Strange Days Indeed

I'm sitting here writing at my brother-in-law's desk in Santa Rosa, California, where I am staying this week visiting family. The temperature has gone off the map -- over 100 degrees today, much higher than it is back home in Tucson. It's very odd. The funny part is that it got hot the day I got here (Tuesday), and it's not supposed to cool off until next Tuesday, when I head back to the desert. And of course, it's going to be cool all this week in Tucson, and the hot weather will return the day I get home. I just can't win!

Well, at least I'm used to the heat, anyway, so it's not killing me like it would have when it was this hot here years ago. I just get tired of it, or rather, I get tired of being tired from the heat.

So here I am, back in the place where I grew up -- on the property where I grew up, having moved here from San Francisco at a year old. I lived here for most of my life, moving to Tucson when my late ex-husband got a job there. I had looked forward for big changes and lots of positive forward movement in my life, but it became one of those "wherever you go, there you are" kind of things.

Marina was just seven years old at the time, and it was very hard for her to be uprooted from friends and family and school. But being the naturally gregarious little person she was, she quickly made new friends and settled right in to living in Tucson. When she was nine, we moved from the suburbs into a house further out in the desert that had a swimming pool; she spent so much of her time in it I used to say she was "brown as a berry." Her hair was always so blonde from the sun. She really loved living out there; she played cello in orchestra at school and really loved music and animals.

Her father's company had some big layoffs when she reached 13, and though they kept him as long as they could because his job was specialized enough that they needed him, they finally had to lay him off. He took it fairly well at first, but once he realized how hard it was to find work in a place where so many others were looking for similar jobs, he started to come unraveled and began drinking after being more or less sober for 8 years. (I say more or less because while he stopped drinking, he never gave up smoking pot.) Once he got back to alcohol, he started getting very mean and angry -- this never happened with the pot -- and we had some real knock down, drag out arguments. But the day I saw him get physical with Marina -- she talked back to him, and he shoved her backwards into a chair so he could lecture her -- I knew it was time to get out. She and I left soon after, moving into town and staying in the tiny guest house of a friend for almost two years until I was able to find a job that would support us so we could find our own house.

When her dad's health problems, brought on by his drinking, finally caught up to him and he died of congestive heart failure in 1998, he left us some insurance money, much to my surprise. My first thought was for us to move back here. But Marina was horrified and totally unwilling to move from Tucson -- she said that was where she lived, where her friends were, where she belonged. She loved Northern California, but 20 years in the desert had made her almost a native. So we stayed there, and she moved in with her boyfriend and eventually became a junkie and died. And I find it so ironic that now it's me, living in the desert without what was once my own family.

I love my partner dearly and am very thankful we met and ended up together, but sometimes I can't help but thinking how very different my life is now.

I'm here now because my mother's health is failing -- she has congestive heart failure and is starting to go downhill. This may be the last time I get to see her alive. As much as I love her and my sister and brothers, being here is reminding me of the train wreck that was my childhood, and it's a very strange feeling all around. Seeing what was once our house (the house I grew up in ended up being mine, Marina's dad, and Marina's home; it burned down in 1982, a week before Marina's 5th birthday) and the mobile home we moved onto the property to live in, which is still standing, and a cluttered living space for my oldest brother (who spends most of his days helping my sister, who lives next door care for mom) is just a bit too bizarre for me.

Plus it's sweltering hot and the flowers are all losing their blooms. For once I really don't feel like this is my home anymore. It took 23 years, but it happened. My life is so different now, I can't even describe the feeling. This is what they mean by "You can't go home again," isn't it?

Thanks to those of you who have sent such kind replies. I apologize for not responding to you right away, but I do appreciate your support. You are helping me keep my head above water.