In Memoriam

It happened yesterday. Butch emailed me that Claude had died while he and Nancy were at church. You don’t recognize that name, do you? But you do know who that is. It’s the Woodpile Kitty, the original Woodpile Kitty. If you visit this blog’s site (woodpilekitty.com) instead of reading posts delivered through your email, you will see to the right of the screen a short blurb about the Woodpile Kitty and a photo of her wistfully looking out the back door toward her woodpile. I thought I had written a blog about her when I first started this blog way back in 2011, but I looked before writing this and, no, I did not. So here’s her story.

It was 2004. A long, long time ago it seems. Butch was in the garage and I went out to tell him something. That’s when I first heard meowing. He had not heard all the time he had been out there. It sounded like it was coming from the behind the garage. So I went to investigate.

Our garage was detached from the house. Behind it we stored all kinds of things: wood for the fire place, scrap wood from various projects, a neatly stacked pile of bricks, various flower pots and the compost bin. By the time I got there, the meowing had stopped. Nevertheless I half-heartedly looked around. There was no kitty.

Oh, well, I thought, maybe it was my imagination or maybe the kitty just left.

For the next couple of days, every time I went to the garage I heard the meowing and every time I investigated. But always the meowing stopped and I didn’t find a kitty.

Butch came home from work one evening and we were standing in the house looking out the glass door as I gave the kitty report for the day.

“I think you have Claude Rains out there,” Butch pronounced.

“Who?” I said.

“Claude Rains. You know, the Invisible Man. You’ve got the invisible kitty back there.”

A day or so later, I looked out and saw a little grey kitty hop across the backyard and disappear behind the garage.

I knew it! There is a kitty back there. I got a flashlight and, determined to find her hiding place, I went to investigate properly. In front of the scrap wood pile I practically laid down on the grass as I shined the light up into the pile. That’s when I saw two red eyes staring back at me. I had found her!

Now all my energy went into coaxing her onto the patio so I could catch her. I put a dish with food in it out in the yard and watched her eat it. Each time I refilled her dish I moved the plate a little closer to the patio until finally she was coming onto the patio to eat the food.

Soon she was sleeping on the patio furniture at night. If we were very quiet we could see her when we first woke up. But one sound and–shoom!–she was off back to the woodpile in a grey blur. There was no way I was ever going to be able to put my hands on her. So I got a live trap from my veterinarian. I was able to lure her in with some food but she was so light that she didn’t trip the latch. She would simply eat the food and then saunter back out again. That’s when I knew this was a job for Butch.

He rigged up a string that ran from the house into the trap. He would pull it once she was in the trap to get the door to drop. I was on watch. We waited and soon she was back in the trap. I gave the signal and Butch pulled the string. The door dropped and the kitty went berserk. She ran around the cage so fast, hissing and growling, that she looked like a grey blur. I was afraid she was going to hurt herself. But finally her energy was spent and she huddled in the corner, her body heaving from the exertion and, I imagined, also from fright.

Butch took the trap with her in it, into the bathroom and opened the trap door. We left, closing the door behind us. We left her in there for several days with food and water. I went in periodically to talk to her and touch her. Finally she let me put her in my lap. Even though she didn’t try to escape, she was not relaxed.

When we opened the door to let her wander the house, she got up the courage to leave the bathroom. And immediately found a place to hide. We would eventually find her but then she would hide again in another place. We spent a lot of time looking for her to be sure she was ok. She never came to us for petting. We never heard her purr. She didn’t even meow. The only way we knew she was ok was that her food and water disappeared.

And, yes, we named her Claude, the Invisible Kitty.

One day I was sitting at my desk when she came in and sat at my feet, meowing. This had never happened before. I didn’t know what to do. Should I pick her up or would that just scare her into running away? But I studied her. She really seemed to want to be picked up. So I did and cuddled her on my shoulder. She cuddled back. And started purring! It felt as if she was saying she loved me and she was glad to be living with us. We sat like that for several minutes before she started squirming and I put her down.

I told Claude’s story quite a few times at retreats I led, in children’s sermons at my church and sometimes just talking with friends. In those stories I always ended by saying that I had lived in a woodpile until I was rescued by God. Since I am prone to wander back to the woodpile, I have be rescued all over again and again and again.

However, recently I have begun to think of Claude’s story as a lesson about fear. She was afraid to leave her woodpile and come into the safety of the house and being cared for by Butch and me. She was afraid until we forced her. She would never have chosen to live with us by her own volition. Like Claude, many times my fear has kept me from trying new adventures and experiences or even kept me from taking action on the more mundane aspects of life like making a difficult decision or doing something in a new way. What have I missed out on because I was too afraid to try? Even here God steps in to somehow work my fear for my good.

By the time Butch and I got divorced–a situation that carried a lot of fear with it–we had acquired another little rescue kitty, Frank. Butch agreed to keep both of them for me until I was settled and had a place to live that was suitable for cats. If I ever decided I did not want them, he said he would keep them. After about a year I starting considering bringing them to live with me. However, for several reasons I decided not to have them and signed over my parental rights. It was a difficult decision, one that I felt guilty about. But, in the end, it was the best decision for all.

This summer Claude got sick. The vet found a tumor in her stomach that mysteriously disappeared. She began to improve but she was old. It was inevitable that soon she would leave us. And so she did. I am sad but remembering how she came to live with us and her funny habit of running under the bed when anyone rang the doorbell brings back happy memories. And now telling you what Claude taught me will, I hope, somehow keep her memory alive.

So, good-bye, dear Claude. You are loved even though you are gone. I’ll see you later in your heavenly woodpile.

As always,

Woodpile Kitty ATX

New Waters

“Mom, the brothers (that’s my sons’ group name) and I had a conference call and they voted that I should be the one to tell you some news.”

Now I don’t know how you feel, but anytime my kids have a conference call about me, it puts my brain on high alert. Conference call means serious business. With Trey’s first sentence, “Butch is getting married” immediately popped into my mind.

“Dad told us yesterday that he and Nancy are engaged.”

“Oh, wow,” I said.

Long pause.

“When?” I asked.

“March,” he answered.

So I was right. It was the surprise I felt that seemed, well, like a surprise. But there was something else. I couldn’t describe it exactly.

It was about the time that I filed for divorce when Butch told me that he had met a woman during his daily walk. I had known then that he would get married as quick as he could after our divorce. All I said at the time was “Well, then you’re gonna be all right.”

As it turned out, we–Butch and I–had several friends in common with this woman whose name is Nancy. News sifted down to me through the grapevine that Butch was seeing her frequently. He even took her to a party given by one of our friends. I found out about this from one of my best friends was also there. It dawned on me then that Butch’s new relationship wasn’t just hearsay or gossip or a passing thing. He was seriously dating her. I wondered then how long it would be until he married her.

This left the question of our sons. Should I tell them? Was it my place to tell them? Or should Butch do that? I began to notice that sometimes when I was with one of my kids, it seemed that they had something they wanted to say but didn’t. I wondered if they knew about Nancy, but I just couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject. This was all new territory. I felt awkward about telling them that their father was even dating, much less that it was so quickly after our divorce.

Finally one day when Trey was visiting me, he took a deep breath and said, “Mom, I think you should know, Dad is dating someone.”

Well, there it was, out in the open.

“Yes, I know. I’ve known for quite a while.” And then I told him all that I knew.

“When did you find out?” I asked.

“Dad told us at Christmas while we were sitting around the fire at the chiminea.”

That was three weeks after our divorce was final. That shocked and angered me. I remembered how difficult the holidays had been for all of us. Why had he told them then?

So everyone had known for months. But my kids did not know I knew. And I did not know they knew. I had told them very early on that I didn’t want them to tell me what Butch was doing and I didn’t want them to tell Butch what I was doing. He and I would communicate those things ourselves or at least that was my intention. While I was surprised that they had kept the secret so long, I was also gratified that they had honored my wishes.

And so now he was getting married. Even though I knew it was coming, I was shocked. We hadn’t been divorced a year and he was already engaged. On the other hand, I wasn’t surprised. I was sure he’d find someone as quick as he could because he needed someone to be with. Nancy turned out to be the one.

Besides being shocked, I was sad and disappointed that he didn’t tell me himself. We were divorced but time and experience had not yet done it’s work of separating our lives from each other. Yes, it would have been hard for him to tell me just as it would have been hard to hear it from him. But, I asked myself, didn’t he owe me the courtesy? Nevertheless, I hoped he would be happy and that the marriage would work out for both him and Nancy.

As time moved toward wedding day, I ruminated over my feelings. It was hard for me to figure out the why of the hurt. Ambivalent feelings moved along like a roller coaster, up and down and all around, looking for a place to land.

I didn’t understand how building a life with someone new was going to be any easier than it would have been if he had fought for me and our marriage.

Knowing that he had already found someone to spend his life with exacerbated my loneliness.

Feelings of inadequacy because I hadn’t stayed in my marriage peppered my thoughts with what-ifs and if-onlys.

I felt like a dirty paper plate left behind after the party is over.

The closer the wedding day came, the sadder I became. And the more the questions roiled in my mind. Why did he not fight for me? Why did he not care that I was unhappy? On the other hand, I was the one who wanted out of the marriage so why was I feeling so awful?

When my counselor suggested that I think about reconciliation, I didn’t want to. However, Paul explained that this was my last opportunity. Once Butch was remarried there was no going back. A couple of times in the past I had considered reconciliation but the considerations didn’t go very far before I decided that I didn’t want that. However, this time I made a serious study of it. I made lists of advantages and disadvantages, of whys and why-nots. In the end I was certain. I did not want to try again with Butch.

Finally, all the questions and roller-coaster feelings came down to this: it wasn’t important that he was married to me. Anybody would do as long as he was taken care of and people thought he was a good guy. I didn’t know if that conclusion was actually true. After all, it was only a thought. Nevertheless, it fit with my experience of Butch and it seemed right, or at least close enough to right to be satisfying. My obsessive brain finally had something to settle on and that brought calm.

And then, as God does, he arranged for us to have a private interaction. It happened like this:

Butch got our house in the divorce. He was going to sell it and move into Nancy’s house. He contacted me and asked if I was ready for the furniture that he was holding for me. I had just moved into my two-bedroom apartment and I finally had room for it. He also asked if there was anything else I would like to have. So we settled on the items I would get and a date for me to come get them.

As I drove to San Antonio in my U-Haul van, I was very nervous. I knew this was not going to be an easy errand. First time back in my house, seeing my two cats, and being alone with Butch. And, as I expected, it was hard. When I first got there we started moving things off of a cabinet that I was going to take. I was putting them on some other shelves in another room. I was surrounded by the things we had owned together and the memories held in each object and in the house itself. My emotions got the better of me.

Butch noticed. “Do you need a hug?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s really hard with you getting married.”

“I’ll always love you,” he admitted.

“I’ll always love you too,” I confessed.

And that was it. We released the hug. I dried my tears and got back to work. We finished the task pretty quickly. The furniture loaded, I left and drove back to Austin. I was right; even though it was difficult with Butch’s remarriage, I did not want to reconcile. I would grieve and heal. And be all right. That afternoon my son, Joe, helped me unload and I returned the van. Whew! Done and done.

As the wedding day approached, I decided I wasn’t going to sit at home on wedding weekend. I tossed around ideas. Go to someplace fun and exciting and spend the weekend? I was already planning to go to Spain in a couple of months. Planning another trip just didn’t have any appeal. Spend the weekend at a spa being pampered? Lying around having a facial and a massage with plenty of time to think did not seem like a smart thing to do. So I couldn’t quite get excited about either of these options. I played Mahjongg with two girlfriends from high school; we knew each other very well. One of the girls lived in a beautiful house on Lake LBJ. They suggested that we go to the lake and have a Mahjongg marathon. Now that was an idea I could get excited about. Close to home, being with dear friends who understood and cared about me and doing something that used my mind. Finally a plan.

Kathy and I arrived at Kathie’s beautiful house on Lake LBJ—yes, two Kathys and one Kay. It was a beautiful sun-shiny early Friday afternoon, the wedding day. We played Mahjongg, ate and drank quite a bit of very good wine. That night we watched a movie, The Way, about the Camino which is where I was going in Spain. When the movie was over, Kathy checked Facebook. Butch and Nancy had both updated their status to “married” and posted photos from their wedding. This was the first time I saw Nancy. Briefly. And only because my friends insisted.

At last was over and done. They were married. A new chapter of my life as a divorced woman had begun. I was truly the ex-wife; there was now a new Mrs. Gerfers, new member of the family, not related to me in any way, but related to my kids. Changes were going to take place in our relationships. What was that going to look like? New waters to navigate. Again.

Thanks for dropping by for a read. Doing all right,

Woodpile Kitty

The Solution

Our story opens with me having decided to move up to a larger apartment in my current complex. I had come to this decision while working with a financial planner and also on advice from my son who suggested “an interim solution“.

Finally the day came for me to put my plan into motion. It was October 3, 2016, when I received a letter from the apartment management with a “Lease Renewal Offer”. My current lease was going to expire on December 11 and the letter explained my options: a minimally increased rate for another 12 months in my one-bedroom, a more than $200 increase for a month-to-month rate, and a reminder that per my lease I am required to give 60 days notice if I’m planning to move out. It was time to make my move.

On November 15, I went to the management office and talked to Lauren about renting a two-bedroom apartment. She showed me the two floor plans that had two bedrooms. One plan had two bedrooms that share the same bathroom and the other plan had a main bedroom with an en suite bathroom and a second bedroom and separate bathroom. I chose the one with the en suite bathroom. I wrote the rent for each on the page with the floor plan I had chosen along with notes about transfer fees, apartment number, and the date it would be available. And most importantly the date of this conversation.

Then on Thursday, November 17, I submitted a move-out letter stating my intention to move to a larger apartment within the complex. The next Monday I went to the management office to settle which apartment and find out the next steps. But when I walked in I immediatley noticed that something was different, wrong. The doors to the two managers’ offices were closed. No one was sitting at the two desks outside the offices. It was very quiet; no music; some lights were off. Then a young woman I recognized came out and asked if she could help me. I told her why I was there for and we sat down at one of the desks.

After I explained the situation and which apartment I wanted and how much rent I had been told I would be charged, she took the paper and went in the back. When she returned she said the rent would be about $200 more. I explained that I had been in on November 15 and pointed to the date on the floor plan. I was told the rent would be this amount and I showed her on my paper where I had written the amount. She left again and this time a man came out with her; his name was Kenny. I had never seen him there before but he acted as if he was in charge. “Strange”, I thought, “but ok, I’ll go with it.”

I explained to Kenny everything I had explained to the young woman and he agreed to the rent. Next step was sending me a lease to reveiw which they would do in the next few days. When the lease came in my email, I reviewed it. It was all as expected except for the rent which again was the higher rent. I went back to the office with all my papers in hand and this time the managers’ offices were open, people were sitting at the desks outside and the lights and music were on. Now this was normal except I didn’t recognize anyone. A young man, Saia, sitting at one of the desks, asked if he could help me and I explained the situation to him. He pulled my lease up on his computer and left. In a few minutes, both he and Kenny came out. He told Saia to honor the cheaper rent. He told me they would send another lease for me to review.

It was all so weird, these new people and all these mistakes with the rent. I commented to Saia that there were so many new people. It was then that I found out the apartment complex had been sold to a new company, Greystar. It all became clear. But so odd that the sale and change in management hadn’t been announced to the residents.

A few days later I received the final lease for me to sign. I reviewed the pertinent details like how much rent. Again it was the higher rent. I was so frustrated and wondered if they were trying to pull one over on me. So I called Saia and told him about the discrepancy in the rent. I did not tell him about my ugly suspicions. He apologized all over the place and promised to correct the lease and send it to me that day. He did; it was correct; I signed it. Finally, my new apartment was all ready to go. It was going to be repainted so it would be like new, I hoped. I was very excited. It was December 20—Merry Christmas to me! I could start moving in on January 6—Happy New Year to me!

I began planning the move and packing. My new apartment was in the same building, same floor—second—but off a different breezeway. So there was going to be lots of stair climbing—nineteen steps up and nineteen steps down. (I frequently counted them when I carried my groceries in.) Two of my sons and my daughter-in-law were going to help with the move. Fortunately, my daughter-in-law worked for an office furniture distributor so she got one of their mover guys to help with the furniture. I did all the packing. On moving day everything was ready to go.

The weather on moving day was beautiful: sunny skies, rather chilly breeze, no humidity. Perfect for stair climbing. The move went very quickly and smoothly. It was amazing, and a little scary, to watch the professional mover pick up my couch—a small, but rather heavy couch—and walk down a flight of stairs and then up a flight of stairs with it on his back. He was one strong guy! We could not have done it without him. No way!

Once all the big stuff was moved, I told everyone I would finish up the small, light stuff and let them all go. That afternoon, as I walked back and forth from apartment to apartment, down stairs and up stairs and then up stairs and down stairs over and over, I had a lot of time to think. I remembered when I had sub-let and how easy that process was. I simply took over someone else’s lease. Of course, I had to prove I was financially able to pay the rent but that’s all. No negotiation or fees; just move in. Then I rehearsed the process of renting my new apartment: all the back and forth over the rent and how I had to stay on top of it or I could have ended up paying more rent than necessary. I remembered how at first I was tempted to just accept the higher rent. And realized that’s what the old Kay would have done instead of standing up for herself. Wow, I really had come a long way. I frequently thought I had become stronger, more independent but here was proof. Tears came to my eyes. I was simply astounded.

Around this time, I was dating a man named Berne. I confessed to him that I was feeling nostalgic about my one-bedroom apartment. It was the first place I had ever lived on my own and the first place I had picked out on my own, both the city and apartment. The move was a momentous event in my life. Now I was leaving behind a lot of adventures, tears, joy and all the growing up I did in that little apartment. While I was excited about moving on to a bigger place, I told him, I was also sad to be leaving a place that had sheltered me through the last year and half. He suggested writing a letter to my apartment expressing all these emotions and saying good-bye. So after I had cleaned it, I sat on the floor in that special little one-bedroom apartment with my journal and wrote a letter.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Dear Apartment,

This my last time to be here as an inhabitant. One more load is stacked by the door ready to go to my new place. I am tired and sore and stiff, way past ready to end moving. But I couldn’t move on without telling you what you have meant to me. You helped me grow up, become independent. You’ve seen me cry, be lonely, be happy, be regretful, even think about going back to my old life. You saw me grow out my grey, cut my hair short and be happy about it. In your kitchen my habits became those of a singe person. I started out cooking real meals with real recipes and slowly turned to canned soup and single serve recipes that I made up as needed. I learned how to handle my finances and grow efficient in money matters. I’ve contemplated and made lots of decisions for good or bad within your walls. Since Augurst 14, 2015, I’ve been sheltered by you and grateful every day that I had you to call home, a warm, safe place. So today I cleaned you up one last time. I hope you felt loved as I did so. I will never forget you. So now I’m moving or have moved to a 2 bed 2 bath place just across the building. I’ll still see you and think about you. I hope someone deserving of you moves in, someone who will take care of you and appreciate you. So this day is bittersweet. Good-bye is sad but I feel confident I’m moving on as I need to. You were my “college” apartment, just left home figuring out life. Now it’s time for a grown up place. Thanks for helping me get to this place. You’re the best, little apartment. You will always be a part of me.

Love,

Kay

Movin’ on up,

Woodpile Kitty ATX

An Interim Solution

In one of my first posts since re-starting my blog, My ATX Story, I described how I decided to move to Austin in 2015. This post picks up with me living in a one-bedroom apartment that I had first sub-leased and then quickly leased for another year.

After living in a 900-square-foot apartment for a year, I had gotten a little claustrophobic and yearned to spread out a bit more. Not that I had a lot of stuff to spread out. I didn’t take much with me when I moved from the house I had when I was married and I hadn’t collected a lot of stuff since then either. For one reason, I didn’t have the space to put a lot of things. But more than that, I just don’t like having a lot of stuff to buy, care for and store. But more space would be nice especially so I could have friends and family over and also for a change of scenery even if I was only moving from one room to another.

With the stuff I did have the one-bedroom was cramped. My granddaughter’s toys were all over the place; my desk and dining table filled the dining room that was really more like a cove; my bedroom was shared with Emy’s pack ‘n’ play. I simply needed more room. I was an adult woman after all. I wanted to live like an adult, not a college student. So I started toying with the idea of buying a house. Just toying. Finances put a damper on my toying. And the reality of maintenance. At the apartment all I had to do was place a service request online and someone came pretty quickly to take care of whatever problem I was having (that is a problem with my apartment, not the rest of my life which could have used some maintenance as well). I looked around a little at houses in neighborhoods that were in the south Austin part of town where my apartment complex was. But the thoughts and what-ifs swirled in my head.

The most overwhelming question I had was could I afford a house. After all I was going to buy a house in Austin and that’s not a cheap proposition. I needed help.

Through my DivorceCare class I had access to financial planning help that was free of charge. This isn’t a regular DivorceCare offering, but the leaders of my group knew a retired financial planner named Paul whose purpose in retirement was to offer financial planning and advice to anyone who needed it. And when you’re getting a divorce, you definitely need financial advice. So I called him and made an appointment. I was nervous because I don’t understand finances and accounting very well. And, at that point in my divorced life, I didn’t feel confident that I understood what my resources were or how to manage them or almost anything else about them. Oh, sure I knew the amounts in my accounts but I needed help to look into the future. Admitting that now is embarrassing. But that’s the truth of it. I was afraid of the future and making a bad decision and suffering because of it.

My first meeting with Paul was over the phone because he was in Michigan spending the summer away from hot Texas. Our conversation was like a doctor taking my medical history. He asked a lot of questions, some I could answer and some, sadly, I could not. He set another meeting. But this time he wanted me to prepare a budget. Yikes! How do I do that? I panicked, of course. Then I settled down and got out my bank statements, credit card statements, and opened Excel. And started entering numbers into categories. A couple of weeks and a lot of sweat later, I gathered up my budget and met with Paul in person. He had some suggestions and helped me analyze the budget. I went home and worked on it again. A couple of more weeks and we had another meeting. This time my budget was acceptable and realistic and told a story that would probably have a happy ending. I was not destitute or an idiot or kidding myself. I had a good idea where I stood financially. I was still afraid of the future and making a bad decision and suffering because of it. But I was on the way to understanding and had some confidence that I had the ability to get my financial house in order or, at least, presentable.

I told Paul I was thinking about buying a house. He asked very intelligent questions–he really was good at the question thing–like where did I want this house to be and what price range. I told him in south Austin where I was currently living and about $250,000. He gave me another assignment: Make a budget for a $250,000 house and come back and see me in 2 weeks. Gulp! Oh, my. Now the truth will be revealed.

During this time, I announced to my kids and close friends that I was thinking about buying a house. Everyone was supportive and understood why I wanted a bigger, more permanent place. Some offered ideas of where to look and what to look for. But all the while in the back of my mind were the same questions. Am I ready for the financial responsibility and the maintenance that a house would require? Could I find, purchase, and care for a house on my own? I tried not to dwell on all those questions. I just kept moving forward and working on my budget.

Finally one day I was talking with my oldest son and I came clean about my concerns and fears. He patiently listened. When I was finished with my litany, he said, “Mom, it sounds like you aren’t ready to make the commitment. And that’s ok. You don’t have to buy a house right now. Maybe you should just consider an interim solution. A bigger place but not a purchase. Maybe rent a house or a bigger apartment.”

An interim solution. The perfect thing. Yes, that’s what I needed. Just a move to something a bigger but without the big financial commitment. So I got to work on another budget, this one for a two-bedroom apartment in my same complex. Suddenly it was easier to think about my next move. The pressure was off. Just an interim solution. I didn’t need to come up with the final solution to my housing needs. Just the next step. Whew!

At my next meeting with Paul, I presented both budgets and explained to him about the interim solution. As it turned out I could afford either the house or the apartment. When I got finished talking about all the various points of either solution, Paul asked me what I thought was the best alternative. That was one thing I liked about working with Paul; he never told me what to do, he let me figure it out on my own. He was my safety net. I announced that I was going with the two-bedroom apartment. He got a big grin on his face and said, “That’s the perfect decision. That’s exactly what I would advise.” I felt like I had gotten an A+++ on my end of the semester project! Wow, I made a good decision all on my own. Yes, I had a little help from my friends, but the decision was all mine.

I left that meeting with Paul without scheduling a follow up. He said if I needed to talk to him just give him a call. I was elated when I left that day. I felt like a real adult. Now, time to talk to the apartment management and get my new place nailed down.

Moving’ on up!

Woodpile Kitty ATX

How Far I’ve Come!

When I separated from my now ex-husband, I was a bit sheltered. Butch took care of repairs around the house, our cars, and finances. When he moved out on April 2, 2015, I began an adventure in growing up. I suddenly had to do many things I had never done on my own before. And being the journal-keeper and list-maker I am, I kept a list of those things. I ran across the list the other day when I was cleaning out a box of old papers and I thought I’d share it with you. Now, recall that I was 64 years old when I divorced, well above the age when most people have done some of these things for themselves for forty years or more. Well, better late than never, as they say.

Wedesday 4/8/2015	Called AAA to replace the dead battery in my car
Sunday 4/12/2015	Visited a new church (Butch got our church in the separation negotiation)
Saturday 5/2/15	Went to Breckenridge Park for a walk
Saturday 5/9/15	Went to Mission San Juan for a walk
	Fixed undercabinet light cover from falling down
	Rented a movie at Red Box (I must have been padding my stats because this is a really easy thing to do. I just hadn’t done it before.)
	Figured out Apple TV and Roku on our very complicated TV set up (this task must be out of order because surely I couldn’t have gone this long without TV!)
	Drove to Marfa through thunderstorm and hail
	Ran at two new places in Marfa, along the railroad tracks and Mimms Ranch
	Drove back from Marfa
	Filled in-sink hand soap dispenser in kitchen by unscrewing it from below instead of from the top
	Changed air conditioner filter Woo-hoo! (Not sure what the woo-hoo was about. It must have been more difficult than it should have been.)
	Looked at financials (Butch was still putting these together but he didn’t go over them with me. I had to figure it out myself.)
Saturday 5/23/15	Fixed drain on washing machine! (This was really hard. I even wrote how I did it.) Did what the instructions said and it didn’t work. Really didn’t want to call Butch so I waited. Told myself there was no reason to call him right away. I could call repairman myself. Had lunch, prayed about it. Tried washer again and it worked! Thank God!!
Monday 5/25/15	Applied flea treatment to all 4 cats by myself
Saturday 5/30/15	Mowed lawn – finally. Had a hard time starting it until I remembered the primer button. Didn’t weed eat because of time.
Monday 6/15/15	Moved to “my own place”–duplex–packed and moved everything myself except my Juju chair (the rocking chair I bought when my granddaughter was born). Making my own home with my own rules and systems.
Tuesday 6/23/15	Got my tire replaced because it had a nail in it
Thursday 7/2/15	Took my car in for 95,000 mile service (This required lining up a ride to and from the dealership. My friend, Dolores, took me and, as I recall, we worked in a nice long chat over breakfast.)
Tuesday 7/7/15	Bought and applied my new registration sticker–it’s not straight but good enough
Wedesday 7/29/2015	Had my tires rotated
Sunday 7/12/2015	Visited a new church–Covenant–new experience because it is a Presbyterian church. Re-entered my “old” life.
Friday 7/31/15	Told Butch I wanted a divorce
Friday 8/7/2015	Found and sub-leased an apartment in Austin
Tuesday 8/11/2015	Retained my attorney and instructed her to file
Thursday 8/13/2015	Took possession of apartment and started moving in
Friday 8/14/15	Purchased bed, TV and sound bar. Set up TV and soundbar in time for cable guy. Bed delivered. Transferred utilites and got insurance. Then I went back to SA.

For some reason which I don’t remember, I left the date off some of the entries. But don’t let that confuse you; I did not do all of those things on the same day! Oh, if only I could. It is a little embarrassing to admit all the things I had never done before on my own, like the car stuff. However, when I look back over the list and remember each of these experiences I am amazed how far I’ve come. Every time I completed a new task successfully, even if I had problems getting it done, in the end I felt more confident and competent to tackle whatever came next.

Within a few days of returning to San Antonio, I left for Australia which I have written about previously. I think that’s why I stopped keeping this list. That trip was a biggie; every accomplishment after would have paled in comparison. And I had my divorce to plan for, moving to Austin to complete, and life after divorce to figure out. All things I had never done before on my own.

Thanks for dropping in for a read. Now, go out there and do something new and fun!

Woodpile Kitty ATX

The Big Question

When I started attending DivorceCare I was pretty sure the Big Question would come up. It was just a matter of when. I really wanted to avoid it but I also knew I was going to have to face it sooner or later. Finally, I did face it and now, Dear Reader, it’s time to write about it.

The story starts with knowing that I am a Christ-follower and as well as a divorced person. And not only am I a divorced person but I am the one who initiated the divorce. If you’re familiar with the Bible at all you probably know that it contains a lot of admonitions about divorce. And I would venture to say that if you’re a divorced person, Christian or not, you have probably struggled with the Big Question just like I have. Churches and church people aren’t the only ones who look down on divorce and divorced people. I would even go so far as suggesting that as divorced people, we look down on ourselves. We don’t need someone else to do it for us. So when my marriage was in trouble, I avoided considering a separation much less divorce. However, the time came when I felt the only choice I had was a separation. As time went on, I came to the point where I knew divorce was the path for me. In the back of my mind was the fear and knowledge that divorce was not the way God had ordained marriage to end. And it wasn’t the way I had ever dreamed my marriage would end either.

Now, I’m not a Bible scholar or a theologian or any of those lofty things. I am simply a Christ-follower who has read and studied the Bible quite a lot. I love the Bible. I believe it’s the unfolding of God’s plan for humankind and the blueprint for how to live life. I know that the Bible contains certain admonitions and even judgements that are called into force by divorce. Quick review of what the Bible says: God says “I hate divorce” in the Old Testament in Malachi 2:16. That’s strong language. Then in the New Testament, Matthew 19:3-9 and Mark 10:2-12 are both descriptions of a question-and-answer session between Jesus and the Pharisees about divorce. Moses allowed divorce and Jesus explains that it wasn’t God’s desire; it was because of the people’s “hardness of heart”. One of Jesus’ answers about divorce is that if a man divorces his wife and he marries another woman, he is committing adultery. Then in the Mark passage, Jesus includes the woman in the judgement; if she divorces her husband and marries another man she is committing adultery. There’s a lot to unpack in these verses and there are also more scripture passages that refer to marriage as “until death do us part” but no matter how you look at it the bottom line is divorce is not God’s plan, it does not make him happy and there are consequences.

So the Big Question is: if these verses describe God’s attitude about divorce and Jesus’ teaching about divorce, where does that leave the divorced person? How can the divorced person come to grips with what they have done by divorcing and what God says about it? Can the divorced person move on from divorce and have a fulfilling, contented life whether or not they remarry? And maintain their Christ-follower status? See, it is a Big Question, isn’t it?

Of course, there was a whole session on the Big Question in DivorceCare. It was a very uncomfortable session for me and, I imagine, everyone else in the class. So what tact do you think I took? Rationalization, of course. Butch did this and he did that. I had no other choice. We had been in counseling and it didn’t work. Blah, blah, blah. Rationalizations. But still I ruminated on the Big Question and prayed about it–sort of, I was afraid of what God might tell me–and journaled about it and talked to my counselor about it. But, still, no definitive answer.

As I struggled with the Big Question I slowly, very slowly, let go of the rationalizations and began to be more honest about the reasons for the demise of my marriage, really honest, painfully honest. I journaled about these things and I talked to God about them, admitting to him what I had done. And I asked forgiveness. And it was really difficult. Definitely not a feel-good exercise. I was frequently sad and remorseful. I had regrets I needed to admit. Then I asked for forgiveness again. The more I honestly struggled and the more I owned up to ways I had behaved in my marriage, hurtful things I said or did, unhealthy ways I related to Butch, and the more I sincerely asked for forgiveness, the lighter I felt and the less I struggled.

Time passed and it seemed like God was still with me. He did not fail me or kick me out of the fold. No. It seemed that I was still accepted. That he heard my prayers. I felt his presence. So what was that about? All the admonitions and warnings and consequences. It slowly dawned on me that in all the divorce talk from God, he never declares divorce as the unforgivable sin. He never says “I don’t love divorced people”. Yes, there are consequences but we are not thrown to the wolves. We still get to sleep in the fold with the other sheep, graze in the green pastures and sip the still water. That was comforting. No, it was more than comforting. It was a big WOW! All I could say was a big “Thank you, Father.” I began to put my doubts and struggles about the Big Question in the place I put questions I consider settled: in the back of my mind where they stay until something pulls it to the front of my mind. And then one day…

It was in Bible study. We were studying the passage in Matthew I mentioned above. One of the women was divorced and she had remarried and been happily married for several years. She was tearful and distraught, struggling with the admonition that, because she had remarried, she was committing adultery. She had a beautiful marriage and her husband was a caring, loving man. They both loved God and were Christ-followers. A few women were sympathetic and encouraged her. As I listened, my heart broke for her. I hesitated but finally I told her my story, how I had struggled with the Big Question, that divorce was not the unforgivable sin; that, of course, our hearts were hardened, we were humans. God will forgive us as he promises to forgive all the times we let him down. And we still get to enjoy all the blessings of being a Christ-follower. Not to pat myself on the back, but that’s the truth that divorced people need to hear, that they long to hear. She told me later that she finally took hold of the grace that God had extended to her all along. Her burden was lifted. I will never forget the brilliant smile on her face when she told me these things.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Hearing or reading the truth of forgiveness and grace is one thing. But if a divorced person is struggling with the Big Question, whether a Christ-follower or not, I believe the struggle is a very personal one. No one can do it for you. A counselor or wise friend can only help. But it is up to the struggler to figure out their own answer to the Big Question. If you are a divorced person and the Big Question bothers you, I want to encourage you to go through the struggle. It’s not easy but in the end it’s rewarding. In my experience, finding my answer was the path to recovery from my divorce and the foundation for my life after divorce.

Thanks for hanging in there with me through this post. I’d love to know what you think about the Big Question and, if you have struggled with it, what you learned. So drop a comment. It can be private between you and me, or tell me you’re ok for it to be shared with other readers.

Woodpile Kitty ATX

And Then I Needed a Little More Help

In an earlier post titled “Sometimes I Need a Little Help“, I introduced you to DivorceCare in a story about the first holiday season after Butch and I separated. It’s a story about how DivorceCare helped me at a time when I didn’t even know I needed help. The experience revealed to me that in order to get through the experience of divorce, there were going to be times when I would need help. The holidays were just the first lesson.

The next lesson began shortly after our divorce was final on December 2, 2015.

The first thing you should understand before I tell you my story is that during our marriage Butch handled most of our finances. We talked about them and made decisions together although I relied heavily on his opinions regarding the best decision to make. I knew what was going on with our finances; I just didn’t do any of the actual work. I also knew that I was unprepared for financial life on my own.

During our separation and the process of divorce, Butch and I kept all our finances together just like they were during our marriage. However, before our divorce was final we had already separated some things that each of us used frequently like credit cards and our Amazon account. We were going to file our income taxes jointly in 2015 for the last time since our divorce was final so near the end of the year. Since Butch had all the records, he gathered all of that up for our CPA. I was very glad about that because, as I explained, that sort of thing was completely out of my wheelhouse. I definitely did not have those skills in my toolbox. (Let’s see. Is there one more cliche I can use? Nope, can’t think of one.) With the divorce final, we began separating our finances in earnest. Untangling is a better word for it because, after forty-six years of marriage, money and assets had really gotten tangled up.

There were some things like the real estate we owned that were going to be complicated to work out. And then there were easier things like separating our cell phone bill which turned out to be somewhat difficult. I did that one because I was the primary account holder. However, I’m pleased to report that I managed quite well. And medical insurance. Oh, my, I don’t even want to think about that again much less write about it! Causes my heart to pound just to write that I don’t want to write about it. Simply put, there was a lot of work to do to untangle our accounts. Due to my financial inexperience, I faced a long, steep learning curve and one I had to manage very quickly. It was a baptism by fire.

All of the untangling usually began online, of course. And sometimes it could all be done online. But, as you know, something that’s done online always requires a password. Because I hardly ever logged into some of the accounts, seeing that box labeled “Password” made my mind slip into a fuzzy blankness. Password? What’s a password? Am I supposed to know that? All the untangling was very hard on my brain. And caused a lot of stress.

Besides the password thing, Butch and I had to sometimes communicate about where we were in the process with some account or other. Or the worst was one of us, usually me, made a mistake that required a lot of extra time to straighten out causing additional stress. Those conversations held their own brand of stress just because of the nature of our relationship post-divorce. We didn’t yell or call each other names. There was simply a lot of emotion around interacting with each other.

But, and this won’t surprise you if you’ve read many of my posts, I thought I was handling it just fine. Then I starting noticing that I was crying more than usual. I am a big cryer so I wasn’t alarmed until I found myself crumpled on the floor crying one afternoon. “Hmm…,” I said to myself, “Maybe this isn’t normal crying”.

Then came the afternoon when I was so frustrated and stressed that I turned off all the lights, pulled the drapes, fixed myself a drink and watched Netflix for the rest of the day. “Yep”, I said to myself, “this is definitely not normal.”

Shortly after that I was scheduled for a follow-up visit with my primary care doctor. I was determined to be honest about what was going on in my life and ask for an anti-depressant. So I did. He was very understanding and didn’t give me a hard time or ask a lot of judgmental questions. He asked questions, of course, but just normal need-to-know sorts of questions. And he wrote me a prescription. My first anti-depressant. Another first to put on my “First Things I’ve Done on My Own” list.

Just in case things weren’t crazy enough, I was going back to Australia for my nephew’s wedding in February. So in the midst of untangling and depression, I was planning and packing for a trip to the other side of the world. By the time I left, I had been taking the anti-depressant for only a few days and I couldn’t tell if it was working because of the travel. But at least I wasn’t lying on the floor crying with a drink in my hand.

When I got back from my trip, there was still some untangling to be done. I found I was better able to face the situation and the word “password” didn’t give me fuzzy brain. I think it was sometime in March by the time everything was settled. I remember sending an email to Butch describing some untangling issue I had untangled and thinking that’s it, the last thread is untangled. I sent the email and went for a run, a very invigorating, satisfying run.

Asking for help is never easy for me. And admitting that I needed medical help was especially hard to overcome. But I’m so glad I did. The medication relieved my depression so I could function. And no side effects. After about six months I felt like I didn’t need them and weaned myself off. Then I visited my new Austin dentist. After a very thorough examination, he explained to me that I needed a new crown and an old one needed to be re-done. I cried. That probably doesn’t surprise you like it surprised me. I went home and started taking the anti-depressant again. Apparently I wasn’t bullet-proof. Six months later, I weaned myself off again. I haven’t had to take them again, although I have learned enough not to pronounce myself bullet-proof.

Sometimes I need a little help. Yes, that was me saying that. It’s still very hard for me to ask for help. Whether it’s a big or little thing, it’s hard. But I’ve learned that if I ask and get help I feel better that I had a helper in the task or decision and my helper is happy that they could be, well, helpful. We are both blessed in the process. Even if my helper is my doctor and the help is an anti-depressant.

I’ve had to learn the lesson over and over again. And the lesson is: Need help? Make like Nike and just ask for it.

Thanks for dropping by for a read. I hope you found my story helpful.

Be safe and stay well,

Woodpile Kitty ATX

Fire Works

McKinney Falls State Park.

November 22, 2020, the Monday before Thanksgiving.

Emy and I sitting before, what was to us, a roaring fire.

The air is cold and a little wet from a light sprinkling earlier. Clouds obscure the setting sun.

“Emy, this is the first fire I’ve ever made by myself.” Very self-satisfied was I.

“Me, too. Remember I put in the wood.” Very self-satisfied and thrilled was she.

Granddaughter and grandmother build a fire together, the first for both. Who would’ve thought!

This was my first time camping by myself and it was Emy’s first time to camp ever. We had first planned to camp at McKinney Falls earlier this year during spring break and had reservations for March 20. The forecast called for thunderstorms. Her parents and I watched the weather hoping it would change. It didn’t. We were all disappointed. But the situation wasn’t bleak because the school district had announced that spring break would be extended for two more weeks due to COVID. So I merely changed our reservation to the following Monday. However, Emy and I had a trial run camping on my living room floor. No fire due to indoor burn ban in effect so marshmallows were roasted over the stove burner. There was a tent and sleeping bags and a bathroom right down the hall, all the important things. Then that weekend the mayor of Austin announced stay-at-home orders for the city beginning Monday. This included the park since it is within the city limits. Our trip was completely sunk. A little girl was very, very disappointed. And a grandmother, too.

I had been kicking around taking Emy camping for quite a while. But wasn’t sure if I had the skill to do it by myself. I have been camping many times but usually with a man. I have never had to set up the tent and stove and fire all by myself. And be responsible for everything to work as it should. Then earlier in the year before COVID-induced pandemia, a girl friend of mine, who is a camper, and I decided to take a weekend camping trip. She had all the necessary gear and then some. She even had party lights that we strung between two trees. We stayed for two nights and it was C-O-L-D! But it was very fun. I watched and learned–and helped too, of course. I was very impressed with the campfire which she prepared expertly and with confidence. It really was a roaring fire.

Full disclosure: I am afraid of fire. Not as bad as I used to be. When I was a little girl Emy’s age and even older, I was terrified of fire. In my imagination a flame could become a raging inferno and leave me and everything around in a pile of cinders in no time flat. Sadly, fire was just one of my fears. I was also afraid of tornadoes and the dark. My poor parents! I must have been a real trial to raise. Funny thing, though, now I can’t sleep if there is the slightest bit of light. And fear of fire mostly concerns candles and not raging infernos. I guess in some ways I have grown up.

I still struggle with fear as an adult. Five years ago when I was newly divorced, if I had to make a decision about something involving finances, or my car or where to live, I was frozen with fear. I had no confidence that I could make those kinds of decisions, much less even understand how to make those kinds of decisions. But with each decision I made I learned and gained confidence. Looking back I see that my fears were for naught. I don’t remember even one decision I have made that led to calamity. Sure, I made some mistakes and some decisions could have been better. Nevertheless, I’m still here and I’m ok.

Back to camping. Late last year, again before anyone even knew what the virus was, I planned to take a road trip to tour ancient Native Indian sites in the Southwest. And I planned to camp. All by myself. It was one of those Can-I-Do-This? tests. In one of my previous posts I wrote about walking a Camino. That was my first really big Can-I-Do-This? test. It wasn’t easy but I passed it. I knew camping on my road trip would be an opportunity to fend for myself in new situations. Sure, I’d make mistakes. But, I told myself, it would be good for me and fun as well. If I came back in one piece it would be a success. So one purpose of the March camping trip with Emy was a dry run for my longer three week trip. I was going to leave toward the end of April this year. But, of course, COVID hit and I didn’t go. Next April, fingers crossed and vaccinated, I’ll go.

Camping is supposed to be a good activity for kids to learn not only about the outdoors but about how to take care of themselves, to not be afraid of taking chances, to have confidence in themselves and their abilities. And you know what? It’s also a good activity for grandmothers to gain confidence in themselves and their abilities. I admit, I had some qualms about making a fire: laying the kindling first, placing the fire starter, stacking the logs so air could get in and finally lighting it. Emy helped add kindling and arranged the logs all by herself with a little instruction from me. Then I lit the fire starter and slowly, a spark here and crackle there, flames grew and the fire came into being. And you know what? I wasn’t afraid. Imagine that. I was very careful, but I wasn’t afraid. I’ve thought about it and I think that in some sort of unexpected way she is teaching me while I am teaching her.

So we sat before a campfire, the first each of us ever made, very satisfied with ourselves and our roaring fire.

For me and Emy, fire works.

Thanks for dropping into our campsite. Stay safe. And have no fear.

Woodpile Kitty

Sometimes I Need a Little Help

Usually I think I can do everything myself. And that’s really how I prefer to roll. But sometimes, o.k., rarely, I know I need help and I get help. In the fall of 2015 my divorce was underway; we were beginning to work out our settlement. I knew I needed help to get through all of it. I was continuing to see the counselor Butch and I had been seeing together when we were married, driving back and forth each week or two for sessions. But I needed more. I had heard a lot about DivorceCare from a friend of mine who divorced a few years before I did. She had participated in DivorceCare at a local San Antonio church. She loved it and derived a lot of help and support from it and also made some good friends. So when I returned home from Australia, I found a class near me and started going. I had missed the first couple of classes because of my trip but the leaders let me start anyway because I hadn’t missed so much that I couldn’t catch up.

For those of you who don’t know about DivorceCare, it is a worldwide network of divorce recovery support groups. It is a faith-based program whose goal is to help the divorced person find hope for their future and experience God’s healing. In fact, a person doesn’t have to be divorced or even separated in order to attend. It’s helpful even for someone who is just considering divorce. Classes are very easy to find by going to DivorceCare.org. Currently in Austin, there are 6 classes held on a virtual platform each week from various locations in Austin, usually churches. Some locations also offer DC for kids which meets at the same time as the adult class. There are thousands of classes worldwide so it’s pretty easy to find one no matter where you live. *

In late September when I returned from Australia, I was already dreading the holidays and didn’t know whether to mark them with the usual celebrations or just ignore for one year. But my kids took the reins. They understood that the holidays would change but they wanted these last holidays with officially married parents to be as much as possible like they had always been. And they were willing to do all the planning–a big plus. Trey was leading the charge and would host Thanksgiving in Marfa, Texas, where he lives. I wanted them to be comfortable with the changes that were happening in their lives so I was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish that. I said yes even though I knew it would be hard. Silly me. I had no idea how hard it would be. I told myself I could do anything for one day or for a couple of days, right? I was bigger than that, a mature adult. And it was for my kids. It was just a big meal, no gifts and hoopla like at Christmas. In a town six hours from Austin. Not easy to turn around and go home. But doable. Right?

Then DivorceCare came to my rescue. In early November there was a special class called “Surviving the Holidays”. And surviving is the operative word. For this one class, people are invited who have been in classes at any location. People are also invited to come who have never been in DivorceCare (normally people who have expressed interest about the next class). It’s run much like a normal DC session with a video and small group discussion followed by a bit of large group sharing.

In the “Surviving the Holidays” seminar, my suspicion that the holidays would be difficult was confirmed. There really was no getting around it. But the most helpful strategy I learned was to have a plan. No matter how elaborate or simple–simple is best–just have a plan. And also scaling back on the activities in which to participate. Well, while there was a plan for a big family to-do–no scaling back there–I had a personal plan for my emotional well-being which was to just walk away from any situation that was uncomfortable. From my perspective, Thanksgiving was the big holiday hurdle because at Christmas my nephew, Rhys, and his fiancé were going to be in Austin from Australia. This would create so much difference from our usual Christmas that I didn’t anticipate it being anything but a blimp on the emotional calendar. However, first I had to get through Thanksgiving.

The holidays have so many expectations attached and so much emotion wrapped up in them even in the best of times. There are cherished memories that beg to be recreated. Sometimes disagreements and agitation boils under the surface waiting to spill over. And then with divorce, there are a myriad of changes some evident and some hidden to be navigated. When you mix that in with a big dose of emotions that run the gamut from love to anger in 20 seconds flat, the holiday becomes a minefield that cannot be ignored. All of this was roiling inside of me as Thanksgiving Day approached.

Then Butch decided not to come. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Silly girl.

During the “Surviving the Holidays” session, I didn’t know how much I was going to need what I was learning. However when “Living the Holidays” started, I quickly realized how much I needed it.

I drove to Marfa with Joe and Meredith and 18 month old Emy on Wednesday. We were booked into a BnB, a charming west Texas style casita owned by one of Trey’s friends.

On Thursday morning, I went to Trey’s and helped him with dinner. Then people started arriving. Trey had invited Meredith’s mom, Kandace, and her partner, Theo, who were on their annual winter trek to Big Bend which is close to Marfa (that’s “close” in west Texas terms). Also, Trey’s really good friends, Thomas and Belle who have a little boy, Ellis, just about Emy’s age. It was a good mix of people of all ages and interests. Then Trey’s meat thermometer broke just as he was checking to see if the turkey was done. So, as you do in Marfa, he posted on MarfaList asking if anyone had a meat thermometer and one of his good friends, Rose, had one. Trey invited her and her mom to join us since they were since they were coming anyway to bring the thermometer. A delightful collection of family and friends. I knew all these people and always enjoyed their company. Although Rose’s mom was new to me but I enjoy meeting new people–usually. On this particular day, however, I was completely blindsided by how overwhelmed I was: the noise, people everywhere, talking and laughing, kitchen commotion. Everyone was having fun. I needed some quiet. So I went outside.

I found Emy and Ellis playing in the street in a water puddle (you could not do that in Austin!) being watched over by parents. Soon almost everyone was out there watching the kids doing their cute thing. Theo drove up on his motorcycle. It was then that I knew if I made it through even the meal it would be a miracle.

Deep breaths.

A glass of wine or two.

Scrumptious meal.

Deep breaths.

Multiple desserts–it’s Thanksgiving, after all.

Another glass of wine.

I looked around.

People were leaving.

I made it! Without a meltdown.

That evening as I lay in bed playing my personal video of the day in my head, I chastised myself for how arrogant I had been to think for even one moment that I would breeze through Thanksgiving as if my world wasn’t falling apart. Silly girl! When will you ever learn? Now. Now, after it’s all over.

Last year we all–Butch and his new wife, Nancy, one of Nancy’s daughters and her boyfriend, along with Andy, Joe and Meredith, Emy and I all went to Trey’s for Thanksgiving again because the Sunday after Thanksgiving was Trey’s 50th birthday. Memories of Thanksgiving 2015 flashed in my mind as I prepared for the trip. I had been with Butch and Nancy on other occasions but this was a multi-day event. This time was different. I didn’t deny that it would be difficult; I expected it to be difficult. I was not disappointed. However, I was prepared intellectually and emotionally. And I made it, very well, I might add. There was just that teeny-weeny little tantrum when I walked out on a game of dominoes. I learned some things about myself that weekend and left Marfa feeling much stronger and confident about who I am and what I could manage.

Now this year, Butch and Nancy have invited me to their house for Thanksgiving with all the family: all the kids, Butch’s and mine and Nancy’s. This is a gigantic step for me. I have not committed yet, although I made a hotel reservation just in case. If I go it will be with eyes, as well as mind, wide open. And for good measure, my heart open too.

Moral of this story: If you or someone you know is facing difficult holidays because of loss of any kind whether divorce or the death or estrangement of a loved one, accept that it will be difficult, probably more difficult than you imagine. Give yourself and them permission to bow out of festivities. If you participate, think through each step and each person you will see and have a plan for whatever eventuality may occur. Decide ahead of time what you need to do to take care of yourself. Enlist a trusted person to lean on. And don’t beat yourself up if you don’t meet your expectations or anyone else’s. Only you know how you are feeling and you are only responsible to yourself. You’ll get to the other side of the holidays. January will come. And you’ll be much stronger when you turn the calendar page to 2021.

The really good news? It’s almost a whole year until the next holiday season. Thank you, God.

* Divorce Care classes are effected by COVID-19 precautions. So check their website DivorceCare.org for the latest information on classes.

In the Meantime…

If you’ve been following closely then you know our story so far. Butch moved out in early April of 2015 which started our separation. Then in August, I started moving into my apartment in Austin but was still living in the duplex in San Antonio. Around the end of August I filed for divorce (those words still sound chilling to me). There’s a 60 day waiting period in Texas between filing for divorce before it can be declared final. So in the meantime, I went to Australia. That’s just what you do, isn’t it?

Yes, I admit taking this trip sounds sort of weird with all that was going in in my life. Just so you don’t think I had gone off the deep end, you should know that Butch and I had planned this trip early in the year. Plans had been made; tickets were purchased. But the circumstances of our marriage kept him from making the journey. So I was–gulp–going to go by myself.

The reason for the trip was to visit my sister, Trish, for a couple of weeks. She lives in Perth. But there was almost a week of additional travel time because Butch and I had decided to spend two nights in Hawaii and two nights in Sydney on the way in order to break the trip up and also see some sights. Plus there’s that pesky International Dateline thing that totally messes with your sense of where you are on the calendar. For the trip home there were no overnight layovers. Although I did spend six hours–yes, you heard right, 6 hours–in the Auckland airport. I got in there around 6:00 in the morning which turned out to be too early on the front end to do any sightseeing and not long enough on the back end since I had to be back two hours before my next flight. It is a very nice airport though with views of the countryside through the walls of glass. Full disclosure: I was traveling first class so I had access to the very well appointed lounge and yummy food and drinks.

I was very uncertain about traveling this far and this long on my own. No, let me rephrase that: I was terrified to travel that far on my own. I had traveled a bit by myself but not internationally. Both were in the old-timey days before 9/11. The first time, I flew to Syracuse to attend a conference. I went early and my son met me. He was working in Vermont and drove over. So I wasn’t completely alone. The second time, I flew to meet Butch for a week when he was taking a class at Union Seminary in Richmond, Virginia. We flew back together, so, again, not completely on my own. But this trip to Australia was travel of a whole different nature: international, multiple days and multiple flights going and then a grueling trip back and I was completely responsible for myself. Yikes! The only thing I was sure of: it was going to an adventure. A good one, I hoped.

The day of departure arrived. When I got into the cab that would take me to the airport I suddenly realized I was loose in the world with only an airline ticket to guide me. How was I going to keep up with which gate? How was I going to keep up with time zones? How was I going to go to the bathroom or get coffee or a snack with no one to watch my bags?! What if my luggage got lost? What if I got lost? I was panicking. Of course.

Contrary to all my panicking, I arrived in Honolulu safe and sound. It was a beautiful afternoon. My lovely hotel was about a block off of Waikiki Beach. There was even a sliver of beach visible from my window. After I got settled I walked Waikiki Beach window shopping–why they have a complete shop dedicated to heavy coats I have no idea. For dinner the woman at the hotel reception desk recommended a neighborhood Asian restaurant, Murahame Udon. It was delicious, just what I needed. The next day I woke up early and went for a run in a park located at the end of Waikiki Beach. My route went by beach front houses and hotels, under lush vegetation with glimpses of the ocean. I was definitely not in Texas anymore.

As I ran, I thought about my impending divorce. I was struggling with how God feels about divorce. I was taught that he hates divorce. In fact, the Bible clearly states that he hates divorce. I think most humans do too, especially if they have personally experienced it as a spouse or child. I carried a lot of guilt over breaking up my family after 46 years of marriage. Frequently I asked myself: Kay, you’re 64 years old. After all, you have more life behind you than ahead. Can’t you just keep it together? Suddenly I saw myself from a different perspective, from high above. I could feel how far away I was, far from everyone and everything I knew. I was completely on my own. No one even knew I was right there, right then. No one but God. With that thought I felt more free than I had felt in a very long time. As I wrote in my journal afterward, that run was very good for my soul.

Then it was on to Sydney. I toured the Opera House and walked across the Harbor Bridge. Two nights there, then on to Perth. Finally.

The visit with my sister, Trish, was so fun. Perth is a beautiful city with so much to do and see. It was colder than I expected, than she expected even. So for the first week and half I was cold all the time. And that’s no exaggeration: all the time. Even my neice, Addie, remarked on it. Morning, noon and night, I was bundled up in sweaters and jackets I borrowed from Trish. Finally, the last few days I was there, it started warming up and I could wear clothes without the sweaters. Every morning we went to Cottlesloe Beach for a swim and a coffee with friends. Or actually, Trish swam, in a wet suit, I sat on the beach wrapped in a sweater and enjoyed the ocean view or talked with friends. Then on my last day there, it was warm enough for me and I ventured out into the water. It was cold but I was in! I was swimming, or rather, buffeted by waves in the Indian Ocean! How cool is that?

The trip back was uneventful. Of course there was the normal airport nonsense like waiting and walking in circles around airports and waiting, bad food, even worse coffee, and more waiting. Finally I landed at the San Antonio International Airport. I gathered up my carry-on and followed the other passengers onto the jetway. I was home. Suddenly I remembered how I had felt when I got on the plane to leave San Antonio, how afraid and nervous I was. All the things I was afraid of didn’t happen, not even one. I didn’t miss any flights. My luggage didn’t get lost. I always knew where I was and what time zone I was in. I managed fine with no one to watch my bags when I went to the bathroom. I was home safe and sound. Wow! I did it. I really did it. All by myself. And a little help from God.

Thanks for dropping by,

Woodpile Kitty ATX

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