The Left Side

I am moving to the other side of my bed.

For sixteen years I've slept on the side of the bed where my former husband slept. At first, it was a symbolic action: his side of the bed held the clock alarm, the lamp, the remote. I took control of the lamp and my life when I moved to that side after he decamped. For many long years now, habit pinned me to the left side of the bed. Only heaven knows why I sleep so close to the edge of a queen-size bed when there's no competition for space.

I rode 30 miles yesterday. And for the first time ever, I rode through the barricades without fear. Two months ago, I hated riding on the shoulder of the highway—those 18 inches of asphalt between the giggle strips and the ditch felt like a long series of barricades. Yesterday, the weeds were so overgrown I had only about a 6-inch clear path, but that was enough.

Something amazing happened this summer: I started to feel my body, learned to judge where I am in space and time. It is a gift to be present, and I'm taking that presence to the opposite side of the bed. Maybe someone will appear to fill the left side.

Making Waves

Back in the salon days, I went to the bank nearly every day and often worked with the same teller. Out shopping earlier, I ran into M.

She'd been fired.

Someone brought in a $4300 check, deposited $300 and took $4000 back in cash. M asked for two forms of ID, but did not demand that one of those IDs be a debit card from that bank. They fired her for it.

She's been out of work for five months and had one interview despite sending out hundreds of applications. She's 57 years old—hardly prime time for job hunting. She's divorced and her folks are long gone. In six more weeks, her unemployment and COBRA will run out. She has no idea what she'll do then. Even now, most of her unemployment check goes to the COBRA payments.

I should be working but can't shake my outrage—at the bank, the person who passed the bad check, the system that leaves a 57-year-old woman so vulnerable and terrified of losing her health coverage.

Passing that bad check didn't cause ripples: It created a tidal wave that swamped a simple woman who worked hard at a demanding job for little pay or appreciation.

Something has got to be did, I tell you. Got. to. Be. Did.

Slight Shifts

Day after day of biking long miles left me with aching knees. I started icing them before and after each ride and on and off during the day. My right knee popped and cracked with every step and hurt much more than my left.

The substantial difference between my left and right knees puzzled me. For several days, I carefully observed my pedaling and realized I used mainly my right leg (my dominant side) for locomotion—my (much weaker) left leg was pretty much along for the ride. Concentrating on pushing with my left leg, equalizing the effort, helped my right knee a bunch.

Exploring my weakness rather than relying on my strength....hmmmm....verrry interesting.

Next, I considered where I place my feet on the pedals. Instinctively, I use the balls of my feet. The plates on bike shoes (the part that hooks to the pedals) are placed near the center of your foot. I don't wear shoes with plates because being hooked to the pedals freaks me out, but the placement was a big clue. I started consciously centering my feet on the pedals and using my heels more because they're attached to the glutes—the largest muscles on the body. I haven't iced my knees since.

Accessing my true power. There's a thought.

Here's the kicker—I pedaled with the balls of my feet the same way I tiptoe around problems and troublesome people, with about the same results: I end up hurt and wondering why.

Well. Isn't that just a slap upside the head with a big blue icepack?


Photo credit: wagsy2405 @ flicker.com

All Inclusive

Our Saturday morning bike rides/picnic breakfasts have left Mom and Dad without Saturday morning visitors, a condition they do not enjoy. This week, we invited them to join us for breakfast at the park at the end of the trail. They accepted with enthusiasm.

If you were at Blue Mills Park on Saturday about 9:00 am, you saw four filthy bikes and four riders splattered with mud from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes; an elderly couple with smiles that lit the gloomy skies; a tablecloth-covered picnic table loaded down with homemade pumpkin muffins, cherry cinnamon rolls, egg strata and fresh fruit. You also saw eight people enjoying one of the best things life has to offer: a loud, imperfect, loving family.

The bikers arrived first by 10 minutes or so. We slid off our bikes and planted our dirty butts on the concrete. Soon, Mom and Dad and Deb and Meghan arrived by car. We all helped unload and set up the picnic. We ate and talked and laughed, then we packed it all up again. The car people drove home and the riders returned to the filthy trail.

I wasn't sure how Dad was going to react to all the commotion, but he joined right in. In fact, he wanted to go to Target later that day to buy a thermos so he can bring coffee next week. And so, a tradition is born. Mom and Dad are included, and we get a much better breakfast than what we've been carrying in our backpacks. We drop off whatever we've made at Mom's house before hitting the trail so she doesn't have to do it all. Everyone wins.

I love it when that happens.

Got Ideas?

Yesterday my nephew added an element to our upcoming 3-day bike trip: games for the evenings. The towns we're visiting are very small and everything closes early. So, each evening one of us will host a game night in our room.

On your night, you provide an interesting game and a theme-related cocktail. For example, you could bring the game Apples to Apples and make apple martinis. (That won't work, though: I love Apples to Apples but don't think I could drink an apple martini at the point of a gun.)

Any of you brilliant people have suggestions? I'm looking for an off-beat, fun game that works for 6 people. All drink suggestions welcome, too.

Oh, and just in case anyone else wants to whip up some fun next Wednesday—the date will be 09/09/09, an oddity worth celebrating. Our Wednesday bike group is dressing "to the nines" for the night. We're riding the trail in evening wear over our bike shorts and dining on fancy hors d'oeuvres. I'm thinking feather boa and high heels if it's warm and a velvet jacket with a feather collar if it's cool. My wine for the night will be champagne. No decision yet on the fancy hors d'oeuvres. (Suggestions welcome.)

Narrow Gates

Last Sunday when we rode the quad recumbents on the Katy Trail, I learned a thing or two.

After hurting her back trying to ride as far as I can, my sister Deb hasn't ridden for over a month now. We rented a quad for her, and I set out to pedal for her. She hated being carted along like one of the old people but accepted it because otherwise Mom and Dad would feel bad.

So, there we are, rolling down the trail, and Deb takes over the steering. Mind you, I'm handling the locomotion for the unit, but she cannot tolerate letting me steer. (Both sides have handlebars and brakes.) This wasn't too big a problem on the open road, but we had to pass through three gates, each of which had about an inch of clearance total.

As we approached the first gate, I tried to steer us through, aiming toward my side of the gate. Deb pull strongly in the other direction. Irritation flashed through me—I'm driving. Why can't she just let me drive?—and I jerked the other direction. We barely made it through.

As we approached the second gate, I slowed way down. Deb added pedaling to her steering. "Deb, we need to slow down."

"No, we don't. We're fine," she said, pedaling faster and pulling the handlebars in the opposite direction. I put on the brakes and resisted her steering. The bar of the gate was 6 inches from her chest before I realized how off course we were—one inch before I got the bike stopped.

Deb could have steered us through. I could have steered us through. But fighting back and forth for control nearly caused disaster.

On the third gate, I put my hands in my lap and asked her to steer.

When we oh-so-narrowly avoided that second gate, I ran smack into a hard reality. I continually lament Deb's dominance, her need for control, her inability to let anyone else steer—and totally overlook my own resistance to being controlled.

Deb is the first born: She's been in charge all her life. I'm the middle child: my life has been a fight to be heard and considered equal.

It doesn't matter who steers through the gate. What matters is getting through safely. The point is not to get her to see me as equal but to see myself that way. And let it go.

Let. It. Go.

Still Your White Knight

Quilt night last night. Me in the corner, still working at my laptop instead of sewing. Deb in the corner, working on her quilt. Mom searching through everything, looking for the embroidery hoop that fits on her super-duper, extra-fancy embroidery machine.

From upstairs, Dad hears us talking about the hoop's mysterious disappearance and comes down to help in the search. He asks a few questions about when she last had it and searches logical spots. When he's ruled out all the logical spots, he moves to a general search-and-rescue mission through the large room.

After 15 minutes, Dad spies the hoop lying on a pile of work-in-progress. He grabs it, throws his arms in the air in a V for victory and shouts, "Got it! I'm still your white knight!"

Mom wraps her arms around him, kisses him on the mouth for 3 or 4 seconds, and says, "All my life, Sweetheart. All. My. Life."

The 12-inch difference in their heights is disappearing as Dad shrinks alarmingly, but like a bonsai, he seems to be conforming to a shape dictated from beyond. His now-stooped shoulders curve over Mom's head as though pruned to fit. They stand together for another 20 seconds, his still-black hair against her full silver, and then kiss again.

"My work here is done," Dad says as he starts back up the stairs.

"Thank you, Darling," Mom says as she fits the hoop on the machine.

Changing Minds

Friday was Dad's 78th birthday. We did a birthday dinner that night, but yesterday was the real celebration.

Last Sunday we noticed that the bike shop in Rocheport rents a contraption with four wheels and chair-like seats--perfect for taking Mom and Dad on the trail. We knew Mom would love it and hoped Dad would agree on that basis. He agreed, but he didn't like the idea.

On Saturday, he drew me into a discussion of all the things that could go wrong. We had all those bases covered. He followed up with, "Our meals will get messed up. Your mother needs to eat every two hours."

"No problem. I'm making a picnic for the ride over and we'll eat again right after we ride."

That satisfied him for about five minutes.

"What about the dogs? We never leave Tuffie alone for more than a couple hours. She can't be alone all day."

"No problem. Evan's going to come play with the dogs and let them out."

He finally ran out of problems and, once again, reluctantly agreed to the plan.

On Sunday, he dragged his feet every step of getting ready but eventually got into the car. The first thing he had to do when we arrived was go to the bathroom. Inside, he dropped his hat. When Brendan went to retrieve the hat from the bathroom floor, someone had peed on it. Deb bought a new ballcap to solve the crisis.

After a great deal of commotion, we got all three bike/carts on the road--Brendan pedaling for Dad, Meghan for Mom, and me for Deb. Jim and Liz followed on regular bikes.

We clattered down the trail toward a 25-foot tunnel bored through the rocky cliff. When we made it through the tunnel, we turned to go back along the cliffs above the river. When Brendan and Dad passed us, I asked, "Are you having fun, Dad?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know if any fun happens." The look on his face was slightly less grumpy, but only slightly.

When we reached the cliffs, Dad's head was hanging back in amazement. When we reached broad vistas of the river, he nearly fell out, straining to see as much as possible. We stopped to see an old mine shack built into the cliff (the railroad once stored explosives in these shacks/caves) and he insisted on scrambling up the rocky trail to peer inside.

Brendan and Dad stayed at the mine shack longer than the rest of us. We pedaled on at a brisk clip for a bit, then turned to see Brendan pedaling furiously to not only catch but pass all of us. Sweat was flying off his red face and his legs were little more than a blur. Beside him, Dad looked like he was riding in the Popemobile. He gave each of us a huge, benevolent smile and a parade wave as he passed. We didn't catch them until we turned around a mile or so later.

"Now I'm having fun," Dad said.

Back in town, our first stop was the bathroom again. Someone waited for Dad while we took the bikes back. When we gathered at the cars, Dad held up one hand for silence. When everyone settled, he announced, "I was wrong. You guys were right. This was wonderful, and I'm glad you made me do it."

Dad wants us to take them again in a few weeks to see the fall colors. Apparently, leaves aren't the only things that can change.

Fair State

Nancy took my daughter—our daughter—to the MN State Fair yesterday. They both love the state fair. (I do not.)

When they discovered their mutual love for food-on-a-stick and barns full of critters, they talked about going together but Katie hadn't mentioned anything about it recently. Yesterday, she called when she got back to describe their day together. It was the first I'd heard of this adventure.

Every other time they've gotten together, I've played some part in the planning or execution or something. I've known beforehand and helped Katie think things through or work things out or get ready. Now, they're handling all that for themselves. That's how it should be—I am not and should not be part of the relationship they're building.

Even though I understand that and even though I tried my best to remain semi-sane, something hot and green and scratchy rose in my chest as Katie told stories about the fun she and Nancy and Marilyn (Nancy's mother) had together. I am genuinely happy for her at the same time I'm miserable for myself. I got through the conversation normally but gave in to tears the moment the phone snapped shut.

When I stopped crying, I decided I was hungry and picked up the phone to order a pizza. Something deep inside me said no to that plan. I cried some more while searching the pantry for chocolate. My hands were full of butter and chocolate when recognition set in: Chocolate cookies cannot transform me into my children's only mother.

My one-word text to Jim was an SOS: Ride? His "Sounds good" was a life raft.

Within 10 minutes, I was pedaling furiously down the highway, racing the rain and the pain and the clock. When I reached the relative safety of the trail, the tears rose again. A few stray raindrops and beads of sweat and tears of self-pity streamed off my face, into a wind I hoped would carry them to "where the river meets the almighty sea," that place where "all the clouds are taught to fly" and "in our hearts we'll understand." I do so want to understand.

At the park, Jim graciously ignored the state I was in and followed me down the trail. We cruised back to the car an hour later with just enough light to get the bikes racked safely. He dropped me at home and went off to his Thursday night poker game.

Molly didn't whisper any answers as we traveled, but she did carry me away from the false comfort of cheese and chocolate. She bore the weight of my sadness. She forced me to maintain my balance despite my fear. For today, that's fair enough.

Mud Pie

The rain won in the end: Wednesday night's ride was more like mud wrestling.

Less than a mile into it, we were dirty; two miles in, we were filthy. By the time we pulled into the parking lot for wine and snacks, my legs, butt and back were nearly covered with mud. I even had flecks in my hair and on my face.

It was wonderful.

Liz and Brendan and I rode together. We practically flew across the trail, collecting sprays of mud in puddles here and there. Then we rode to the bottom of an underpass. Game on. 20 yards of slimy mud, 2 inches deep. Our tires skidded and twisted this way and that. We each managed to get through, but only barely. Mud caked our tires, making them twice as wide and three times as heavy as normal. We turned around, skirted the mud, and started back. When we picked up speed on the first downhill stretch, mud blew off our tires in every direction. My face took the worst of it.

At a bridge, Brendan got mired in a muddy spot. I was following too closely and ended up having to choose between hitting a barricade, some broken beer bottles, or the deck. I put the bike down and ended up flat. Laughing wildly, I stood and surveyed the damage. Nothing broken. No blood. It was all good.

Someone in the group thought to bring hand sanitizer. Not surprisingly, the woman who usually brings dozens of white wash cloths did not trot them out. We cleaned up the best we could and opened the wine.

For the better part of an hour, 25 or so of us stood around the back of a pickup, eating and drinking, talking and laughing. We compared filth levels. We caught up on one another's weeks. We talked about interesting trails nearby.

One woman, a speech pathologist who recently launched a private practice after 20 years in a school system, started working with a young child with autism this week. Last week she mentioned how nervous she was about working with a child so much younger than her typical clients. When I asked how it had gone, tears welled in her eyes. "I hoped you'd be here tonight, and I hoped we'd get to talk," she said. "You don't know what it means to me that you remembered."

We talked for 10 minutes about what she had done and what she hopes to do with this little boy. She beamed almost the entire time.

Full darkness fell, forcing us to clean up and clear out. Brendan and Liz and Jim and I climbed into the truck, still laughing. I still had several hours of work to do, but it didn't matter. I plowed through easily, powered by adrenaline and mud pie.

Happy. Happy. Joy. Joy.

Racing the Rain

The sky was clear and sunny when I decided to ride from Mom's house to mine but clouds had gathered by the time I got everything together. Rolling down the driveway, I considered turning back.

At the trailhead, the clouds were thick and menacing and the air smelled like rain. I pushed hard every inch of the six miles across the trail and even harder down the three miles of highway. Surrounded by cornfields and straddling a hunk of metal, I scanned the sky for lightning. My legs hit a rhythm: round and down, round and down. Harder. Faster. Now. Now. Now.

Stray raindrops bounced off my helmet. The headlights of the cars coming toward me flashed in my eyes. My breath came faster and faster. Another mile. Windshield wipers flapped on approaching cars, but I wasn't getting wet. Turning at the stoplight, leaning farther into the corner than I've ever dared, momentum carried me up the hill.

In moments, Molly and I reached the driveway. I punched the garage door opener in my pocket and rode straight in. The skies opened before the garage door closed—crazy, splashing, driving rain.

I won. I raced the rain and won. Victory is sweet.

Picture This

Yes, I should post pictures. And I will. The problem is that I lost the cable to connect my camera to my computer. Then I bought a gizmo to do the job and now can't find that, either. I specifically remember putting it "where I can't lose it," the kiss of death in my world. Let me put something "somewhere safe," and it will never be seen again by human eyes.

My main set of house and car keys is missing, too—has been since Christmas. I distinctly remember putting the keys down, thinking, "That's a bad place to put those keys. I'll never remember where they are." I don't.

It isn't just the camera cable and the keys that have been missing. I've been AWOL from my own life, lost in a depression so thick and deep I forgot about the light. The forgetting was the worst—you don't look for things you don't remember.

At the end of June when—by some miracle—I got on my bike and rode away, I left a mess behind. The table beside the red leather chair was littered with stuff that had been there so long I'd stopped seeing it as a problem. I couldn't actually walk into my generous walk-in closet or see one square inch of the expansive bathroom counter. I'd stopped eating on the breakfast bar because it was stacked with paper that had been there since February.

With every blow that landed over the last year or so—Katie finding her birth parents and Dad hitting end stage COPD and loved ones getting sick and publishing falling apart—I shrank into my head a little more. I'd left my body for anything but the most practical purposes, like walking the dog or carrying in groceries for Mom and Dad. I ate for comfort, searching for something that simply cannot be found in cheese or chocolate.

When what you need is a hug and what you get is chocolate chip cookies, how many does it take? I can't count that high.

Molly rolled me into a breeze that blew away the cobwebs. With clearer eyes, I see the problems and I'm working on the solutions. It may not be magic, but damn—it's magical. And when I find the cable or the gizmo, I'll show you.

Beautiful Katy

Yesterday was not a typical summer day in MO—clear blue skies, almost no humidity, and a high of 77 degrees. About 11:00 am, I hatched the idea of driving the 120 miles to Rocheport, MO to ride part of the Katy Trail. Brendan and Liz, Deb and Jim and I were on the road by noon. (Deb's still slightly S-shaped and can't ride, but she was fine to come along.)

The Katy Trail, which runs across Missouri from St. Charles to Clinton, is the longest rail-to-trail in the country. The guidebook says it's a flat, straight, easy ride. The guidebook does not lie.

The guidebook does not do it justice, either. You ride at the base of 100-foot limestone cliffs filled with caves and fascinating structures. Above you, springs drip from rocks covered with deep-green moss sculptures; trees twist out of solid stone, rooted to almost nothing and stretching to the sun; the woods turn primeval beyond the sunny borders. Below you, the river roars and rumbles, tosses and tumbles toward the sea.

In the first mile, we spent as much time taking pictures as pedaling.

I've hiked and biked and explored a lot of North America in the last 15 years. I've been in more majestic places, more breathtaking, but haven't seen much that's flat-out prettier than the Katy Trail from Rocheport to McBaine, MO. If the weather and circumstances are with me, I'm going back next Sunday to ride the opposite direction. We hear you travel through a 250-foot tunnel bored into the hills.

Last night I dreamed I was back riding that narrow ribbon between earth and water—a flying dream, really. It had that same fearless power, the thrilling freedom, the effortless rush. The thing is, this dream is real and the feeling waits for me on the Katy Trail.

Destinations

Friday night we rode 11 miles to a favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner.

Saturday morning we rode 10 miles carrying a picnic breakfast--fruit and nuts and mini-muffins I baked at dawn.

Today we're riding 22 miles, stopping for lunch at the 11 mile mark.

Do you think our destinations be the reason I'm not losing much weight, despite all the riding?

Putting the S in Sister

My sister is shaped like an S again.

Deb has a congenital weakness in her back and has to be careful with it. Moderation does not run in our family, and it's particularly shallow in her veins. This means she ends up flat on her back from time to time. Last summer she had the worst bout ever, one in which her head and shoulders appeared to be walking beside her hips and legs—a distinct S. She was in terrible pain and could not get out of bed for almost two weeks.

From the time she started riding with me in July, her goal was to ride as far or farther than I do. When she worked up to 5 miles the first time, she braked at the end, turned to me and said, "I could ride all the way to your house. Just like you. I could do that." First words out of her mouth.

Last year, Deb's son Brendan taught us to play poker. I didn't really get it and didn't enjoy it. Deb, on the other hand, couldn't get enough. That first night she stayed up until 3:00 am, determined to win one hand. She could not got to bed until she beat him once.

That's all I could think of when she wanted to ride the 8 miles from Mom's to my house, something I do almost daily. She was not going to be able to rest until she did it.

Truthfully, it irritated me just a little. And then I remembered a bowling outing we had at the publishing company where I used to work. Every time it was my turn, I burned with embarrassment. All I could think of was how bad I am at sports and how much of a klutz I am. I hated standing alone in the lane in front of everyone. I hated waiting to see what pins fell. I hated the score coming up on the big lighted screen for everyone to see. Every turn seemed to confirm my inadequacy.

When we got to the end, someone added up all the scores and ranked them. Out of 20 people, my score was third from the top. I had no idea. None. I'd spent the whole afternoon trying not to be the worst, with no idea I was one of the best.

And so, when Deb wanted to make that trip, I heard her not wanting to be the worst. I knew she shouldn't push it, knew she wasn't ready to ride 8 miles after riding 5 only once. I also understood why it was so important to her.

We made the trip a week ago Friday. She hasn't been able to ride since. This Friday, she got out of bed shaped like an S again. The doctor said she had pushed too hard and told her not to ride for another week. He thinks riding is a very good idea, just not so much so fast. She's in pain and I feel terrible.

500 Days of Summer

Do yourself a favor--go see 500 Days of Summer. Don't go expecting great art or a lasting message or a life-changing event. Just go ready to laugh and commiserate. Admire Zooey Deschanel's crazy blue eyes and fabulous dresses. Wonder why Joseph Gordon-Levitt wears one pair of shoes into a party and another pair out.

At matinee prices, the could-have-been-cheesy-but-turns-out-delightful scene where Joseph dances down the street is worth the price of the ticket.

Overlook the convenient ending.

Flourishes

Wednesday night is my new favorite night of the week.

We ride back into the parking lot, hot and sticky. Moments later, one of the riders opens a cooler filled with frozen wash cloths.

Ahhhhh.

Along the Way

Twelve miles this morning, six on a well traveled highway. The trash lining the ditches caught my attention. Twenty-seven Bush Light cans, dotted about every 100 yards, all new looking, all crunched in the same strange way. (The implications of that aren't scary at all.) One box from a 72-inch big screen TV. Two used condoms. Eighteen McDonalds cups. Three banana peels. Dozens and dozens of plastic bags.

Pepsi drinkers seem to have less respect for the environment than Coke drinkers—3 to 1, I'd say. Missourians still drink a LOT of bottled water. Someone in eastern Jackson County is missing one brown sock.

Pink Boots Guy emailed a few weeks ago to invite me to a gathering of friends at his lake cabin next weekend. I politely declined. He wrote again today, offering to send me a plane ticket. I declined again, but tonight, as I crawl into a solitary bed in a silent house, I wonder about the things I've tossed out along the way.

Just a Bucket

One black sandal. Set aside and hope to find mate.

Two paper cups. Toss in trash.

Three mismatched socks. Put in laundry and hope to find mates.

Four chrome contraptions of unknown origin or purpose. Hide in bottom of trash and try not to feel guilty.

Five gallons of dirt. Commit vandalism.

9:00 pm Saturday night. I hoist a bucket of dirt into Paula's back seat and drive out into the rain. Two years ago, I dug up a spot to plant a couple perennials and didn't know what to do with the dirt. At the old house, I would have dragged it down to the marshy land behind the house.

Here, manicured grass runs down to the bank of the pond. I put the dirt in the bucket and the bucket in the garage and tripped over it for two flippin' years. No telling how many times I've looked at that dirt and missed my old yard, my old life. It became a symbol of not just how different life is now but how stuck I felt about it all. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing.

It is way past time to deal with the dirt. I drive to a field beside a neighborhood under construction (or at least, a neighborhood that was under construction when things were still being built) and park on a paved street as far as possible from the street lights. I sit for a few minutes, heart pounding, watching for cars in the distance. Nothing but blackness in every direction. I pull the key, open the door, and slide the seat forward. Hauling the bucket from the back seat, I pinch my finger between the bail and the door and bite my lips to keep from squealing.

Three steps past the curb, I dump the dirt into the weeds. Such a small heap. It's nothing. No one could possibly care about such a little mound of dirt in a field that still needs to be graded. I could have done this two years ago. I should have done this two years ago.

The bucket makes a hollow thunk when I toss it back into the car. I leap in and pull away quickly then slow down, afraid of drawing attention. Half-way home, lights stab my eyes from the rear view mirror. I shrink down into the seat and practice my speech: "Just a little dirt, Officer. From my garden." But nothing happens. No red lights. No siren. No problem. When the car turns off, I breathe for the first time in several minutes.

Back home by 9:10. I wash out the bucket and put it on one of the new shelves, no longer a symbol of anything. Just a bucket.

Score Another One for Molly

In the Great Transition, I bought my house in Missouri in November of 2004 but didn't move here until July of 2005. It was actually cheaper to own the house down here for that time than to put my stuff in storage while we lived in an apartment after we closed on the old house.

Some of you may remember that I moved here after buying a salon and spa in partnership with my sister. Some of you may also remember that the experience did not go as I hoped and I've been a little...shall we say...disappointed in some of what I've learned about my sister.

It started before I even got here. Deb called one day and asked if I'd mind if she stored a few boxes of shampoo in my garage. Given that I didn't live here yet, there was no reason not to use the garage. But the next time I came down, I couldn't even walk through my garage. Every square inch was filled with bags and boxes and storage racking she'd removed from the retail side of the salon; buckets of hooks and shelf hangers littered the floor; a display piece for makeup we no longer sold hovered in one corner.

Surprised but not terribly annoyed, I presumed she had a plan for getting all that mess out of my garage before I moved here. I was wrong.

For the first six months I lived here, I parked in the driveway because my garage was still crammed with junk. After someone broke into my car and stole my laptop in my own driveway, I had a slight meltdown and insisted Deb and her son Brendan (who put the stuff there in the first place) come help me move at least enough stuff that I could park in the garage.

For three years, I've been annoyed by that garage. Every time I come in or out, I invest a few moments in irritation—ranging from mild annoyance to outright outrage. When I can't find something that should be in the garage or I don't have a place to put something that would ordinarily go in the garage, I work myself into a fine froth about the lack of consideration and general crappiness of the situation. Several times, I've asked Brendan to bring his pickup and cart away some of the stuff we know we'll never need or use. He always says he'll be glad to do it, but nothing ever happens, and my mental list of grievances grows.

Until Friday. Evan called and asked if I needed help with anything. He didn't want money or anything else, he said. He just wanted to help me in some way. (Gasp!) We hung a couple grids and put up three shelves on one wall in the garage. It was the first time in his life Evan has offered to do something for me without asking for something in return--a real high water mark.

On Saturday, Mom and Deb and Liz (Brendan's girlfriend) went to Kansas to pick blackberries. I really wanted to go but had a previous commitment. When I stopped by Mom and Dad's later in the afternoon, Mom handed me a large bag of gorgeous berries. "Debbie picked these for you," she said.

In the weeks we've been riding, Debbie and I have fallen out of a long-standing cycle of irritation and recrimination and into a cycle of kindness. I bought a bike shirt for her, and she later presented me with a darling jacket. We work out logistics and take up the slack for one another. She picked berries for me.

When I got home with the berries, for the first time ever the mess in the garage didn't look like anyone's fault but my own. From 3:00 yesterday afternoon until 1:00 this morning and then again from 8:00 am until now, about noon, I cleaned the garage. And while it's true that filling my garage with junk wasn't a good idea, neither was stewing over it for nearly four years. Turning a completely blind eye to my own hand in the mess didn't help, either. I don't even want to tell you some of the stuff I found in there.

It took hours, but I consolidated the bags and boxes and buckets of hardware into plastic tubs and stacked them on one wall. All the junk's still there, but it takes up so much less space without the resentment. When everything was sorted, stacked, and organized, I swept the floor and parked Paula smack in the middle of the open space. Then I put my helmet on a peg and rolled Molly to a place of honor. She looks good there.

Beautiful, in fact.