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malikmata · 3 years

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Notes from a Brown Boy - Kansas Diaries

*Author’s Note: Some people’s names have been changed to protect their identities

The rain was the first thing to greet me when I landed in Wichita. Overhead the gray clouds loomed, shadowing the farmland that yawned in the distance. Distance. At first glance, the city seemed like one long stretch of prairies and cracked parking lots, occasionally punctuated by billboards of grinning injury lawyers and lit up restaurant road signs.

If you spend enough time here amid the crumbling old buildings, watching the weeds sway in the vacant lots, you’ll feel the slow, inevitable creep of dread or something like it.

It’s easy to feel lonely here.

But, if you’re receptive enough, you’ll run into many friendly folks. Sometimes too friendly.

For example: During my first week, I went to Freddy’s, a local fast food chain, and ordered a crispy chicken sandwich with fries. The cashier, a young woman with glasses and short blonde hair, suddenly started confessing her fear that her 8-year old chihuahua wouldn’t live a long life.

“I still think of him as a teenager,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s a chihuahua. They live long lives.”

Out here, in the most middle-of-the-road cities, you sometimes get a chance to show an act of passing kindness. While waiting in line at one of the hip, new cafes downtown, a place called Milkfloat, a tall elderly gentleman recommended which coffee and pastry to get.

“My wife says this place has the best cold brew in town.” Afterwards, grabbing his pastry and coffee, he wished me a good day. Most folks here always do and you better hope it comes true. Because here, like elsewhere, a day is filled with ordinary heartbreaks.

I will simply call her “Tita.” She works as a tailor at a department store, the only tailor working there, hemming and tapering racks full of suit pants under fluorescent lights. The nature of the job requires exact measurements and a keen eye for detail. She works hard, often skips lunch, and comes home dead tired. Her husband is recovering from 4 broken ribs after a car repair job went awry. Nothing can be done but wait until he gets better.

They live in a languid suburb on Wichita’s east side, a street with few sidewalks but plenty of lawn.

And noise. Plenty of noise. The neighborhood sits next to a car dealership. The skies overhead rumble continuously with airplanes and thunderstorms. Dogs bark at anyone who gets too close. A pickup truck blasts a corny country song as the cicadas and frogs belt out their lonely mating calls. Occasionally, a child’s laughter rises above it all.

Gossip is one of the great pastimes in towns like these. Even if you shut yourself up in your home, stories trickle in.

The neighbor across the street shot himself in the head.

The elderly couple that used to live next door got committed to a nursing home.

A fellow around the corner is on his third attempt to grow weed.

A college student starves himself morning to night so that he can save money for college.

Down the street, a kid lifts weights and punches the heavy bag hanging on his front porch.

Here, dumb luck seems, more so than in the big cities, the providence of God.

A man told me he got a job installing new carpets at a friend’s house. He was in desperate need of money, having sent most of it to his mother back home, who proceeded to gamble it away. When he ripped out the old carpet, he found a bundle of $10,000 dollars just lying there. His co-worker said, “We should split it.”

“No, no, we can’t take it.” the man said. He gave the money to his friend.

Sometime later, he went to the casino and couldn’t stop winning jackpot after jackpot. He brought home close to $16,000 in one night.

“So, if you do something good,” he told me, “God will remember that.”

Many people have come to live and die here, all of them wrapped up in the melancholic churning of faded ambitions and familial obligations.

Some people here have found something that returns them to the placidity they once felt in their youth. Sometimes that’s enough to keep them going.

For example:

I met Phil Uhlik, the namesake of the music store on E Douglas. He heard me playing an old Martin acoustic in one of the rooms. He shuffled in slightly hunched over, wearing a blue paisley shirt and brown shorts. He looked at the sunburst guitar in my hands and said, “It’s got a little beauty mark there.” He pointed to a small nick just above the sound hole. “All girls have beauty marks.” He pointed to his cheeks and smiled.

Uhlik started this music store 51 years ago and enjoys every moment of it.

“When you go to work for Boeing, that’s work,” he said. “But this, it doesn’t feel like work.” He motioned to the instruments all around him.

“How’d you get started?” I asked.

“I started off playing one of these,” he said, taking one of the accordions off a nearby shelf. As he strapped it on, all the years seemed to disappear. With a big crooked-teeth grin, he breathed life into the old accordion, his hands dancing up and down the keys. The smile never left his face as we bid farewell to each other.

I wish everyone in this world were as lucky as Phil.

I’m always seeking indie bookstores when I travel. Eighth Day Books provides much needed shelter from the summer heat. The shop was built 33 years ago and used to be located about half a mile east, in Clifton Square Village. About 17 years ago they moved to their current location, a 1920 Dutch-style colonial house on the corner of E Douglas and N Erie. Its blue trimmed windows peek through the foliage of neighboring trees.

When you walk in, you’ll see shelves of books on Christianity and Theological studies, most notably in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. I’ve never seen a bookshop with a section dedicated to Iconography.

Wichita, despite its size, feels like a small place. And with that cramped spaciousness, you’re likely to run into someone you may remember or who may remember you. Here I ran into my girlfriend’s 8th grade English teacher. A bald, bespectacled man with a gentle demeanor. After a bit of catching up, he said to us with a smile, “I hope all your dreams come true.”

The short story writer, Raymond Carver, once wrote: “Dreams… are what you wake up from.”

Wichita is a land that hypnotizes you; it makes you dream, dream of something beyond the miles of strip malls and airplane factories, beyond the shocks of wheat and windswept plains, beyond the doldrums and ennui. But it also shakes you awake, reminds you that you’re in it, that you better stop dreaming.

I’m not the religious sort anymore, having survived the regime laid down by my Catholic parents. But there is something enthralling, maybe even inspirational, when I look at the rows of beautifully painted portraits of saints and martyrs. Such solemn faces surrounded by golden halos. According to the Eastern Orthodox tradition, such paintings transcend art; they’re supposed to be windows through which you can glimpse the divine. They remind me of my grandparents with their judging eyes and moral seriousness.

My book haul for the day:

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata

The Diary of Anne Frank

Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries by Marina Tsvetaeva

Near to the Wild Heart by Clarice Lispector

In that last book, I found this lovely little passage:

…”in the Revolution, as always, the weight of everyday life falls on women: previously--in sheaves, now in sacks. Everyday life is a sack with holes. And you carry it anyway.”

From Earthly Signs, P. 40

According to the 2019 United States census bureau, 15.9% of Wichita's population lives below the poverty line. That’s higher than the state average, which hovers around 11.4%. That’s not the lowest nor is it the highest in the country. As befitting its location, Kansas is right in the middle.

The minimum wage in Kansas is still $7.25 despite efforts to increase it to $15. When Covid-19 hit, city and service workers bore the brunt of the impact. You can keep all your empty slogans like “We Love Our Frontline Workers.” Congratulate me all you want for my hard work but where’s my pay?

When you see that business here has returned to normal--people freely walking around without masks, no longer socially distancing--it still feels all too strange; we spent an entire year under lockdown. There’s still a pandemic by the way.

Loved ones fell ill, died alone, hooked up to ventilators in closed off hospital rooms. I believe every interaction now carries the weight of all those deaths. My family, like so many others, didn’t escape unscathed from the pandemic. My grandpa, Amang, caught Covid. Since he was an elderly citizen (and suffering from emphysema to boot), he was among those considered most at risk. We all feared the worst. Somehow he survived. The doctors called him a “trailblazer.”

Now, with businesses back to 100% capacity, I’m afraid that, just like the 1918 Flu epidemic, the past will fade like a nightmare upon waking. But it was so much more than that; it was an avoidable tragedy.

If you want to know what this pandemic has done to people and their livelihoods, is still doing to them, take a ride through downtown.

Things were already going bad before Covid hit. Back in 2004, the writer Thomas Frank wrote,

“There were so many closed shops in Wichita… that you could drive for blocks without ever leaving their empty parking lots, running parallel to the city streets past the shut-down sporting goods stores and toy stores and farm implement stores.”

What’s the Matter with Kansas: How Conservatives Won the Heart of America, P. 75

What led to all this blight? Frank attributes the decline to:

“the conservatives’ beloved free market capitalism, a system that, at its most unrestrained, has little use for smalltown merchants or the agricultural system that supported the small towns in the first place.”

-P. 79

The same story happens in a lot of places. A megacorporation keeps eating everything around it and leaves nothing else at the table.

The people are left hurting, a pit in their stomachs, and some asshole somewhere profits off of it.

While at the DMV, I overheard this:

“You have a good day now,” the security guard said.

“I’ll try my best,” a woman said.

My girlfriend heard them too and laughed.

“You really do have to try your best in order to have a good day here.”

At some point, we hit the town with a couple friends: Monica, and her boyfriend Will. Both are musicians trying to carve out their niche in a place that, on the surface, seems apathetic to creative pursuits.

It’s impossible to not be captured by their energy. As soon as we walk into their house, Monica, with her dark blonde hair draped over her shoulders, reached in for a hug. Will, a tall and bearded fellow with a bear-like presence, also went in for the hug.

“Ready to experience some Wichita nightlife?” Monica asked.

What is the nightlife here like? A group of high school punks wanted to fight us over a couple movie theater seats. Bored kids play rounds of “Chinese Fire Drill” at stop lights. I heard a nazi biker gang rolled into town at some point during my stay. Regular things like that.

At a low-key bar downtown called Luckys, I met a guy named Cory. He told me how he met a 15 year old kid loitering here, looking lost and forlorn.

“I don’t know what kind of advice I can give you but I’ll do the best I can,” Cory said.

This is the spirit I’ve often come across during my stay: A sort of slightly intrusive compassion. For a cynical Californian like me, the behavior seems a little strange, maybe even a little annoying. But I’ve come to appreciate the candor of it.

“Guaranteed we’ll know half the people here,” Will said.

Right away, he shook hands with the bartender—a high school friend of his—and asked him how his band was doing. Afterwards, we sat down and talked. Talking, after a year of pandemic lockdown, has become a lost art to me. But a little alcohol loosened the lips and suddenly I talked as though I’d known these people my whole life.

Will sipped his whisky on the rocks and told me:

“If everything in this world is meant to break down eventually, then any act of creation becomes an act of defiance.”

It may sound naive but to me, it’s true. I think about the words of the writer, John Berger:

Compassion defies the laws of necessity. To forget yourself and identify with a stranger has a power that defies the supposed natural order of things.

--The Shape of a Pocket, P. 179

Making art has to be, in some way, a compassion act, because it involves letting the environment and the people you meet speak for themselves, allowing a collaboration.

“When a painting is lifeless it is the result of the painter not having the nerve to get close enough for a collaboration to start… Every authentic painting demonstrates a collaboration.”

--The Shape of a Pocket, P. 16

You need to open yourself up, feel what someone is saying behind their words, and hopefully, feel what they feel.

Art, like Compassion, is defiant.

Among the 4 or so Asian markets here, you can find all the ingredients you need to cook up something good. During my first week, I stopped at a place called Grace Market. Like a lot of small Asian markets, it’s family run. A father from Taiwan. A mother from Korea. The son usually helps out when he can. Today (June 23), On this warm Wednesday morning, the son is manning the cash register.

“You’re from California? I’m from there too,” he said.

“Where at?” I asked.

“Sacramento. How about you? So Cal?”

“Nah, Bay Area.”

“Funny. That’s where my parents met.”

“Small world.”

On a different day, we met the father, a jovial man who never fails to say hi when you walk in. He came here over a couple decades ago from California, doing work for the US Army in Garden City. Once his service was over, he decided to stay in Kansas.

“I think you know why,” he said.

More and more young folks these days are leaving California. The high cost of living is presumably what’s driving this exodus. I told him I was also thinking of leaving the Golden State, as much as I love the place.

“Well, a town like this has a lot of potential if you want to save money,” he said. “If I tried to start this business in California, I don’t think I could’ve done it.”

The summer heat can, with the suddenness of a lightning flash, give way to thunderous storms. Speaking as someone from California, whose home has gone through excruciating periods of drought and wildfire, these nightly downpours are a startling yet relaxing sight.

The distant boom of thunder in the distance reminds you of how much of our lives depend on the weather, how small we are in comparison, how we are never separate from the goings-on of nature. The rain doesn’t come down lightly here. At night, it smacks and drums against the window pane with all the force of an animal trying to get inside.

But I don’t find myself frightened by it so much as awed by the combined power of wind and rain colliding against our rickety old house.

Kansas lies in the Great Plains, where layers of cool and warm air often combine into a low-level jet stream. Unimpeded by any natural obstacles on the wide flat plains, the wind roars across the expanse. Thunder growls over the prairie. And lightning flashes on the horizon in a fearsome red tinge.

The storm rages throughout the night, the only source of light in an ocean-sized plain.

“In general, the gods of the Wichita are spoken of as "dreams," and they are divided into four groups: Dreams-that-are-Above (Itskasanakatadiwaha), or, as the Skidi would say, the heavenly gods; and (2) Dreams-down-Here (Howwitsnetskasade), which, according to the Skidi terminology, are the earthly gods. The latter "dreams" in turn are divided into two groups: Dreams-living-in-Water (Itska-sanidwaha), and the Dreams-closest-to-Man (Tedetskasade)”

From The Mythology of the Wichita, P. 33

If you go downtown, you’ll see a sculpture called “The Keeper of the Plains.”

It’s almost 9 o’ clock when I get there, so large crowds have gathered to watch the ring of fire lit around its perimeter.

The statue was designed by indigenous artist and craftsman, Blackbear Bosin. Born in Cyril, Oklahoma, but living much of his adult life in Wichita, Kansas, Bosin was of Comanche and Kiowa descent and almost entirely self-taught as an artist.

When you come upon the Keeper of the Plains, standing tall on the fork of the Arkansas and Little Arkansas Rivers, you can’t help but feel a mix of admiration and sadness. It’s a striking statue, especially when set against the beautiful orange and lavender hues of the setting sun. But monuments like these end up reminding you of the Wichita peoples who were killed, displaced, driven from their land, and left to die in reservations, forgotten. The tribes that once lived here along the southern plains still show traces of their culture but now, you’ll see it mostly as a memory in a museum or as art hanging on the walls of a library.

I learned from a video by the Wichita Eagle that the last speaker of the Wichita language, Doris Jean Lamar, died back in 2016. It must be indescribably lonely to be the last speaker of a language. There is no one to have a conversation with, no one to whom you can confess your hopes or your regrets. But in the video, Lamar, even knowing that she is the last speaker, expresses hope that future generations will know what the language sounded like.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ScPkN_xGRI

Is forgiveness even possible when injustices are still committed today against native peoples everywhere?

Not enough can be said about the skies here, which seem at times so brilliantly marbled with peach and lavender colors that you begin to walk with your head perpetually craned upwards.

It’s this aspect, the overwhelming sense of the sublime, that will probably stay with me long after I’ve left Kansas.

I think again about the nature of dreams. It isn’t such a sin to dream about things, about things that haven’t happened yet, and about things that have happened. To quit dreaming seems too cynical, like admitting from the outset that everything is screwed, that you should stop trying.

During my stay here, I’ve met many people who aren’t so irony poisoned yet, people who are achingly sincere and kind. They haven’t stopped trying. There isn’t much room for cynicism here. I appreciate that a lot.

Farewell to you, Kansas, you and your clumps of cumulus and vast fields of cows and grass. I’ll see you again.

Check out Will’s music! It’s gloomy, melancholy, and LOUD!: https://teamtremolo.bandcamp.com/album/intruder

#diary #photoblog #photo diary #midwest #kansas #travel diaries

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special-agent-fiction · 7 years

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Hoist The Colours

One-Shot, Prequel to COTB - Jack Sparrow x OFC

The plan had been to sail the Caribbean together until they the deck of their beloved Wicked Wench splintered beneath their feet from old age. But the Wench had splintered early and now Jack was out for blood; he'd summon the Pirate Lords himself if it meant getting Her out of Beckett's clutches and back at his side, where she belonged.

The King and his men stole the Queen from her bed, And bound her in her bones. The seas be ours and by the powers, Where we will, we'll roam.

Yo, Ho, haul together, hoist the colours high, Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.

Now some have died and some are alive, And others sail on sea. With the keys to the cage, and a Queen to save, We lay to Fiddler's Green.

Yo, Ho, haul together, hoist the colours high, Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.

The pearl has been raised, from its watery grave Its Captain searches the seas. A call to all; pay heed the squall, Let it blow you home.

Yo, Ho, haul together, hoist the colours high, Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.

The King and his men, stole the Queen from her bed, And bound her in her bones. The seas rose up to take her back, And sat her on her throne.

The rope was burning the once soft palm of her hand as she used it to lean over the side of the ship she was currently stood on. The water was awash with debris from the decks of both ships as cannons blazed back and forth between them with men on both sides running to-and-fro securing cargo and reloading cannons.

This conflict had been on the cards for days and it had only been a matter of time until the ship that had stayed largely on the horizon came into full view and started firing on them.

There was little chance they’d all walk away from this but she didn’t care; her only concern was for the row-boat that had departed from them yesterday and whether or not it had reached safety.

“They’re blowing us to smithereens, Captain!” She turned from the enemy ship to glance down to her first mate and the terror in his eyes. “What do we do?!”

“Give ‘em everything we’ve got!” She called down to him, her hair whipping about behind her as another blow rocked them all. “Jones!” She shouted for the man again as he turned to scurry away. “Our masts are looking a little bare up there.” She nodded upwards. “Let’s make sure they remember who holds this ship.”

He flashed her a grin before turning and striding to the front of the helmsman’s station and bellowing down to the crew.

“Hoist the colours!”

The black flag inching its way up towards the azure sky above them was one of the most glorious sights she’d ever seen and clearly her opposing Captain agreed judging by the increased curses resonating over to her.

The cannons were giving them all they had and she’d never been more proud of her crew; they were all going to die here and they knew it but not one had abandoned ship. This was a cause they would all fight for; the East India Trading Company be dammed.

She winced as a particularly nasty hole was suddenly blown into the side of them and wondered how much longer they were going to be able to hold out until water began pouring in and dragging them down.

Just a little longer. She urged the wood beneath her feet. C’mon girl; just long enough for him to get away.

The ship seemed to respond to her as a cacophony of cannon fire rang out and the opposite ship almost toppled. They recovered quick enough through and the sight that greeted her was enough to make her want to vomit over the side.

“Ready the wat-” The order died on her tongue as a single flaming arrow soared across the small gap of water and embedded into their main sail; its tip dragging all the way through, spreading the fire until it hit the deck with a clunk.

The flames were everywhere in a mere heartbeat.

The sails were being ravaged and fire slithered down the rigging as it spread across the ship. The deck was now bursting apart with screams and the scent of burning flesh reaching her.

The arrow had done its job and the distraction it had caused was enough for a few well-placed shots to breach them completely. They were lurching and there was little she could do to stop it.

The rope slipped from her fingers as another shot sent the ship shuddering and then she was falling, falling from her ledge and into the waters below; limbs splayed as her beloved ship was gradually being consumed with fire.

She hit the water with a back-cracking thud and her last sight was of a ship turning to spill its contents on the other side of the ocean. Everything was too warm as she sank further into the depths of the sea she had never believed would betray her in this way. Her eyes flickered closed as the underwater pressure consumed her.

And with that, the Wicked Wench was lost.

Memories of hands wrapping roughly around the tops of her arms and dragging her from the depths she had sunk to, were fuzzy. But, as her eyes fought against the crusted flecks of salt coating her face, she knew they had to have happened.

The cell she’d been slung into was dismal to say the least. A single lantern hung opposite her bars and cast only a mere shadow of light into the square room, though no light would have surely been preferable as when her eyes finally snapped fully open, all that surrounded her was a dusting of straw acting as a carpet and a threadbare mattress which she promptly recoiled from once she realised that it wasn’t a shadow under her cheek, but a stain.

The salt had dried on her skin and was now tearing her apart with every move as she scrambled from the scrap of fabric and curled into herself on the opposite wall. Her hair continued to drip down her back, further soaking the flimsy white shirt that had been so good at keeping her cool in the baking heat on deck but was now chilling her to her bones thanks to the sliver of wind smoking its way through the cracks in the walls.

She let her eyes flicker back closed as a whirlwind of memories bombarded her all at once. She could still smell the plumes of smoke rising up from the alight sails of her beloved Wicked Wench. Another shiver rolled down her spine as she realised that she was likely the only survivor.

Head bowed in prayer, she whispered a thanks to all the men now at the bottom of the ocean for their sacrifice before whispering a plea for the safety of their departed leader – god, she hoped he’d made it.

She let a small sniffle escape her before resting her head back against the wall and letting her eyes flicker closed in a desperate attempt to escape this dreary cell and her likely execution if only through her dreams.

They say that Shipwreck Island is one of those places that’s very hard to find, unless you know exactly where it is. With no fixed plot on any map, the secret isle was a guaranteed safe-haven for all who sailed under a jolly-roger.

But, to those who were more than mere residents on the island; those who knew the twists and turns of the Devil’s Throat and the wonder that the long-dead volcano at the heart of the island held, it was the epicentre of piracy itself.

“Takes my breath away every time.”

She hummed her agreement; eyes fixed on the magnificence at the centre of the secret cove high above sea level. The wrecked hulls of long retired ships was a glowing, living mass as they sailed through the mouth of the Devil’s Throat and towards the ships docking at the hidden city.

“C’mon love.” Jack nudged her as she once again lost herself in the beauty before them. “Thought you’d be more excited to come home.”

A slow smile stretched across her lips as his words: home. While many called the island itself home, only a handful could lay claim to the cove.

“I am.” She assured him. “But I’m far more concerned about what my father will say when he sees us sailing in together.”

“He doesn’t scare me.” He promised, a hand sneaking around her back to pull her closer.

“He should.” She whispered, laughter dancing in her eyes as her hands slid up his chest to rest either side of his neck. “Because he’ll definitely take your breath away.” Thumbs either side of his Adam’s Apple as she splayed her hands around his throat, she emphasised her point with a light squeeze.

“I’d like to see him try.” He pried her hands away with his spare and gave her a dashing grin. “After all…” He let his hand drag up and down the soft cotton sleeve of her shirt. “…you can’t steal what is already stolen every time I look at you.”

“That’s a sickening sentiment.” She told him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before stepping out of his arms and turning back to the fast approaching city.

“You know, you’re just like an oyster.”

“Cold, hard and grey?” She snorted. “How charming, Sparrow.”

“You hide yourself under this shell; afraid to show vulnerability.” He said, waving a hand at her as she wrapped her arms around herself and refused to meet his eye. “Because inside…” He leant closer, his breath tingling as it blew across the column of her throat. “…there’s a shiny pearl needing protection.”

“I assure you, Jack…” She turned her head slightly to meet his eye. “…if there is a pearl hiding under all of this…” She leant in and whispered. “…it’s most definitely a black one.”

“That it is my sweet.” He agreed, pride clear in his voice. “And I am proud to have played a part in its sullying.” His hand curled at her hip again as they stood side by side on the bow of the Wicked Wench.

“I think simply growing up here played a bigger part than you did, Sparrow.”

“Ay, but there’s one thing I can do that the cove can’t.”

“Which is?”

“Piss off your father.”

He gave her no time to reply as his hands turned her fully towards him and pulled her into a searing kiss just as their anchor dropped and the ship docked with her waiting father scowling on the makeshift dock.

“He’s going to kill you.” She whispered against his lips before breaking into a laugh as he did further damage to his tumultuous relationship with Captain Harrier by dropping her into a dip and stealing another kiss.

There were hands on her again; shaking her awake as she was hoisted from the damp floor and forced to kneel with her arms outstretched. Her indignant cried were ignored as red-coats blocked her view and a pair of manacles were clamped around her wrists. It was only when they were fully secure was she hauled up to her feet and forced from the cell.

“Where are we going?” She ground out as she was pushed forward through the dungeon of cells and around corner after corner. “I said: where are we going?” She growled at the British soldiers; their stoic faces doing their King proud as they led her up through the layers of the dungeons. “Are you all deaf?”

“The Director wants to see you.”

“Director?” She asked, swallowing a curse as she was nudged up a set of stone stairs and almost tumbled into the pair of red-coats at her front. “Such a strange way to source actors for a play; destroying ships and drowning a crew.”

“Not that type of director.” A red-coat at her back drawled.

“Pity.” She sighed as they reached the entrance to the dungeon and she was thrust into daylight and forced to cross the stone courtyard of the fort. “I do a magnificent Juliet.”

She fell silent as they re-entered the fort and moved through its labyrinth of corridors until they reached a set of particularly opulent doors.

The red-coats in front separated to open the doors and with a quick nudge from behind, she entered the room.

“Apparently you put up quite the fight.”

Her eyes snapped from the tables of trinkets that filled the room and settled on a figure stood behind a hulking desk; arms folded behind his back as he stared out to the ocean. She felt her stomach roll at the voice of the man she had being doing her utmost to out-sail since his arrival in the Bahamas.

“I can’t take all the credit.” She replied, swallowing any nerves and letting her manacles clang as she stepped further into the room, eyeing a few items that would no doubt bring a small fortune when sold on. “My crew were magnificent.”

“And yet, not magnificent enough to save their lives.”

“Maybe if they’d been given a fair chance…” The man laughed. “A flaming arrow was cheating and we both know it.”

“But it did its job and now the Wicked Wench is little more than a pile of ashes floating on the waves.”

“You always have been the type to carry a grudge, Beckett.” He turned to fully face her at the sound of his name; the endless blue behind him framing his opulent clothes. “Pity you couldn’t reach us in time to claim your actual target.”

“Yes, my men did report that Jack wasn’t among the crew; congratulations on the promotion, Captain Harrier.” She offered a mock curtsey at his words. “Tell me where he is and I promise your execution will be quick.”

“I’ll take slow and painful, thanks; at least it’ll be memorable.”

“Where is Jack Sparrow?” She shrugged and turned to the map covering an entire wall of the office; squinting at the small flags adorning it. “Where is he?” Beckett asked again, slamming his hands onto the surface of the desk as she shrugged again. “I will have you flogged.”

“I don’t care.”

He let out a low growl at her indifference and she watched from the corner of her eyes as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Then I will steal you from your bed every night and bombard you with questions until you crumple from exhaustion.”

“Wasn’t sinking the Wench enough?” She spat. “Wasn’t killing all those men enough for you?”

“Jack Sparrow is a thief; he deserves to be punished.”

“They. Were. People.” She ground out; rage filling her as memories of finding men, women and children chained up below the deck of Jack’s beloved ship. “If anyone deserves to be punished it’s you. All we did was set them free.”

“Jack Sparrow stole from me; my cargo, my ship and my good name.” Beckett rounded the desk to stand in front of her; eye to eye. “And so, I intend to steal from him.”

“You already sank-”

“He calls you his Queen, does he not?” Her spine stiffened and her chin lifted as he smirked at her. “News will reach him wherever he is, and I will take pleasure in knowing that I have stolen his most treasured possession…you.”

She couldn’t breathe. Every intake of air she took was met with a steel trap preventing it from reaching her lungs.

“Just a little tighter, Miss, and you’ll be perfect.”

She let out a whimper at the words and dug her nails deeper into the chair back she was holding onto for dear life as two women wrestled her into the most restricting corset Beckett had presented to her.

“How does that feel, Miss?”

She straightened, or at least tried to, and ran her hands down the sides of her boned figure. She sneered at the sight of her impossibly small waist in the floor length mirror; it was sick that this torture device was considered not only fashionable but a necessity for every woman in ‘civilised society’. Give her breeches and one of Jack’s old shirts any day.

“You’ll look just like a princess with that waist.”

All she could do was nod to the women as they scuttled off to collect the next layer of her outfit.

She’d been Cutler Beckett’s prisoner for almost a fortnight now and ever since their reunion in his office overlooking the bay of Nassau, everyday had been the same; wake, have lungs restricted in the latest boned cage, try and figure out how to move in a horrendously petticoated dress and then try ignore the two guards constantly at her back as Beckett paraded her around as his newest trophy.

“The East India Trading Company will revolutionise the Caribbean and with a known pirate, who has sought my forgiveness for her wrongdoings and pleaded for a second chance, at my side; there’ll be no stopping me.”

News had to have reached Jack by now, wherever he was, and she just hoped to God that he would stay away from here and get back to the cove where he can lay low for a while. But she knew better, and Beckett knew better so with every shift of the wind she begged whatever cruel God that watched over them to detain Jack for as long as possible.

“Director Beckett had this made specifically for you, Miss.” Eyes fixed on the horizon she hadn’t even noticed the women return. “You’ll be the talk of the Caribbean in this.”

The layers of frills and unnecessary skirts were on her in an instant with the dress’ three-quarter length sleeves encasing her arms in silks dotted with pearls. The women kept ‘ohhing’ and ‘ahhing’ as each new design element was revealed to them but she couldn’t focus on any of it, couldn’t give her usual nod of agreement because her prayers had not been answered; for breaking the horizon was ship with no naval marking on it and a figure practically hanging from the main mast as it stood high above the decks among the sails.

She didn’t know the ship; didn’t recognise the dark wood or the dyed sails, but she knew that figure; knew the pose and the steely determination that would be in his eyes as they settled on the white mansion high above the bustling port town.

“I hope I’ll look as pretty as you when my time comes, Miss.”

“Hmm.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him; her heart was thumping uncontrollably as her corset continued to constrict her and fear gripped every bone in her body. She wanted to knock him off that mast and force the ship around – he couldn’t be here; Beckett would kill him.

“You’re so lucky, Miss, to have man such as Director Beckett.”

Another hum of agreement left her at the words.

“You make such a beautiful bride.”

That one caught her attention and her eyes snapped from the incoming ship to the woman stood before her.

“What did you say?”

“You make such a beautiful bride.” She repeated, a light smile on her lips as she straightened the lace cuffs of her sleeves.

“Bride.” She repeated. “I’m no…” She trailed off as the woman stepped aside and left her staring at her reflection in the floor length mirror. “…bride.”

She was resplendent in ivory; the silk flowed over the copious amounts of skirts like water running down a sail and her bodice was a tapestry of pearls coming together to make intricate shapes and patterns. There was lace trimming her sleeves and the line of her bust and her hair had been coiled into an elaborate bun with curls falling everywhere to emphasise the undisturbed fall of the sheer veil cascading down her back.

“I…I…”

“Don’t you like it?” They asked. “I don’t know how you couldn’t; I’ve never seen such a beautiful wedding dress.”

“Wedding dress.” She repeated; her mouth dry, breaths shallow and mind spinning.

“Mrs Olivia Beckett; doesn’t that sound splendid?”

They’d had to drag her from the house. She’d refused to move from the room once her mind had caught up with Beckett’s plan. The maids had been confused at her refusal and then her shouts and kicks as two red-coats barged into her room, clasped her by the arms and hauled her down the staircase.

She was still protesting now; her arms fighting the hold of the man who’d been forced in beside her to stop her from trying to make a break for it, even as her carriage rolled through the streets.

She felt sick; everything was churning and it was only getting worse as the noise of the streets increased as everyone tried to get a peek at the bride of the benevolent Director of West African Imports and Exports for the East India Trading Company.

“Let me go.” She tried again, wrenching her sideways. But his hold remained strong despite her maids warning to treat her gently lest they ruin the dress. “Please.” She whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t want this.”

“And His Majesty doesn’t want pirates roaming the seas.” The guard snapped. “Anyone else would have been hung but you’ve been saved.” He reminded her. “This…” He sneered at the dress and the cheering citizens. “…is far more than you deserve, pirate.”

She fell silent at that. it was true; she’d been spared the gallows but this was as much of a death sentence. To be cut off from the sea, from Jack, was like cutting out her heart. She belonged on the deck of a creaking ship with one hand on the wheel and the other keeping the sun from her eyes; it was in her blood and in her soul and Cutler Beckett knew that keeping her here with the sea so close but so far away, was better torture than any.

“The seas are ours.” The guard said as the port’s church came into view. “And this is a reminder to anyone who sails under that dammed flag that no matter where they go; we’ll find them.”

Apparently, the church was full; there wasn’t a single empty spot in the rows of pews as men and their wives had flooded in from all over the Caribbean to attend the wedding with some of Beckett’s former Calabar colleagues having made the crossing too.

It made her feel sicker. How hadn’t she realised this was his plan? How hadn’t she heard anything about a wedding? With people travelling from so far, this had to have been planned well in advance and yet it had still been a heart-stopping shock to her.

“Get out.”

She threw the guard a glare before taking the outstretched hand of the soldier stood outside the carriage and allowed him to help her down. The crowd broke into cheers at the sight of her; glistening in the mid-morning sun with her veil dancing behind her on the ocean breeze rolling in from the port.

“Move.” The order was low as she was once again taken by the arm and led inside, the man careful to not show the people that she was being dragged here against her will.

The church’s antechamber was cold as she was forced to face the sealed double doors that when opened would reveal a packed room and an empty aisle.

“Shouldn’t my father be the one doing this?” She asked, glancing to the man who had appeared from nowhere to take her arm. “We can contact him and postpone this until he arrives – it would be the proper thing to do.”

“I doubt your father would be displeased with your stand in.” He said, eyes twinkling slightly as he dropped her arm and held out a hand. “Governor Weatherby Swann.” He introduced himself.

“Olivia Harrier.” She said, accepting his hand and letting him place a kiss to the back of it.

“My dear…” He began as he re-took their position. “…we all know who you are.” He laughed softly. “I was delighted to receive your invitation; I’m on my way home to England after visiting Port Royal ahead of my public appointment and a quick respite here is much appreciated before I continue on to collect my daughter Elizabeth.”

She forced a smile onto her face as she realised that he didn’t know this wasn’t what she wanted; that no one likely knew that Beckett was forcing her into this as his prisoner.

“She does love a wedding and is most put out to be missing one so high profile as this; a reformed pirate and an East India Trading Company Director? Well, it’s the talk of England let alone the Caribbean, or so her letters tell me.” He continued.

“I’m glad you could make it, Governor.” She murmured as music began to play from inside the church. “But you see, this isn’t-”

She was silenced as the double doors swung open and the congregation turned to watch them. Governor Swann gave a gentle tug on her arm and then her feet were moving of their own accord; taking her further into the building and away from the open doors through which the civilians would watch.

She reached the end of the aisle far too soon and with a fatherly pat on the shoulder from Governor Swann she was forced to turn to the priest and try and ignore the smug smile on Beckett’s lips.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church…”

She tuned out after that; not willing to pay attention to the endless rules of marriage that he was setting out before them. She couldn’t believe this was happening; it had to be a nightmare…or was this hell? Had she drowned that day on the Wench and this was her hell? Her eternal punishment for turning her back on God was Beckett. Yes, that sounded about right.

She was forced back into attention as Beckett took her hands and turned her to him.

“Wilt thou, Cutler Beckett, have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

“And wilt thou, Olivia Harrier, have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

She couldn’t speak. She had completely lost the ability to speak.

The church was silent as they waited for her answer but she couldn’t do it; she couldn’t pledge her life to this man under duress. She opened her mouth to turn to the priest and tell him everything; that yes, she was a pirate, but he was forcing her into this against her will and without permission and she didn’t love him! She loved the man with kohl around his eyes and gold in his teeth.

“She will.”

Her head snapped back to Beckett as he stared at her, the priest nodding solemnly and explaining to the congregation that she was simply nervous. They tittered in reply and the Bible was lowered to reveal a single gold band sat upon its pages.

“I, Cutler Beckett, take thee Olivia Harrier to be my wedded wife; to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.” He recited reaching out for the band as her left hand was left suspended in the air. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” He slid the band onto her finger and smirked. “Amen.”

The hearty applause of the congregation was cut through by cries of shock emanating into the church from outside. Everyone turned, even her, as the commotion grew closer.

“What is-”

“I object.” The two words reached them clearly even though their speaker was stood far away at the entrance to the church. “We are at the objecting part, aren’t we?”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed. She laughed hard with her head thrown back and relief filling her body.

“I missed it didn’t I?” The man asked, sauntering into the main chamber and leaning against a pew. “She’s always telling me I need to work on my timing.” He said, nodding to Olivia. “I’m always the last to…arrive.”

Her laugh intensified as the woman he’d been directing his words too blushed a scandalised red.

“How did you get out?” Beckett asked, her laughter dying in her throat at his tone and the tightened hold on her hands.

“Really got to work on your security, mate.” Jack said, pushing from the pew and making his way down the aisle. “With everyone making sure she didn’t do a runner…” He flashed her a grin. “…no one was keeping an eye on poor old Jack.”

“Get him.” Beckett’s order was low as he glared at Jack, the pirate having come to a stop at the very end of the aisle with her outstretched arms still in Beckett’s tight hold being his only barrier. “Guards…” He called out again, Jack’s eyebrow arching as no one came rushing in. “GUARDS!”

“Amazing what a quick tap on the back of the head can do.” Jack mused, picking at his fingernails boredly. “Not seeing the butt of a pistol coming? Doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence in His Majesty’s men.” He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He reached out and pried Beckett’s fingers from her own, sliding the gold band from its place on her left hand and dropping it back onto the priest’s open Bible. “…I really must get on with this rescue; timing is everything you see.”

She needed no encouragement to take his hand and let him lead her from the church, the congregation and her groom too stunned to move.

“Jack.” His name was a whisper on her lips as they stepped out into the sunshine. “How-”

“No time for explaining, love.” He told her, nodding to the unconscious guards dotted around the place. “We’re not out of the woods yet.” He made to pull her forward, through the gaping crowd but she stopped him.

“Thank you.” She breathed, her free hand pulling him close by his shirt to press their lips together.

“Anytime, love.” He mumbled against her lips before letting out a groan at the sight over her shoulder.

“Not so fast, pirates.” She echoed Jack’s groan as Beckett’s voice neared them; the man clearly having found his courage as he watched them lock lips from his spot at the altar.

The still assembled crowd of civilians gasped at the sight of the pistol clutched in his hand and its barrel wavering between the pair. They must be sight, she mused. Her, in all her finery clutching to Jack; an undeniable pirate with his red bandanna tied around his forehead and a belt full of weapons at his waist.

“I was willing to overlook your criminal past, Miss Harrier.” Beckett continued as he too stepped out into the sunshine, the congregation all twisted in their seats with necks craning to get a view of what would no doubt be the most talked about wedding for years to come. “I was willing to raise you above your station and into a symbol of the East India Trading Company’s generosity.” The pistol steadied and focused directly on her. “I see now that you deserved none of it; that you are and always will be a pirate.”

“I wouldn’t do that, mate.” The tip of a sword was at Beckett’s throat immediately as the Director’s thumb pulled back his pistol’s hammer.

“You’re right.” She released her hold on Jack’s shirt and stepped out of the comfort his arm around her waist promised. “I am a pirate.” She told Beckett. “Always have been, always will be.”

She stepped forward and with a quick tug on the pistol’s barrel pulled it from his hold, leaving him completely vulnerable to the steel at the column of his throat. Her finger was quick on the trigger and the cries and shouts from the crowd as the gun went off, shooting upwards into the open air, filled the quiet space as she turned to address the gathered people both within and outside of the church.

“So, let this be the day you all remember as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow…” the sword retracted from Beckett’s neck with a small nip at the underside of his jaw. “…and Olivia Harrier.” She dropped into another mock curtsey, the pistol between her fingers a stark contrast to the ivory of her gown.

Their hands intertwined instantly as she rose and then they were off, barrelling through the streets of Nassau and down towards the port.

When Cutler Beckett eventually stopped staring at the smudge of red coating is fingers as he pulled them from the thin line under his chin he would no doubt release a particularly wonderful strain of curses and all but kick awake his fallen men.

Olivia grinned at the thought.

And when they regained enough consciousness to follow after the fleeing pirates, they’d find nothing but a pile of sheer material that had once been a veil laying in a puddle of mud halfway to the ocean that she’d victoriously ripped from her hair as they ran and let fall behind her.

Obey and serve? Not likely.

“You’re late.”

They came to a skidding stop at the docks of Nassau. Jack was barely out of breath as he greeted the frowning man waiting for them at the wooden planks raised slightly above the water level but she was gasping for air, one hand clutching at her corseted waist; fingers poking around for some sort of relief from the cage, as her eyes landed on the older man pointing to a hastily tied up row boat nearby.

“Who are you?”

The man’s gruff demeanour changed as his eyes landed on her; hair slightly matted from the ripping out of her veil but otherwise still picture perfect in her wedding dress.

“Joshamee Gibbs, at your service.” He lifted the worn top-hat from his head and fell into a slight bow.

“A pleasure.” She replied, her smile strained as her eyes lingered on his clothes, specifically the insignia of His Majesty’s Royal Navy partially hidden under his heavy coat. She turned to Jack. “You trust him?”

“Gibbs saved my neck before.” He told her as the man straightened, his posture one of pride as Jack spoke. “Years ago; on a voyage with Teague.” She nodded but eyed the man carefully. “And he’s the best rum smuggler in the Caribbean.”

“Well in that case…” She held out her hand to him. “Olivia Harrier.” He shook it once, a smile on his lips. “Now, please tell me your plan doesn’t include me getting into that…” She nodded to the row boat. “…in this.” She gestured to her dress and watched their smiles fade. “I’ll be little more than a beacon for them to shoot at!”

“Not to worry.” Gibbs assured her as Jack moved to untie the boat. “You’ll be fine; once you get to the Pearl, no ship will catch up.” He slid his coat from his body and wrapped it around her; the dark material hiding just enough of her.

“The Pearl?” She asked, letting him push her towards the row boat. “Where did you get another ship from?”

“Long story.” Jack said, hand outstretched to help her down. “Gibbs…” He turned to the man once she was seated; the coat gripped around her. “…take what you can.”

“Give nothing back.” The man concluded, hand raised in salute as Jack pushed off from the dock.

“I like him.” Olivia noted, watching as he took off from the docks to no doubt relay misleading information to whoever came looking for them. “He seems a good man…for a pirate.”

They were cutting through the waves of Nassau with ease as Jack’s arms pushed and pulled at the oars in a well-practised rhythm honed from years on the ocean.

“What ship is this?” She asked, neck craned as the small row-boat turned and revealed the side of a magnificent ebony hull. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“It’s more familiar than you’d think.” He told her, grinning at her confused frown as he gave a final pull of the oars and lined them up alongside the ship.

She let her hand skim the surface of the worn wood, the grain seeing strangely familiar to her as a rope ladder unfurled from the deck to reach them. Her hands gripped the coarse rope and she let a smile bloom on her painted lips at the familiar feeling of a ship beneath her palms. She pulled herself upwards with ease letting the hands of the waiting crew pull her up and onto the deck as she craned her neck to take in the array of the tied-up sails blowing in the slight breeze.

“Welcome aboard, Miss Harrier.”

“Thank you.” She brushed at the material of her dress, legs reacclimatising to the gentle rock of the ship as she glanced around crew. “Whose ship is this?” She asked again, hearing Jack’s boots land on the deck behind her.

“Mine.”

“Yours?” She turned to him, a crease between her brows.

“Well…” He took her hand and led her across the deck, the crew parting to let them through before scuttling off to their positions and jobs. “…ours.” He led her up, onto the helm and placed her hands on the ornate wheel. “Feel familiar?”

“The Wench.” She breathed, the grooves in the wood too familiar to be anything but those of her beloved ship. “But she was lost; burned to a crisp.”

“And now she’s here; returned to us.”

“Gibbs called her ‘The Pearl’.” She reminded him.

“Aye, felt she needed a re-name, what, with all the bad blood.” He stroked the wheel, his hand covering hers as he stood behind her. “And so I welcome you, Olivia Harrier, aboard the Black Pearl.”

The ship sprang to life instantly; the sails unfurled and caught the breeze perfectly, letting it push them outwards as the sound of an anchor retracting filled the air. The move from stationary to sailing was seamless, not even a judder rocked the deck as the anchor fully retracted and they began to drift from the cove that had hidden them from the whole of Nassau.

“Now…” Jack breathed, his voice filling the shell of her ear as their fingers intertwined atop the wheel. “Show me that horizon.”

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jillmiz · 6 years

Text

Home, (Bitter) Sweet, Home...

When I got divorced eight years ago, I made the decision to be the one who would move out of our home.

Not typical, right?

No, and I got a lot of hell for it from many people – friends and family – who disagreed vehemently with my decision. But I didn’t care what anyone thought or said. My life, my decision…

And I must add that I’m a huge believe in making choices and living with the circumstances.

There were very specific reasons why I wanted my ex to have the house: he put his blood, sweat and tears into practically rebuilding that house (more than once) and we were able to buy that house mainly because of him. He wanted a large piece of property, which we had, and he cared for that house better than I ever had. I was always an unruly mess since, well… birth. My ex worked like a dog, though, making this house his home and a place that we all could love. Through seven-day work weeks and broken clavicles, wrists and punctured lungs, he built decks, walls, and painted. Our house was his project of love. Aside from that very essential fact, there were other reasons why I chose to be the one who moved and I still stand by them.

Anyway…

It was a task for me to “pack” my belongings, or whatever it was that I wanted. There were two lifetimes’ worth of memories and belongings packed into that home – the one where I was still a child living with my parents and then my sister, and the other which was after I joined my life with a man with whom I had children. What do you bring and what do you leave? Everything had meaning.

We had no list of items in our divorce agreement we each wanted to claim; it was a basic written agreement that we both decided wouldn’t (mostly) apply. There would be no “every other weekend” crap, or holiday schedule. To me, my ex was and always will be the father of my children and as such, he was certainly not going to have to abide by some legal document stating when he could be with his kids. I refused to be “that” woman who hired expensive lawyers so we could go into debt fighting over possessions and money. My ex is a stand-up man and there was no way I was going to make things harder than they had to be. Divorcing someone I spent half my life with was hard enough. We signed our divorce papers and went out to dinner and spent some final happy moments as husband and wife.

Oddly, my ex and my dad-in-law both helped me move into my first home rental. Packing for me was basically throwing random things into boxes and bags – kitchen stuff, some towels and sheets, clothing. It was a surreal experience having the person I’d been with for what seemed like forever moving me out of his life with the help from his dad. And it’s not like they were celebrating the demise of a partnership; they were (and are) just good human beings.

Living alone for the first time in my life (well, aside for my kids who would be mostly living with me because we decided I would be the custodial parent) was bizarre. I wasn’t really sad but also curious how I’d feel being in a home without my parents or my spouse. It was all me. I had to pay the rent and utilities and whatever else. I landed a job as a legal assistant, something I had little experience in, but my starting salary was pretty decent and with my child support, all was good. I had to learn to hang Christmas lights on the gutters for the first time, set mice traps and (sadly) empty them; pay more attention to my spending habits and make my kids feel like this was a home away from regular-home. It wasn’t easy.

When my landlord decided he was selling the house, I was in the middle of some major health issues and work issues. I had to leave asap and it was only a little over a year after I had moved in. I found something quickly and rallied some good-hearted people to help me move this time. I felt so bad for my kids though. Adjusting to a divorce and their mom moving out and then moving again not too long after seemed like a lot to expect from them.

The new place had its perks: it was nicer, closer to town and around the block from my sister. I was still going through a hell of a time personally, work-wise and health-wise, though, but I never really had the poor-me, victim mentality so I licked whatever wounds I had, stiffened my spine a bit and tried to make this new life we were living the best life I could.

Unfortunately, my landlord turned out to be a less-than-stellar human being and the other tenants in the two-family house were verbally abusive and, quite honestly, miserable, selfish, obnoxious human beings. My kids witnessed a horrible excuse for a man verbally assault me. So now I had real estate agents hounding me when they wanted to do an open house when I wasn’t available and expecting me to be home during typical work hours to show the apartment. (Side note: I am currently a real estate agent and I would NEVER behave the way this “power couple” in the industry behaved.)

After dealing with a disgusting, lying, money-hungry landlord and co-tenants who had made living there quite difficult, I decided I needed more stability. I could no longer be a “renter” – I had to be an “owner.” I felt like I was failing my two, amazingly adjusted children by not having a proper, stable living environment.

So the very long, difficult journey began. I needed to purchase a home where we could live and they could live without worrying about moving once again. Thankfully, my ex and I raised two very adaptable kids who went with the flow. Of course, the divorce affected them, but overall, they were rock stars.

I knew it was because they always had a home with their dad and never had to feel displaced. My younger kid sort of thought of moving as an adventure, while my oldest was silently agreeable. He had witnessed the other tenants bawling me out when it was their behavior that sparked the discord to begin with. I will never forget the moment that I sat down on the floor of my then-bedroom and cried because I was just so tired. My son was, and still is, uncomfortable with people crying, but I was just beside myself and at that particular, selfish moment, it was too bad. I was pushing forward with every ounce of mental, physical and emotional energy I had, but I just couldn’t take another life-altering change. He sat down next to me as I cried and put his fifteen-year old arm around my shoulders but didn’t say a word. His silence equated with understanding.

My daughter was little and didn’t quite understand my exhaustion. She told me to take a nap if I was so tired. My son calmly told her that it wasn’t the same kind of sleepy-tired I was talking about. He got it and I was grateful for his suddenly-mature comfort even though it was selfish of me.

After one mortgage snafu with one house, that I winded up losing, I found another that I felt was homey and cozy. I jumped with cautious enthusiasm through many hoops to get this house and the day I closed, five years ago today, I pulled up to my new home and started to bawl. I was overwhelmed; happy; scared; excited. This was our new home! She needed some TLC for sure and she became my work in progress.

I tried desperately to change my ways when it came to organization. I failed and continue to fail. I still have piles of stuff on the dining room table and can’t seem to “remember” to put things away. Laundry baskets remain overflowing; dishes, too. I am still an unruly mess, but I accepted that it’s part of who I am and always was. I am a dedicated mother and hard worker and that always trumps my inability to maintain a tidy home.

But I worked on making things a little nicer: I tore off really old wallpaper and painted; I skim-coated my kitchen by myself and fixed some settlement cracks in the plaster; I got some high-hats in the living room; got a new doorbell – small things. I presented my daughter with a light aqua bedroom I painted on a work night until 1 or 2 am, ordered new carpet and furniture for her new room that I wish I’d had. My son had the attic bedroom, which I’ve gotten him two or three different beds for him over the years, a desk I put together, a memory-foam mattress and a great dresser (even though it was used, but it still proves to be the best Craigslist purchase I’ve made to date). I started doing the unheard of – shopping at Goodwill for work clothing so that I could buy my kids the nice, cooler stuff.

I had to get new appliances, have my huge brick patio-on-patio steps demolished and replace it with standard steps, I’ve dug out bushes, learned to use a weed-whacker, mow my own tiny lawn (with a garage sale purchased lawn mower, of course) trimmed hedges, took out a sink and installed a small vanity, and lastly, installed a floating-vinyl floor by myself. There are many other things I’ve done to my old, 1927-built girl. Amazing how garage sales and a little you-tubing can educate someone about saving money and learning new skills.

I have tried desperately and fervently to create a home for my kids. I have moved eight times in the span of 29 years – certainly not a lot in comparison to many - but the last several were solely based on making my children feel safe and secure in the world of divorce and by far, the most important moves of all. I thought I was successful, but, alas, I’ve not been. Not in my eyes, at least.

I have continued to try to update my home with new paint and I’ve been getting rid of useless things and old mementos that no longer serve any purpose except to be sad reminders of old lives.

But now my “work in progress” is no longer for my kids’ sake, sadly, but only to hopefully pass her along to another loving owner who will work as diligently as I have in to give her a bit of a facelift. When I first got my beloved little house, I cried and cried. I was so happy and proud of this great moment in my life but I knew deep down that it wasn’t going to be my final home. I had a flurry of emotions because I knew that as happy that I was, life would continue happening and finances wouldn’t always be consistent. In my mind, I was on the five-year plan.

And now, it’s been five years.

My children are old enough to make certain decisions and God only knows, I will never EVER hold that against them. They are simply more comfortable in their “childhood” home and they’re living the life as 21-year-olds and almost-17-year-olds should be living. I know there is no competition about who’s the best parent or who they love more, but a subconscious desire to be where its most familiar and comfortable. Neither child wants to make me sad or hurt my feelings and I will never be angry at them for it; I understand completely because I love them.

But the financial and physical demands of owning a home have exhausted me and I sadly have to say goodbye to my old girl. Once again, I have to pack up my life, tossing pieces of the tangible past into black garbage bags and leave them on the curb. I will have to find an affordable place to unpack my life once again, with less actual unpacking to do than I have done each time prior. I will have to find a place, although a two or three bedroom won’t be possible anymore. I will have to find some inner strength to accept the fact that my custodial parent-hood is no longer a factor, even if the divorce decree states otherwise. My Merokian presence of nearly 49 years will dissipate into another past life of many. I don’t know where I will wind up and I don’t know how I am going to survive, but I suppose I will find a way as I’ve always managed to do.

Another chapter of my life has concluded, and the next chapter remains a blank page.

Happy five year, and final, anniversary to my little Orchard Street home.

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