Tuesday Morning Ramblings.  9/25/2012

Today, I'm taking a break and relaxing.  My feet and ankles have been quite swollen and I knew I'd have to take a diuretic eventually, and today must be the day. I guess I'm lucky that it  is one of very few side effects I've been forced to live with after the surgeries.   It was good to take a morning nap after eating beyond sating at the world food breakfast buffet at the hotel.  It is an amazing spread, made even more incredible by the fact that a simple hint of desire for anything beyond what is available will send a waiter to the kitchen to hunt down almost anything.  Jeremy says that a young busboy has taken a liking to me, and waits on my beck and call as soon as we arrive.  I don't think it's much more then I've treated him like an equal human being and enjoy talking to him.  He has finished his first year of hotel management training, and is very fortunate to work at the Leela Palace Hotel.  He reminds me a lot of one of a very motivated young man I know in the states who is working hard to overcome life circumstance in a way that most Americans never have to, I would expect this kind of determination is much more common here in India then in the US.  So, he brings me Masala tea that he brews for me each morning, and asks about things that I've forgotten I've even mentioned from days before.  Jeremy smiles the whole time as he sips his black coffee (he is never offered the Masala tea) and is happy that in this patriarchal society, where the doors are opened, head nods are made, and distinguish is poured upon his American male head, I have found a bit of acknowledgment.  

Commercial Street, Bangalore

This is a country of contrasts.  The walls of the Leela are covered in flowing vines, Jasmine and Orchids grow in the crevices and the intoxicating smells almost cover the catch in your throat that the air pollution creates.  There are ornamental iron gates that swing open, inviting guests into the lap of luxury which can only be reached after a thorough security inspection done by armed guards and body scanners.  There are many important people that stay at this hotel, and security is top notch, but that also means there are government officials that drive by the crippled woman on the street, clothes so tread bare they are almost obscene, her bony hand held into the air at the sounds of a passer by, eye's blue hazed over by blindness.  The fleet of hotel BMW's, always at the ready, juxtaposed within site of the Jersey cow sticking it's head between the iron bars of the hotel surround,  foraging through an overflowing trash can, it's teats almost dragging on the ground with burden.  Within a block of this extravagant hotel there are lines of tarp covered shanties, coated in red dust, paths lined with trash that has blown and accumulated in glittered rows of plastic that goats nibble on as you drive by.

  I am white, so I am different, I am stared at, frowned upon, and I am the sweet manna of the hawkers who follow me around every corner. "Ma'am, Ma'am!" is called after me as coconuts or wire baskets or old booklets are put before me for a "good deal, only 100 rupees for you" and the price gets better and voices become more desperate as I walk away.  I tip extravagantly, much to Jeremy's chagrin. "It is an insult" he tells me, for that is what he has read, but I don't see any signs of an insult in the eyes of the cleaning staff that I've given a few dollars to, or the street vendor I tell to keep the change.  The average income in India hovers around $750 USD per year.  Obviously, those living in cardboard tarp shacks are likely making much less then that.  I took the hotel (yes the BMW and the only luxury cars I have seen during my stay) car and driver out adventuring yesterday, and as I do with everyone I meet, I asked a lot of questions and he seemed to really enjoy playing tour guide for an afternoon.  Apparently, most of the people he drives are stuffy foreign business men who don't care that he has a wife, a 4 year old son and an 18 month old daughter.  They don't know that he used to drive a tour bus, 15 hours a day for 20 days at a time, and often only saw his wife 1 day a month.  They also don't know that he pays 5000rp per month for his 2 bedroom flat, which is the equivalent of $100 US dollars, and although it is hard to live somewhere so expensive, he considers himself very lucky.  I tip based upon what I would pay in the US.  I figure that if I am willing to give a five dollar tip to some hard working college student in the US, why would I give any less to someone here who could use it even more?  Maybe don't mention that to Jeremy though.  He raises his eyes over the newspaper at dinner often enough as I talk of my daily adventures.  I'm already planning some more for tomorrow!

India Arrival

I'm going to try and keep a journal of my travels while in India.  Funny how sometimes finding home can take you so very far away.  I promise I will eventually fix the typos and grammatical errors but wanted to post it as it was, jumbled mind aside.  Love from India!

First Night in India

I arrived in  Bangalore during the wee morning hours of a warm late September Saturday.  The humidity and warmth surrounded my like a soft baby blanket as I exited the plane and followed the exhausted mass of fellow travelers to the arrivals area.  I hoped someone in the group knew what they were doing because I was too tired after traveling for over 20 hours to even pay attention to the signs.  My legs slowly came to life as my carry-on bumped along behind me, leaving a trail of rumbles along the metal planked halls as I took a deep breath of (fresh?) air and felt utter and complete relief at finally being on the ground and tried to ignore the nagging reminder that in 16 days I would be making the long trek home again.

The smell?  Curry, and cardamom, jet fuel and dirt, all blended into an exotic and intoxicating scent of excitement.  I was here.  I was in India.   Somewhere just outside the odd arrangement of aisles and tunnels and glassed in halls, Jeremy was waiting for me to finally arrive.  I had no problems going through arrivals, and although I was about 12 minutes worried about the lack of my (many times missing before) luggage, it finally spilled out onto the belt and I grabbed it to pull it through the customs clearance before I could hustle outside.  It was almost 2am, the sky had the orange glow of a city that never sleeps and from the cacophony of sounds I heard just beyond my site, it was indeed a city of constant activity.  

I went through one set of glass doors and was immediately set upon by a gaggle of younger Indian men, "Ride?  "You need a ride?"  "What hotel?" "Cheapest rate!"   "Ma'am?  MA'AM!?" "I have a nice car, you will like it."  The English mixed Indian babble fused into a confusing sense of urgency as I looked for Jeremy and didn't see him anywhere.  I walked by the men, and it did seem to be all men, everywhere, still trying to catch my attention, offering to take my bag, pulling out cell phones and holding them in front of me "Here, use my phone to call if you need." as I tried to pull my useless cell phone out of my purse and figure out what to do if Jeremy really wasn't here somehow.  I walked past the drivers, each holding a name card, and wondered if maybe Jeremy hadn't been able to come because he was stuck on a call and he had sent the driver instead.  My name was no where.  I tried to look very blond and American, in case one of the drivers was on the lookout for me(and somehow it wasn't apparent enough), but no one called out my name as I wandered by.  I walked towards the loud sounds of cars honking and the direction everyone seemed to be going, and arrived at a street scene of mass chaos.  The original drivers persuasive techniques were nothing compared to this.  Cabs lined up in a single lane 3 cars deep in a pattern tighter then a jigsaw puzzle and blocks long, some parked, some honking, lights flashing, voices in every language I'd ever dreamed of busying chatting, greeting, yelling, sirens in the distance, jets taking off overhead, exhaust catching in the back of my dry throat so that I was barely able to say "No, I have a driver" to the cabby's that started following me around.  Still no sign of Jeremy, I wondered if there was another street, another exit, another place that I had somehow missed.  I wandered out from the protection of the police men that were wandering around with rifles strapped across their backs to a canopy in the middle of the street so I was able to look into the large parking area.  No Jeremy.  I switched my phone off of airplane mode, and turned on international service, something I'd hoped to avoid because it was $2.50 a minute and God only knows how much for data.  I was tired, and kept laughing out loud at how very absurd everything seemed.

  I felt like Alice in wonderland as I looked at my phone and realized it was pretty useless because Jeremy wouldn't have his cell on anyway.  I sent a message to his office email, just in case, and the cabby's all seemed quite fascinated that I had no idea where my driver was.  I finally made the mistake of saying my hotel was the Leela because then they were even more vehement that I needed their personal services, they could give me tours "no charge".  Ah, I'd read about these tactics and nicely said no.  I decided I would walk back to the building, and find safe haven until Jeremy managed to come.  I did worry that there could have been an accident, but knew if his office had extraction services planned and available, they would probably figure out how to pick me up if anything happened.  I went through the line of cabby's, then the line of drivers, and made one last trip down the row looking for my name when Jeremy walked up behind me and said "hey".  

Letting Go.

Today, my 2 youngest children started school at a new school, in a new town, a new district, in a whole new state.  High School.  The summer's end tumbled quickly upon me and I wasn't ready at all.  I was playing it cool.  Somewhere in the back of my head I knew I was running out of time, but I waited until the last minute, last weekend to do everything that needed to be done.  Of course, I kicked myself a couple of times but managed anyway, and last night the kids were figuring out what to wear and what to bring and as I listened I overheard them talking about the smell of new pencils and paper.  I heard them talking in the adult like voice of experiences long tucked away as sweet memories to savor from time to time.  They spoke of notes I'd hidden in the recesses of their back packs, telling them I was proud of who they are, I knew they could do it, I was thinking of them, mostly that I loved them.  They talked of a tower of special snacks we used to stock up on, that teetered in the closet, a supply of granola bars and little Debbies that would last at least 100 years (and was often gone within a week).  Most of all, they just talked.  I hadn't heard these kind of conversations before,  it seems when I am there to be a willing referee they put me to use and squabble and argue and generally fight and seem to do all things to make me crazy.  Now I wonder how much of the show is for my benefit?

First day of school 2012

Can they see the sense of loss I feel sometimes now that my family has all grown older?  How I struggle to find purpose when there aren't toddlers to chase, diapers to change, huge family dinners to cook?   And if indeed that is the case- I think they need even more letting go because it is in those moments that the fear of falling, fear of failing on their own kicks in and they reach out to each other instead of me.  Even better then that, while they hold on to each other, they start to fly themselves and realize it isn't me that keeps them up.  So today, while I enjoy the quiet and manage to not get as much done as I'd planned, I am going to try to find solace in the lesson of letting go.

A Light Bulb Moment.

  Today, I plan to write off topic.  No house, no paint (although my hands are covered in primer again and the oil based stuff NEVER comes off!), no walls, yard, ghosts, nada.  Today, I want to talk about a light bulb moment like no other.

There is an old liquor store near uptown Minneapolis called Hum's.  It's a little dilapidated, and likely hasn't changed that much in the 40 plus years they have been selling liquor to the locals.  I think the neighborhood around it has changed and rotated from "up and coming" to "down and trodden" a few times, and likely many people have walked up and down it's aisles in search of something.  It looks like the typical old city building, a brick square with a flashy neon and bulbed sign that attracts the locals in.  Yep, there is no mistaking Hum's and it's longstanding history.

What's funny is that I never knew that Hum's was also part of my history.  You see, way back in the 60's,  my mom lived in an apartment above Hum's with her best girlfriend Randi and another girlfriend.   My dad lived down the hall with 2 guy friends, but they didn't know that yet. They were both in their late teens and living as large as you can above a liquor store in Minneapolis in 1969, or so.  The one great benefit to living above Hum's was not convenient access to Liquor though, it was convenient access to light bulbs.  My mom could climb out the apartment window, walk the ledge a bit, carefully unscrew the hot bulb from the sign, and voila, the apartment was filled with light once again.  From the looks of the sign pictured above, I'd say the tradition continues.
 Late one evening, during the age of Aquarius,  my mom went light bulb fetching and while precariously balanced on the ledge of the liquor store, saw my dad standing on the street below.  Some sort of romantic exchange took place (likely involving a "hey baby"- it was the 60's you know) and the history of their love, their we, and eventually me and my brothers, began with them sharing that light bulb moment.  Today, they celebrated their 43 anniversary.  Today, while I was talking about how they met, my mom mentioned that they all got kicked out of their apartments at Hum's due to an epic water balloon fight in the hallway.  Who are these people?  Love you mom and dad!

History. It happened. Here.

We've been searching, trying to "put a face" to the house.  We knew it was old, we knew other people had lived, danced, cried, cooked, loved, and probably died in this house.  We knew we had about 100 years of history to trace, give or take, and that it might take a little while to uncover some of the secrets hidden in the crevices of the past.   Of course, as with every question I ask, there is a complicated, convoluted answer.  "Where is the county seat/county courthouse for Burnett County?"  seemed to get some dirty looks and shaking of heads.  I was a little confused, it seemed like an easy enough question.  I was wrong.  Apparently, at one time, there was a big 2 story courthouse about a block from my house.  Built in 1888 smack dab in the center of town, it was a point of pride in the townspeople.   With sidewalks, manicured flowers and a gazebo, Courthouse Square was the meeting place for bands and celebrations in the often difficult years in the early 1900's.   

So, upon hearing these stories, I asked "So, Grantsburg is the county seat?"  I was so happy to hear that- it would make my records searching much more convenient.  More throat clearing and shuffling of feet indicated that it might not be the case.  Grantsburg was a busy little village, and they took true pride in their towns image.  Situated within Burnett counties 880 square miles, it was the first welcoming wink to Wisconsin's rolling green hills and hidden lakes when visitors arrived from Minnesota on highway 70.  At some point in the 1980's, the city council knew some updating would have to happen on court house square. It had happened a few times before, but it was time for modernization.  Then they discovered the courthouse was loaded to the gills with asbestos, and no one was loaded enough to find a way to pay for the expensive hazardous waste handling in addition to the general updates and maintenance.  The issue was put on hold, and the courthouse was closed, and operations were temporarily moved elsewhere.    

"Ah, so where do I need to go?  City Hall?  The Library?"  I really thought we were done with this long and convoluted discussion about the history of a building I hadn't even known existed.  I wanted to move on to researching MY house.  More shuffling of feet and furrowed brows implied that our conversation was not over.  

Yes, Grantsburg was the gateway to Wisconsin's wonders.  According to local legend, other cities in Burnett County were a bit envious of this distinction.  During the whole asbestos debacle, and Grantsburg's attempt to receive some funding for restoration of the county wide building left it focused on one thing when it should have been focused on another.  Namely, the city of Siren.  Somehow, the City of Siren filed to become the county seat.  They went through all of the proper process according to state regulations, but the old timers I've spoken to said they came in like a thief in the night and stole away their pride and joy.  Taxpayers in the county had to vote on the change, but notifications were only sent to the residents of Siren.  It was taken to court, but upheld, and a new fancy brick monstrosity stands characterless at the edge of Siren.  Of course, my immediate thought was  the irony of Siren's greek namesake, those sneaky little devils that sang ships into the rocky shores, and then realized I'd have to make the 17 mile trek each way to get my research done.  At least there is a dairy queen.

Frustration

I'm giving myself a timeout.  I woke up this morning, made a cup of coffee in the Keurig (thank the gods of java for that little sucker!) and poured a generous dollop of ceiling paint into the roller tray.  I was on a mission to finish my bedroom.  I got it primed yesterday, covering over the 1980's hyacinth blue and purple with a sleek swipe of white.  I wondered a little about the woman who used to live here.  I think she was about 10 years older then me, and had two teenage sons at the time they lived here.  Her husband passed away, and from what I hear she decided to "let the house go" because it was too much house for her after her children moved away.   I don't know much beyond that, and the fact that her husband loved her enough to build little projects to make her life easier, everywhere.  He didn't own a level as far as I can tell, but boy-oh-boy did that man love to build little crooked projects.  Two wooden trays, a couple of L brackets, and a cut in half dowel became beside tables.  A thousand pieces of bits of scrap lumber became the pantry shelves, one stacked larger then the next with bars of wood screwed to hold them towering together.  I'm also assuming he was the one who put in the parquet floor with it's 2 inch thick adhesive and random screws to hold it tight.  I wondered what she thought when she opened her eyes each morning to the purple blue hyacinth and it's floral border, with the crookedly hung ceiling fan threatening life and limb as it teetered overhead.  Did she love this house and it's nooks and crannies the way I've come to love it?  Was she happy to finally walk away from the little annoying quirks  that come with living in a century old house?  I wonder if she drives by sometimes, stopping across the street and seeing us through the windows, painting over the choices she made, and starting our life anew.
I had hoped to sleep in the bedroom last night.  I had hoped we would drive out to the storage unit, pick up the king sized bed, and sleep "for real" in our room, on a bed.  I had to drive to the other house to pick up kids and drag another load of misc. stuff back with me, and planned to paint the ceiling as soon as I got back yesterday afternoon.  Apparently, Jeremy had other plans because when I got back, pieces of the ceiling were pulled off and laying around the floor, scattered like some tornadic  activity had possessed the room and spewed out my ceiling.  That led immediately to my own feelings of possession as I asked Jeremy what the heck (hell) he was doing.  Apparently, the spot on the ceiling had been bothering him, so rather then just using spackle to cover it (as I had planned because I HAVE learned my lesson about old houses and opening cans of worms) he decided to pick at it.  Then pick some more, then peel back a 4x3 foot section of  multiple layers of old wall paper and paint, all in varying degrees of depth.  Fortunately, he stopped before the lathe and plaster because I think that would have involved pulling off the entire ceiling sheet rocking.  So this morning, coffee cup in hand, I climbed the rickety ladder and sanded off the plaster we'd tried to fix the ceiling with, and started painting, again.  I am so sick of painting ceilings.   So, for now, I am waiting for the paint to dry and my frustration to simmer down.  Maybe I will spend some time working on the house genealogy/history....do I know how to have a good time or what?

The Hard Way

I have a terrible habit of thinking that I can do everything.  I have proven to myself again and again over the course of the last month that this is true, and also proven that it is only true to a certain degree, like the degree where you are laying on the freshly sanded 5 times over hardwood floors, groaning, certain that your life will end looking at that very ceiling.  With dogs licking your feet.  Everything around here seems to involve dogs licking your feet.  Ew.
So, I have learned some valuable lessons in the last month.
    Lesson 1- Rent the expensive, multi-rotational pad sander, not the cheap drum sander.  If you think you need it for 1 day, rent it for 2.
    Lesson 2-  Perfection is something for weak minded people who can't handle knowing an old house had a history that didn't involve them.  Embrace the scars, they mean someone else once loved it before you, and probably wondered about you as much as you wonder about them.
    Lesson 3- Do not (ever) call your husband when it is 100 degrees outside and you are driving an old 5 speed pick up with no air conditioning down the interstate with 2 mattresses and box springs bouncing around in the back, just waiting to fly out and kill some innocent little old lady driving to bingo.  Just go and buy the damn bungee's you want and don't ask for advice.
    Lesson 4- You will not have time to blog about working on the house when you are working on the house.  Get over it.
So, with about a month left to go in my hope to move in time frame, we still have absolutely no kitchen.  We have almost completed the dining room- and even got the chandelier up.

We've finished sanding the main level floors, and they look pretty darn good for how much they would have cost had we paid someone else to do it!

We installed a larger, and hopefully more centered over the sink, kitchen window, and that project was one interesting mess!