Both my father and my mother come from Fall River, MA, what was once a thriving mill town in southern New England.  They are both gone now but those who lived through the 1938 hurricane all had stories. (I have stories about the Blizzard of ’78) When they told the stories, they were not told as cautionary tales or as bragging survivor anecdotes.

Carefully kept in the hutch of my childhood home were two souvenir booklets of the devastation that storm. Laid to waste were farmers crops from what we now call the ‘storm surge’. . .my mother called it a tidal wave. House picked up whole and dropped in roads, still whole. In those two books was a mother and son sitting among the wreckage of their home. She wore a kerchief tied under her chin, her fingers lighting on her lips, her eyes dry and vacant as if she could not fathom how to move from that one spot. It was 1938, and this woman had already survived as best she could, the Great Depression.

Sometimes I’d look at those photos with a sibling or the best was if my father was around. He’d point out landmarks that we’d know. As a family we’d go to Portsmouth, RI for a few weeks, staying at my grandmother’s summer-house. My father would show us where the amusement park destroyed and what’s there now. Buildings, like the summer-house, that did not get blown away or destroyed by the tidal surge.  I don’t remember his story, it would have been his junior year in high school so when the storm hit, he’d have been in school. (Much like how it was for me in 1978).

My mother’s family story was told to me. This is the story I like to tell. . . The morning of the hurricane my grandmother and four of her friends made a plan to drive to Newport for lunch then drive out along the Cliff Walk ‘see the big waves’.  This was before radar tracked weather. . . they were ladies out on a lark.  (Just so you know, yes, I would have done the same thing).

So the ladies get out to the beginning of the Cliff Walk and were stopped by state troopers, “Hello ladies, where do you think you’re going?” he asked. And my grandmother, who did the driving (my penchant for road trips comes honestly), answered, “We’re going to see the waves and have lunch!” Please note that day started out gorgeous, late September cool and clear and no major hurricanes of any kind had hit New England since 1869. Hurricane were tropical and in the Gulf coast.

“Ladies, the roads are closed and you must go home. There’s a hurricane coming this way fast.” The hurricane traveled between 50 and 60 MPH with sustained winds 125. By the time the friends turned around, drove to Middletown, (Newport, Middletown and Portsmouth compose Aquidneck Island, primarily summer homes and farms in 1938) the edge of the storm rolled over them with sheets of rain and wind. Another stop by police, “Ladies you must seek shelter — now.” So they pulled into the closest roadside motor court with little cottages to wait out the storm.

My grandmother had been one of the first telephone operators before she married. The manager let her use the phone to call her husband. This is what she told me, she got through to Fall River’s main switch board and her friend was on the other end. “Bessie! It’s Kitty Crosson, tell Jim that we’re safe and will ride out the storm in Middletown. Tell him to tell the others.”  The line went dead. . .it was the last call into Fall River that day.

My mother’s story is she was let out of school early and went to the movies. This was the plan with her father as her mother had gone off for the day. She was 12 at the time. Her father had a rule about where she was to sit in the movies. . . go down the right aisle, half way down on the right. That day, as the news of the storm spread, her father walked into the dark movie, took her by the hand and said, “We’ve got to get out of here now.” (They beat the rush!)

I wish I knew where those booklets are now. I loved them. I wish I had asked my grandmother’s friends more questions but when she told me the full story, they had died, but I had met them and remember them powdery, smelling of Evening in Paris. They told me my grandmother had a great sense of humor. Something I didn’t know until I was in my late twenties and she was 90.

So I post this here so it is written down. The Titanic could not sink Molly Brown so hurricanes can’t blow so hard to topple the women in our family.

It’s getting late in the day, dusk. I am glad to see the days shorten which never happened in the northeast. There when the day began to shorten that meant cold weather was soon. . . but before that there are the magical years when the autumn lingered with bright days and crisp nights. Such times make for great apple eating and amazing foliage colors. The stuff of post cards.

There was a tricky few weeks as youngster when I’d wear my new school clothes, heavier material, corduroy and wool sweaters, in the morning but the day’s temp would rise and then I’d be hot, especially walking up the hill from the school bus. Steep hill, even as an adult, and of course we lived at the top.

But then came sweater weather and tights under my dresses, before girls could wear pants to school.  There was something special about leaves changing colors, flaming out before the white and ice of winter.

Here the days get shorter it means less sun beating down on grass and asphalt and concrete. And those solid forms are generous and release the heat back to us at night. If I am lucky there will be a breeze when I go out to my deck in a few minutes. I was supposed to go hear my husband in a band that I like and support. The lead person is an early twenty-something woman with a great voice, lovely and fun.  But I just can’t tonight.

I go out to my deck, by myself, with a glass of wine, and look at the stars. I look at the phase of the moon and consciously remind myself every night that those are the same stars that look down on my son and his family. When my grandchild comes to visit I will keep him up later that regular bed time and we’ll look at the stars together. If it’s chilly then we’ll wrap up in blankets and maybe get the grand-father to light a fire.

When he’s old enough I will show him how the trees at night are silhouettes forming shapes against the navy blue sky. . . or greyish if we have clouds. How two trees in particular come together to form a heart. Or how one looks like Cyrano or Don Quixote depending on the wind.  I will read to him and sing old songs and make plans for the next day.

Tomorrow it will be hot, again. I am a broken record: grandson, heat, food, wine.  . . for a while this month I was concerned that my Celexa wasn’t doing the job and I was depressed. Everything was effort, my heart ached for no reason. I considered calling my shrink in Houston. Then the other night I watched that heart of branches and leaves toss around in a strong wind that promised rain. No rain but in my contemplation I realized my ache was grief. I was grieving, finally.

Not the move to Texas, I do not have regrets about moving to Austin. But since getting here I have had five people close to me die and a number cope with debilitating diseases. Not to mention my own shit. . . but mostly I grieve the me that will not come back from cancer treatment, parts of my self that were taken, not given.  All my life I’ve created new paths for myself and my son. I’ve screwed up courage and energy and did things. I’m not like that now.

Seasons change with a grace that I admire. Austin will cool off after a while. I assume there will be an end to the drought. Come spring (if we’ve had rain in the late fall) there will be wild flowers in fields and median strips and my own backyard. Here in Texas I look down to see the colors, and look up at trees in the quietude of night.

When I am asked to I miss Boston I say: “It’s a beautiful city with great public transportation, I miss certain foods and people. I used to miss a particular stationery store in Cambridge but alas, it closed. I miss the museums and getting into them for free. I miss certain people greatly.

When I am asked if I love Austin I say: “Well yes and no.” Again the high points are food and people. I really like buying avocados at the grocery store and they’re ripe enough to use that night. They are also cheap. I like having two tomato seasons. I like the variety of Mexican food but miss the Thai and Indian places of the north.  I like Creole/Cajun food but not catfish.

I’ll give BBQ a nod of respect because it’s so cultural bound to the varieties in the South, I’ll avoid the meat/sauce/smoked/grilled line of discussion.  Why? Because for me a little goes along way.  Now having good burgers all around town, that’s great. I love a good burger. . .and I can digest it easily. (OH! goes my savvy readers. That’s why.)

What I do love about living in central Texas is riding out of the city into the hills. One two-lane west of Austin heading toward a little town called Blanco, is called the Henley Loop. It runs along side the Blanco River and at one ridge you truly see miles and miles of Texas. It’s a stunning view that I take visitors to appreciate.  I love my friend’s ranch, again west of Austin, within the John City town limits. . .( see post: Meanwhile back at the Ranch).

What I love about the ranch is a magical combination. My friend has worked hard at reclaiming of terrain from scrub cedars so the land is grass land, there’s cattle that roam the range, creek with ancient Cyprus along the side, and how my friend has restored the cabins. At night (with a bottle wine between us) we sit beneath bright stars and laugh a lot.

I love how my husband and I have driven across the state to see Big Bend National Park (so worth the drive) and to see the arty little town of Marfa. We’ve gone through the Davis Mountains and to Archer City. . .largest collection of used book stores ever. Tiny, dying town that Larry McMurtry loves. I love how the sky spreads out like the sky near the shore in Rhode Island.

I love the cold springs for swimming.  . . not that I am swimming as much as I’d like to (we won’t go there). There are a number of them and one I can walk to if it weren’t 104 outside. I am grateful that my house is 333 miles to M.D Anderson, the best cancer hospital in the country.

All that said, there are two places I have lived that I love unconditionally: Portsmouth, RI and New York City.

A close dear friend just moved from Austin to Dallas. To those who know the terrain or the geography of Texas just made a small groan and those who don’t well you may come to understand better.

This friend, like myself, is from the Northeast. Where I grew up in Connecticut is about an hour from where she grew up in the Hudson Valley. We were raised on hills and ever flowing streams. Good Italian food (substitute ‘good’ for ‘real’), bagels that are chewy and deep leafy shade come August heat.

Well we didn’t know heat until we ended up in Texas. We met in graduate school for poetry of all things. It seemed like a good idea at the time and in truth it was for both of us. She met her husband here and I had other adventures. We’d finish up papers, last minute, in the writing center while talking of where we’d been or what we were doing for the weekend.

Back to Dallas, infamous as the home of J.R Ewing and the fictitious South Fork. The way I’ve come to understand Texas is this way: the major cities or big towns, are each like islands. Houston, Austin, Dallas, Fort Worth, San Antonio, Corpus, El Paso . . .each have their own cultures. Austin is ‘cool’ mixed with the burnt orange of U.T. Dallas is shiny red lipstick just applied. Fort Worth is cowboy culture (like Cape Cod is beach kitsch). Houston is patchwork of fine museums, medical wonders and humidity. San Antonio is mestizo: Anglo. Mexican, Tejano, and don’t forget the Alamo.

There is an awkwardness to my weeks now that she’s moved for I know she’s not here and more than likely to not return to Austin. She and her husband with child in tow, will go where the work in academia leads. In the mean time, I talked to her yesterday. Called to say I can Skype now with this new computer. And she told me how she can’t open any of the windows in the house she’s rented. She asked her landlord and he told her that this is the way the house was when he bought it.

We were in that really? Can’t open the windows and that’s ok? Really? And then said at the same time, “Must be a Yankee thing. This being able to open windows”.

Confessions of a Transplant.

A nine year-old child at the dinning table will burp really loud. And then giggle. Usually it’s a boy, or a man who still in nine years old.  Then the child will inevitably (in my world anyway) will say that in Arab countries it is considered a compliment to the cook when one belches loudly. Actually my husband will do this from time to time. Can you see my eyes roll?

The whole point of this is what is considered polite in one area of the world can be construed as rude in others. American culture is not so big on bodily functions. Hence the proliferation of air freshening products, organic -  herbal – spay – sticks in goo – fake breeze.  As a transplant, polite, has been a tricky thing.

My first transplant was at 16 when my parents divorced and I moved with my mother to her home town, Fall River, MA. This was my sophomore year in high school and the town I grew up in was Ridgefield, CT.  These two places are polar opposites, by New England standards. Ridgefield was smallish town, woodsy, ran the economic gambit from old money estates to working class (my side of town) with a great public library and good public schools. We didn’t lock our doors. Fall River is a mill town, immigrant population, diversity of foods and I was an outsider. Didn’t matter that both my parents were from there and on my mother’s side, many generations.  Good lord I was lost, as I look back, but adapted by hiding in the music room and theatre programs. I also had one thing most of my new friends didn’t: a driver’s license and my mother’s car.

My second major transplant was to Austin, TX.  Everything is different.  I have bitten my tongue, tripped over my words and insulted people without meaning to. I’m direct which can be considered abrupt or rude.  I have walked a fine line wanting to be true to myself and yet not alienating folks either.  I learned to say y’all with more ease than I said ‘cah’ in Massachusetts.  I learned to smile in a way that is both authentic yet a social tool.

Most recently I learned I don’t care anymore. “What you think of me is none of my business,” a saying I picked up along the way, also, “Say what you mean, mean what you say, don’t be mean when you say it.” This one is great in marital communications while going through rough patches.  Like I wrote yesterday, it’s a long hot summer and I’m unemployed. . .so I’m home a lot. And alone a lot as my husband practices during the day and works nights. We have medical debt we pay and so the play money for movies or eating out is limited.

But here’s what I don’t get, wouldn’t it be polite to ask me to join in group activities even if I have to say, no thank you?  I used to be included but seem to be invisible now that I am no longer instigating trips to the movies or such. I’m not mad just puzzled. . .when I was in treatment for cancer, there were lots of people showing up. Now that the crisis part is done I’m rather solitary. What most don’t know is it’s not just money but I can’t handle large clumps of people all talking at the same time over a live band. Actually the music part is just a part. . .I can no longer follow multiple threads of conversation. My brain changed.

I’ve waited over two years now to ‘feel like me again’. It’s not happening and I’ve been getting to know my self again.  This is me for the time being and I like her.  I may not be polite in Texas terms but I’m not rude and I don’t exclude those who’ve changed.  And if I didn’t have my friends from grad school these past few years, and newer, yet so dear, poets and writers I’ve met since. . .I’d have been very lonely.

Thank you poets and novelists, artists and felters. Thank you Flash Mob. . .Thank you all, so much.

This week I am honoring my 8th year living in Texas.

I got here on my own, driving my little Volvo two thousand miles from Boston in time to start classes. The date that sticks in my mind is August 18th and I’m not sure why. Anyway, it was the first time I lived alone. Ever. I was 43.

If you’re a mom at 20, well, you’re never really alone except for short bursts of summer camp or a grandmother’s house for the weekend. There I was in Austin, alone. So I painted our apartment before the furniture arrived. Slept on the floor and learned how to not cook for a crowd.

The first class was workshop. . .this was mostly first years like myself, a few second years (a three-year MFA program). I like workshops, more times than not. . .depends on the tone of the conversations. We went around with intros then a bit about what we wanted to get out of the program/course. I looked around at this group, some younger than my son, but that didn’t matter to me. .  . I got used to that in undergrad, I was ‘a non-traditional student’ then.  (I guess I still am. Thought for another post)

In this class a fellow poet, Brad, spoke up about how summer is the worst time because ‘everything turns brown, the grass dies!’ I had never heard such a thing, my poor brain was already struggling with Yes M’am  and Y’all not to mention the variations in the Texas twang.  But to not like –  never mind –  love summer time — what’s up with that? (Actually I gave a slightly audible, huh? and had a puzzled look to which Brad noticed.)

Oh but I came to know how right he is. I also found out that Brad (who looks like a mix of Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp) has a keen mind, great sense of humor and a kind friend. Brad is usually right but rarely gloats. He (and others) taught me the fine qualities of chips and queso with Dos Equis after class and the bargain of happy hour lousy pizza with fresh $3.00 pitch of Shiner Bock, before the evening class. We shared rides to school and back. . .we became true friends.

Now eight years later, two droughts, a few floods, threat of tornadoes, more rainbows than I’d seen in the 43 years leading up to my tenure in Austin, I hide in my AC in August and go out at night. It’s the inverse of New England where I lived inside in February because I could no long stand the snow and ice and the weight of winter clothing. The one thing different is one doesn’t have to shovel the heat only endure it.

And by the way, just so you know, hot is hot. The fiction of ‘dry heat’ is just that. This dry heat, the 90′s and then some, hurts your eyes, dries your sinuses, and after a while makes you feel desiccated.  I have discovered that it’s easier to be out in the heat and stay there rather than the in and out of AC.

My yard is crispy. With water restrictions in place, only my front bed survives, I won’t waste water on weedy grass. . .and we water our new tree, planted before the drought. I’m told the Chinquapin Oak will survive. As will I.

Confessions of a Transplant.