Remembering My Childhood Home

The reality of my mother's death didn't really sink in until I saw the Remax Realty property sign on the lawn of my childhood home in last August.  I knew selling the white-sided ranch would make me cry for days and even weeks.  I felt so safe and comfortable amidst the pillows and fluff in my old bedroom when I visited my mother in Central New York. Now, my visits will either be cut down to a few hours or require that I wake up to the sound of cars and trucks passing my hotel on the boulevard.

I sat in the house alone Thanksgiving morning, remembering the buzz and laughter that came from the kitchen on Christmas Eve. The 8 x 10" room would be taken over by a large oblong table laden with several fish dishes, a large antipasto, my father's spaghetti with anchovy sauce, Aunt Sonja's macaroni and cheese, and a tray piled with my mother's Christmas cookies--chocolate and cherry bon bons, pecan meltaways, soft Italians, sugar candy canes, and many more.

I also remember the sight of my father standing in a trench that he dug to extend the back patio as my mother cooked and baked to Simon and Garfunkel tunes.

The house sold at the height of the Christmas season and I stressed about having to empty the contents of it by January 15. I brought back carloads of vestiges of the past--including mom's World War II-era Homer Laughlin china, myriad doylys, photo albums, and recipes. I also took the Oneida Silver and other things I didn't need for fear that I would lose them forever to the estate sale crowd. 

Selling my childhood home has led me to a greater appreciation for the sweet snapshots of time -- my husband teasing our eight-year-old cat and talking to the canary.  Our apartment, which looks like a Pier One showcase, buzzes with friends and well-wishers during our annual holiday party and provides moments of solitude on lazy Sunday afternoons. The living room fills with light from the east that fades beautifully over an ornate, gray church steeple in the west.  One door closes, another opens.  And that makes me smile.

Unemployed but Overcommitted

I couldn't wait for our week-long trip to Fort Lauderdale to get away from the circus I call my life.  Though I have been unemployed for seven months, I have barely had time to catch my breath between job interviews, volunteer commitments, and requests from people who think I have more time to donate to their cause.

Potential employers who suspect a loss of motivation amongst the unemployed, are quick to test the waters, asking, "So what have you been doing for the last seven months?"  I write grant proposals part time and work at the Saratoga County Animal Shelter cat annex 1-2 days a week. Add an hour here and an hour there to sit on event planning committees, attend networking mixers, and go to job interviews. Our elderly neighbor, who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's, has deemed me as her first contact for miscellaneous errands and to talk about her distress over the aliens working in the basement.  My adult stepson makes several distress calls because he is unemployed and recently out of a relationship.

I wish I could say that being unemployed is less stressful than working.  But for me, unemployment has has meant a fragmented schedule with frequent interruptions and less time and energy for personal hobbies. Looking for a job in this economy is almost a full-time job riddled with energy-draining disappointments.  Working offers focus, challenge and an excuse for saying "no" to superfluous requests.