HAPPY ANNIVERSARY ... OR WELCOME TO HELL (YOUR CHOICE)

Five years ago I bought this house.  It was a time of transition – having survived the loss of our home to fire, the breakup of my marriage, I was moving with my daughter and son into a new life.  I was happy that I had a nice, new, safe home for us all to live in, complete with water and sunset views, and close to the kids’ school.  

 I had always wanted granite counter tops in my kitchen and now I had them.   

I bet you’re thinking:  five years is enough time for good things to happen, a bright future, a happy ending.  Right?  Me too.  That’s exactly what I was thinking/hoping for/expecting.

Well, not so much.   We suffered through more emotional trauma, and four significant water leaks in my home. (Fire? Water? What the hell??)  Every time I think, “OK, I got through that.  Now things will get better, right?” I’m faced with a new disaster.  Is this a test?

There's a German TV show I discovered on line called Bernd Das Brot (Bernd, The Bread). It's about this loaf of bread named Bernd who lives a pathetic, ziggy like existence.  Everything bad happens to poor Bernd and his typical refrain is "Mein Leben ist die Holle" (my life is hell).  It's a funny show and the kids and I love to watch it and laugh at this pitiful character.

Right now, I am Bernd.  It's OK, you can still laugh.  I'm laughing too.  I'm laughing hysterically.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA  See?  Because what else can I do?

I’ve been on a personal quest for enlightenment – meditating, thinking positive thoughts, trying to believe the universe really doesn’t have it in for me. 

I HATE you!

Sometimes, like when your world is crashing down around your ears, it's really hard to stay positive.

Yesterday was our five year anniversary living here and I told my son we should celebrate this important milestone.  Things went downhill after that.

I had called a plumber for a possible water leak and after his inspection, was informed the leak was so massive, my entire kitchen would have to be torn apart.  The rest of the day was spent removing dishes from cabinets that were about to be destroyed and watching in horror as my walls were torn apart.  I now have dishes, appliances and miscellaneous clutter piled on the dining table, spilling out into the hallway and into the garage.  My house looks like an episode from Hoarders.  

Now where did I put that can opener?

Think we need a few more glasses and bottles

A disturbing call with my insurance agent suggested they might not cover this astronomical expense.  Reeling from this news, I tried to absorb what the restoration guy was telling me about demolishing my walls, cabinets, and cherished granite counter tops.  I looked over at my son, trying to hold it together, but I’m sure I looked shell shocked.  If I were a 1700’s corset wearing maiden, I would have held my hand to my forehead and swooned dramatically and elegantly to the floor, my billowing (yet stylish) skirts floating around my motionless body. 

What I wanted to do was run outside screaming maniacally like the Tasmanian Devil. 

 My head was spinning, my stomach was churning and I was trying not to cry.

Giant fans, dehumidifiers and air cleaners were hooked up in my kitchen, office and hallway.  They are so unbelievably loud, I can hardly hear the chaos in my brain.

Aw, Home Sweet Home

Kyle came home from school and I tried to talk with him over the roaring fans.  “HOW WAS YOUR DAY?” I shouted at him.  He mouthed something I couldn’t hear and I just smiled and nodded.  I told him what I loved about our house was how quiet and peaceful it is.  “WHAT??” he answered.

Doesn't everyone store their oven in the hallway?

Trying to go about my normal life is interesting, with the roaring fans creating a little tornado effect in my kitchen.  The oven has been pulled out, but I can still use my stove.  I turned the burner on to make some dinner and, with my hair blowing into my face, watched the flames dance dangerously close to my hair and other flammable objects.   Hmmm, seems a little dangerous.  I turned the burner off and used the microwave instead.

This is a test. Only a test...

So welcome to my life.  Now picture me meditating in a Zen like position, breathing deeply, not letting the noise, chaos, clutter, or the whirlwind in my kitchen get to me.  Yes, picture me like that. 

Meanwhile, I will be running down the street screaming.

 All photos, except for the obvious ones of my house are from the internet.

ERNIE

His name is Ernie and he was born in Czechoslovakia in 1930.  We met him when my family moved to Reno, Nevada in the late 1960’s.  Mom and Dad bought a brand new house in the Virginia Foothills area and he and his wife, Rosemarie, were our neighbors. German was their native language, and although their English was fluent, they never lost their charming accents.   My parents became very good friends with them and threw lots of cocktail and dinner parties together, either at their home or ours.  I knew Ernie had lived in Europe during World War II, but he never wanted to talk about it, didn't want to relive unspeakable memories.  
 They both had wonderful senses of humor, were irreverent, and highly entertaining. I can still see Rosemarie sitting by the fireplace in our living room, gesturing with her cocktail glass as she told some off color joke.  I hear her boisterous, throaty laughter as she delivered the punch line.

Aunt Doris with Rosemarie, 1999

 I babysat their son and daughter along with my own little sister for a while, and when I was 15, Ernie got me my first job in a restaurant downtown he was managing.  He was a highly sought after employee and held prestigious positions as a Maitre‘d in some of the largest casinos in Reno and Tahoe through the years.  He met all the famous headliners, including Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr., and I loved hearing his stories about celebrities.  Sometimes my parents would take us out to dinner where he was working and I was impressed with his elegant attire, his confidence and poise.  He had no problem telling his employers if he was displeased and would not tolerate being talked down to. I think he changed jobs a lot.

After I spent a year in Germany, I was able to talk to Ernie and Rosemarie in their native language.  I eventually moved to San Diego, but always enjoyed visiting them when I came back to see my parents.

After Dad died in 1999, they both tried to reach out to Mom, but she was having her own issues and their friendship fell apart.  

When the Witchcreek Fire came barreling through our neighborhood in 2007, Rosemarie called my cell phone to make sure we were OK.  When I told her we’d lost our home, and I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things we’d lost, Rosemarie recited an old German proverb:  “If you’re always looking in the rearview mirror, you won’t get very far.”  

Ernie said, "Yes, it's bad that you lost everything, but imagine losing your home and seeing other people walking down the street wearing your own clothes."

When Mom died in 2008, they came to her funeral, and Rosemarie slipped in the snow and fell, injuring her leg.  This led to some serious infections, major illnesses and her eventual death last year.  Ernie was by her side until the very end and I know this must be a lonely time for him now.  He told my sister he wasn’t interested in dating any of the single women he’s met.  “If I want to look at wrinkles, I can just look in the mirror!”

Over Christmas vacation, my son and I drove to Reno where my sister is now living in our parents’ old house. 

Laura is glad to be back "home"

 I invited Ernie up for dinner one night and he seemed very happy to spend a few hours with us. 

My parents' house brought back many memories for him and he said how said it was that my mom and dad and his Rosemarie were no longer with us.  It was a very memorable evening, as Ernie entertained us with the fascinating story of his life and how he came to live in the US.  
 

Czechoslovakia, 1945, Internet photo

He was 15 when the war ended in 1945 and, he said, that’s when things got really ugly in his hometown.  The Czech gorilla army arrested his father and beat him so severely, he was never the same again. 
 

Internet photo

Ernie and his mom were forced to leave their home and all their possessions behind.  They were homeless for a while and scrappy Ernie found work wherever he could. They were starving. He remembered knocking on a neighbor's door - the building looked fine from the outside, but when the woman opened her front door, Ernie saw that there was no roof and no walls, just the facade. 
 

Theresienstadt, Czechoslovakia,during World War II.  Internet photo

He wandered to a neighboring town one day and saw a childhood friend standing in a window.  He called out to him and said he was so hungry and did he have any food.  Ludwig welcomed him inside, said he worked for a restaurant and could get him food.  His friend fed him, got him a job, and so began Ernie’s career in the food industry. 

Things eventually got better and Ernie moved, first to Canada, then to California in the 1950's where he fell in love and married the lovely Rosemarie.  They eventually moved to Reno and settled into the house where he still lives.   His parents were able to come visit him there too once or twice.

As I listened to him recall the atrocities of war and his efforts to survive, it became clear to me why he is so strong, resilient, and why he would never put up with someone talking down to him.  Why would he?  When you have seen and survived horror, why tolerate anything or anyone you don't like?

Ernie has a slender build and has always been fit and agile. He is in his 80’s now and retired, but still keeps very active, hiking through the Nevada hills with his German Shorthaired dog, and hunting.   
 

Looks like Ernie's dog. Internet photo

 Still, we were concerned about him walking home in the dark that cold night.  We offered to drive him or walk with him but he was adamant that he was perfectly capable of walking alone.  When we kept insisting, he pulled a small gun out of his pocket to show us he was prepared for any trouble!

Internet photo

 Ernie, you are my hero.

WAS IT ANY GOOD AT ALL?

My sister and I enjoyed making fun of certain annoying phrases Mom always said.  These were standard Mom-isms she would repeat over and over throughout our lives.  Just as normal as

 “IF THE KIDS IN YOUR CLASS ALL JUMPED OFF A CLIFF, WOULD YOU DO IT TOO??"

  came these gems:

 “And there‘s NOTHING you can do.”

 “I just about FLAT give up”, and 

“Well was it ANY GOOD AT ALL?” 

This last one was her way of fishing for compliments after a meal she had worked hard on.  Laura and I would roll our eyes across the table from each other and mutter,” Yes Mom, it was great.”  I mean, obviously it was good because we had just scarfed all of it.  We were highly annoyed at her obvious need for attention.  She was a great cook and always put a lot of effort into  making everything perfect.  Since she wasn’t good at delegating, all the work fell to her.  Sometimes in frustration she would demand help only to criticize when it wasn’t done exactly to her specifications.  So we sort of steered clear while she was in her frenzy mode of cooking and assembling. 

Earlier this week, I had a light bulb moment.    Today for the first time, I get it.  

It was suddenly Christmas, the culmination of a month long effort to clean and decorate the house, put my annual party together, buy the perfect gifts, wrap them in pretty paper and bows, ship some, and place the others lovingly under the tree.   Cookies were baked, cards were written, and of course everything had to be completed by the 12/24 deadline.  Just like Mom, I'm no good at delegating either, so I'm kind of an exhausted mess by the time Christmas is over.  Still, I love this time of year and spend all my time, energy and money into trying to make it all perfect, even though it never is.

This is another reason why Christmas Vacation is my favorite movie.  

No matter how screwed up our holiday is, at least our tree didn't blow up and the SWAT team didn't come smashing through our windows.  The dog didn't chase a squirrel through our house or yak on a bone under the table, and our pets weren't  electrocuted.  Yes, I'd say we had a pretty good Christmas in comparison.  Whew.

Cookie baking time!

Family traditions are important.  They are supposed to create comforting memories to last you a lifetime.  Our traditions include baking sugar cookies together (for Santa of course), going to a church service on Christmas Eve, and everyone coming to my house for oyster stew.  

This is a tradition passed down from Mom; something I always loved and my sister did not.  She texted me from Reno, "Are you making your barfy oyster stew?"  Offended, I texted her back, "You've never had mine and it's not barfy!" Her reply: "All oyster stew is barfy!" 

So, yes, I served my barfy oyster stew and everyone loved it.  Take that, Sister!

My kids' father still thinks it's important to read "The Night Before Christmas" after dinner, even though our kids are young adults now!  

 

Chester, Kyle and Chelsea listen intently

I think he just enjoys performing but it's still fun to watch and is somehow comforting, as if we could be transported back in time to when they were little and still believed in Santa.

 

Shh! I think I hear Santa!

My son and I enjoyed our Christmas morning together.  I served the traditional Christmas morning hot toddy as we opened presents, another of Mom's traditions. (Kind of an alcoholic one, but still cherished.)  I love the smell of bourbon on Christmas morning.

Kyle especially enjoyed unwrapping this present from his cousin, lovingly wrapped in duct tape. Boys.

 Kyle and I had a good laugh when we discovered we had bought the same present for each other from Barnes and Nobles.  Great minds think alike?  

Doesn't everybody want a book on strange German words??

The rest of the day was spent cleaning up and putting a fabulous dinner together for my ex, his brother, my daughter and two of her friends.  I prepared the prime rib according to The Pioneer Woman’s recipe, crushing peppercorns and kosher salt, and staring nervously through the oven window, ready to yank it out when it reached medium rare.

Apparently, none of my meat thermometers work. This one indicated the meat was well done so I quickly pulled it out of the oven about an hour before my guests arrived.  There’s nothing worse than  dried out, overdone meat, and I was scared I had overcooked it. "Please don't be too well done!" I prayed silently over it.

However, when it was time to eat and we cut into it, my beautiful roast was clearly underdone and I was forced to crank up the oven and shove it back in for another 40 minutes. 

I tried to make casual, entertaining conversation with people who were obviously starving while the back of my mind was screaming in terror, “Cook, damnit!”

I'm starving!

Pepper, contemplating a Tangerine snack

 

Is it ready yet??

 My dinner was delayed almost two hours and then I sat on the edge of my chair, watching as my guests chewed on expensive beef that was just a little too tough.

I had to really restrain myself from asking that dreaded question I had always scorned and thought I would never ever ask: 

“Well is it any good at all?”

No, no!  I wasn't going to say that!   I tried other tactics, casually apologizing for it not being as good as I thought it should be, fishing around nonchalantly for information from the masses.  They all acted like they didn’t notice it wasn’t perfect but I knew better and was so disappointed. 

After everyone left, I tried delicately quizzing my son on his thoughts on the meal, but he got impatient, and just said, "It was fine, Mom" in a tone that said THIS IS BORING. PLEASE DON'T ASK ME ANY MORE QUESTIONS.

Please stop asking me things

And then it hit me.  I’m just like Mom!  I need that feedback.  I NEED TO KNOW (oh my God that’s something else she always said!) that all my hard work and efforts were admired and appreciated. 

My prime rib, which I’ve never had a problem cooking before, was a disaster in my eyes.  My family is broken and dysfunctional and I could go on and on about everything wrong in my life, but I’m on a quest to focus on the positive.  (insert maniacal laughter here.)  

Still, it’s hard not to fret about whether my efforts were in vain.  Did they really like the dinner?  Does my life have any positive impact on those around me?  

I guess I’ll never know.  I don’t have an angel like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life to show me all the wonderful ways I’ve saved people just by being alive.  I suppose, like me, my kids won’t appreciate their mom’s eccentricities until I’ve been dead and gone a long time.  Was I a good Mom? Did I give them pleasant memories?  Did I live a meaningful life? 

 I will never know ...

 Was it any good at all?