Enough

This is the long version of the story included in Juke's "Where Are You Lately?" writers' smorgasbord, published April 17, 2023.

As my husband, Jeff, and I sip our first cups of coffee, I reveal how every morning I sit there with my toes dangling just above the carpet and ask, "Why am I still alive?" Jeff's whispered protest gives me hope there is still love. 

It's a question my 95-year-old friend, Leroy, would ask until his son's employees planted bulbs in his postage-stamp yard. He realized he was still alive so these kids could do something nice for him. After he experienced the joy of that epiphany, he died within days.

I am seventy-three, however, and I know some perky septuagenarians. So to ask this question scares me. Since COVID forced Jeff and I into a reclusive lifestyle, I've wondered how I fit into this community. Recently, that position hasn't felt comfortable. To borrow a line from an old hymn, I have to "gird up my loins, fresh courage take" just to go for groceries. It's too peoply out there, and they're all angry.

Trouble is, I've rarely felt comfortable no matter where I've lived.

As I review life, though, I am encouraged by the many times I've been able to start over. For me, when a place becomes intolerable, a relationship breaks my heart, or conditions at work shove me out the door, I feel at a loss. "What do I do now?" Invariably, my little voice says, "Hey, you haven't tried so-and-so yet." A new spark flares up, relieving my paralysis, and leads me to the next phase. As I get older, though, my little voice is running low on ideas.

Sometimes change requires moving to a new neighborhood. I'd moved several times within my hometown of Salt Lake City, but in 1978, I hit a wall and hauled my earthly goods to Santa Cruz. All areas of my life had fallen apart. Friendships had soured. I was shocked to learn I had 50 credits to pass rather than 15 before graduation. The final straw came when I tearfully realized my affair with the love-of-my-life-for-the-moment was going nowhere.

At twenty-eight, I had to climb out of the hole I was digging and walk away. I was not pretty enough, smart enough, or morally clean enough to attain the celestial standards of the community.

I was taking a wild leap of faith, not only with a new town, but starting my own typing business. I would need to sell myself in ways that defied my upbringing. While the business itself lasted only a few years, it boosted my confidence and skills. 

Santa Cruz revived my energies. Nothing seemed out of reach. New friends and a new religion widened my worldview. Writing and storytelling ventures soared with opportunities. Relocation brought growth and romance unimaginable back home.

 In Salt Lake, I felt enclosed in a box that was shrinking. I thought I'd escaped that trap for the freedom myth that was California. Within a couple of years, however, my karma started hitting other people's dogmas. Then I met Jeff and the next door opened.

I never would've found him in SLC. We were oddballs who finally bumped into each other, but neither of us was politically correct enough for Santa Cruz.

Jeff's desire to live in Tahoe prompted a move to Truckee, CA. For me, it was a step backward toward Utah. I dreaded the prospect of huge winters. After being at sea level, returning to cold, blustery snowstorms was not what I called progress. In fact, during road trips between SLC and Santa Cruz, I remembered how passing Truckee made me shiver. I could not imagine living there. The people must be as cold as their environment.

Jeff had to drive long commutes just to live close to Tahoe, where his own childhood memories shone brightly. He wanted to live like his older siblings who owned second homes on the lake. While Truckee was only the drive-through town to his dream, it was close enough he could see it from there.

Over the years, he rarely spent much time in his mountain home. As his life became a nightmare, I found a rich mother lode of writers that spurred me to produce my first books and stretch my abilities. I learned a lot from them as long as I ignored the aura of "smug sophistication" that edged on hostility.

Thus, the weirdness returned. Joining the local community became a dance along the fringes. With the flood of second homeowners from the cities, any newcomer was suspect. One event had us on one side of the room and the locals on the other, staring at us like a herd of cows facing a pair of wolves. Clearly, we weren't urbane or rural enough for this polarized community. We stood in some awkward middle ground.

While aspects of these environments failed, each time something ended, something else would take its place. Soon an escape route appeared. We moved "off the hill," so to speak, and bought an acre property in Minden, NV.

Jeff chafed at the limitations imposed on growing vegetables and following other interests. He wanted the freedom of an HOA-free neighborhood.

Jeff's father had introduced us to the agrarian paradise of Carson Valley. During one Sunday drive, Jeff said, "I'd like to have a little ranch over here or maybe over there."

He wanted desperately to produce most of our food and maybe even have chickens and bees. He wanted a place where he could achieve anything he had the strength and energy to do. Truckee wasn't the place.

"We'd better do this now while we're still young enough to make it happen," I told Jeff. I was sixty at the time and he was fifty-two. Old age was creeping into my bones while he still had the vigor of a young man.

The change in venue brought friends and activities to push us through the next decade. Jeff was in heaven, especially when he replaced the corporate job with one with the State. He plowed up the lawn for vegetable gardens, installed a chicken coop and bee hives. And, at last, he was able to erect amateur radio antennas without worrying what the neighbors would think. They all had their own noisy stuff going on in their yards.

I never imagined I'd earn a ham radio license, host nets, and follow riders on the Pony Express Re-ride. New friends taught me how to make quilts, improve my knitting, and, dare I say it, shoot a Colt .45 in cowboy fast-draw fashion. The quilters even talked about the pistols and concealed carry handbags their husbands gave them for Christmas. It was cultural whiplash.

Right on schedule, the intensity of people's politics slammed against mine. I had no idea I was a socialist. I could've sworn I was a devout centrist - my butt wedged on that fence so tight I could pull my feet out of the slop on both sides.

Since I did not grow up in a military milieu, all the various flags and banners gave me the same discomfort as bumper stickers in Santa Cruz. Despite what it states on my birth certificate, I soon realized I was not American enough.

We still live on Rancho Pequeño, but I've disengaged from the hams, the preppers, and the Yankee-Doodle 'mercans. I dangle my legs over the edge of the bed each morning, wondering what else is left for me. After a cup of coffee and a stimulating conversation with Jeff, I settle into my comfortable Internet community that I can unfriend without leaving my commodious barcalounger. All my favorite activities can be done in that chair.

Sometimes it feels like I've left a trail of wreckage, dabbling here and there without accomplishing anything. Then I look more carefully at the scope of what seventy-three years has rendered. As a professional dilettante, I've had lots of short careers that served others. Each fulfilled a yearning as well as a purpose.

While I bemoan my fragmented trajectory, it's gratifying to see the wonderful give-and-take between people. Even when we outgrow each other, we learn so much and those lessons accumulate to pass to the next generation when we become elders of the tribe.

I won't waste energy regretting my nomadic track? I like where my choices led me. Sometimes, memories of my former self make me cringe. Then I remember that Facebook meme that reminds me, though she's gone, my old Self brought me HERE.

And maybe, just maybe, this isn't my final landing place after all.

My father-in-law holed up in his darkened house, reading western novels and complaining about his exes for decades. Then, at eighty-five, he met Betty, who moved in and dragged him along on her good-time trips and outings. His daughters worried he was spending all his money, but those last five years were his best.

When I told my daughter about my feelings of mortality, she cried, "Mom, you have to live long enough to help me raise this little boy here!" Okay, challenge accepted. She demanded I hang in there until he graduates from high school.

So, I'd better brush up on some old skills to share with him. And I have so much to learn from him. There will come a time when he'll think Gani Sue is just too uncool. For now, though, his little smile tells me I'm enough.

Synopsis of "Enough"

Since COVID forced Jeff and I into a reclusive lifestyle, I've wondered how I fit into the community. Recently, that position hasn't felt comfortable. Trouble is, I've rarely felt comfortable no matter where I've lived.

When a place became intolerable, a relationship broke my heart, or conditions at work shoved me out the door, I felt at a loss. Invariably, my little voice would say, "Hey, you haven't tried so-and-so yet." A new spark would flare up, relieving my paralysis, and lead me to the next phase.

In 1978, the wall I'd hit in my hometown of Salt Lake City pushed me to haul my earthly goods to Santa Cruz. All areas of my life were falling apart. I was not pretty enough, smart enough, or morally clean enough to attain the celestial standards of the community.

Within a couple of years in Santa Cruz, however, my karma started hitting other people's dogmas. Then I met Jeff and the next door opened. We were soul mates; but neither of us was politically correct enough for Santa Cruz.

Jeff wanted to move to Truckee, CA. For me, it was a step backward. I remembered how driving past Truckee on I-80 made me shiver. I could not imagine living there. The people must be as cold as their environment. Yet, I found a rich mother lode of writers who spurred me to stretch my abilities. I learned a lot from them as long as I ignored the "cool sophistication" that edged on hostility.

Thus, the weirdness returned. While aspects of these environments failed, each time something ended, something else would take its place. Soon an escape route appeared. We moved "off the hill," to an acre property in Minden, NV. Right on schedule, the intensity of people's beliefs slammed against mine. I soon realized I was not American enough.

Sometimes it feels like I've left a trail of wreckage, dabbling in stuff here and there without accomplishing anything. While I bemoan my fragmented trajectory, I won't waste energy regretting my nomadic track? I like where my choices led me because a new pathway has been revealed. I have 73 years of lessons to share with my new grandson. I know the time will come when he will think I'll totally uncool, but for now his smile tells me I'm enough right now.