddy is peering at me. It’s the son of a very kind local farmer, stopped to see how he may help. I’d not been having much luck with that butter knife but when the boy peeped his head around, I lost hold of it all together. It is now whirring incessantly around my compressor clacking and batting my engine with a cacophony that actually exceeds the howling wind. The man tries to talk and it’s pointless. He looks at the situation, offers a few hand signals to his son, flips the lid off a leather pouch at his hip, whips out and deploys a switchblade so quickly I’m more amazed than frightened. He rather deftly reaches in, slices the belt in two, walks around, turns my engine off and takes the towel his son has soaked in gasoline and wipes his blade clean. All as though this is a regular occurrence on the Wyoming plateau.
I will never know why I didn’t think to turn the engine off. I was just so afraid of being stranding out there and even though the problem proved to have nothing to do with the performance of my engine, the car did cost only $200 and I couldn’t be sure.
After a shared thermos of coffee and some talk of weather in a well-insulated, toasty warm F250, I was on my way and fearless!
But I digress. Back to my dear friend. There are many stories I could share with you and if I did them justice, you would laugh and cry aloud but I want to share just one… well a weave of one, it’s the best I can do.
San Francisco is expensive and I showed up broke. I went looking for work, armed with resumes my second day there and was glad to land a job my forth or so. It was a day gig, slinging food and drink to suites downtown. Our attire, the penguin. It was decent money, not great but I could pick up $100+ in four hours and things were looking up. Jan, my friend had a great job at popular, high volume place and as usual had made herself invaluable. They had very little turn over and even though I was excellent at what I did by Denver standards, I was one of the heard in SF and I had a lot to learn about wine. So, I set out to learn.
I think if evaluated, my mother would have been termed bi-polar. I had many terms for her in my youth and young adulthood. That was not one of them. My mother was, among other things, a letter writer. She worshipped the written word and valued a well-turned phrase to the point of piety. And she wielded a mighty pen. I’d been getting regular letters from her. She was in another of her tailspins; depressed to the point morose and blaming… me. For letting it happen and for letting it continue.
Jan came home one afternoon as I was reading one such letter. As I was wiping tears and recomposing poorly, she asked what the matter was. I tossed it of as just another letter from my mom and began to shuffle my belongings away. Jan changed cloths and returned with a glass of wine. She sat near me, put her hand on my shoulder and gently told me that every time I got a letter from my mother, I seemed to spend days recovering. She didn’t understand this and asked if she could read one of them. I hesitated greatly. I had a whole pile. I’d been collecting them my whole life it seemed. They spanned many years. My justification for keeping such hurtful mail I claimed was that they were so well written. It took me years to understand that it was my mirror to who I thought I was. An ongoing written testimonial by the dearest person to me, a memorial of my faults, my weaknesses and my shame. Of course, none of it was true. My mother’s assessment of me started long before I’d had an opportunity be anything other than a wondrous child. But children only know what we are taught. And then we get taller.
I gave the letter to Jan and immediately began to offer disclaimers; she was not well, she was depressed, she was not suited to single life, Denver was a terrible place with too much sun. Jan just read. She turned page after page. Then she cried. Then she held my hand quietly for a very long time. Then she hugged me, wouldn’t let go, and began to tell me how real mothers are. Then she got me a glass of wine and suggested we burn them all.
The flurry of emotions reminded me of those Wyoming plains; vast, expansive and intimidating. As my emotions had always done that to me, I knew what to do. I moved them aside and acquiesced hoping to be loved unconditionally. How’s that for a living oxymoron? I attempted to create the conditions under which I thought I could be unconditionally loved.
Jan was right. And had I had better training at this journey life, I would have taken the opportunity to purge and resurrect myself. I did not. Instead, I found myself quietly resenting her knowledge of my ugly and embarrassing childhood and youth. I found her care begrudging and bothersome. And I found myself, once again, doing just enough to scrape by and not a stitch more. I couldn’t prove my mother wrong after all. I would work my 4 hours, get my nails done and hit the bars. I knew every happy hour from our house to work and when the electric bill was due, I’d let Jan get it. I’ve never behaved so poorly before or since and I owe her an apology. I’ve known this for some time and never had the courage to do a damn thing about it. I’ve even fantasized I’d send her a fat check and feel all good about myself. But there was never quite enough… I’ve justified the NOT doing a million ways.
Jan, I’m truly sorry.
I attended the Landmark Forum recently. My experience there is the inspiration for this blog and most particularly this entry. It has made me realize, after all these years, that I am not broken, I do not need fixing and I have all the love I and all I know will ever need. I have made some pretty big messes though and it’s never too late to clean up after yourself.
Jan, I send this to you with my heart, my appreciation for all you did and I know still do for others and with my deepest apologies. What I did to you was so polar to your treatment of me and it must have hurt besides being confusing. I was so selfish and reckless with your care. I was wrong, flat wrong.
You are a good, kind and playful woman. You warrant generosity from all you touch. Thank you. Thank you for being there then and for being here now.
With Love,
Kat
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