Somebody rang my phone at 2:30 am this morning. It was a wrong number but it took me a long
time to go back to sleep. Memories
started parading by and it occurred to me that unless I wrote some of them down
they will be lost in a decaying pile of past events too far gone for identification,
much like the old movies that get lost in some Hollywood warehouse.
When you are our age there are so many events struggling for
dwindling memory space. However, some memories are iconic and losing them
diminishes the value of one’s personal journey. The introductory opening to
what I consider my current stage of life is the movie that played first in
these wee hours.
It started when I came back from Denver to Taos late in
September 2005 after helping my mom wrap up the sale of her home of 59
years. Of course, there was a lot more
to it than that, and all the connected pieces bobbed to the surface at once. This Habitat for Humanity house that PQ and I
live in now was then still under construction and before leaving for Denver, I struggled
to acquire a few more of the required hours of labor by painting the inside of
all the closets and corners and edges in both bedrooms. I hurried but didn’t
have time to start the living room. I sensed
that I wouldn’t have another chance to work on my house for an indefinite
period of time. Since there wasn’t any running water yet, I brought a
bucket of water along to rinse the brushes. This simple event clings to my
memory even though the facts are trivia.
I can still feel the rocks in my stomach, as I headed out to
take on the unavoidable monster of change, a dragon that dwelt on the other side of this big mountain that I was in no condition to climb. PQ’s father, Joe J. Suazo, whom we all called dad had just been
admitted to Holy Cross Hospital. We all knew it was serious. He barely
recognized his dear friend Diane, who made a special trip back to Taos to see
him, and as I looked through the window behind him at the colorful Taos sunset,
I found myself praying that I would make it back before he passed. Then I left
for Denver.
Mom’s move was everything I dreaded it would be plus a
few things I didn’t anticipate. We only had three weeks to undo 59 years of
memory and accumulation. After that loomed the task of setting her up in her
new digs. I took the two cats along because I knew the stay would be indefinite.
I had some help here and there from my Cousins, but they had other things to
attend, like jobs and families. I wasn’t ready for this ordeal but as an only
child, I was automatically responsible for this project. Have you ever noticed that
life changes don’t come in orderly progression but pile up like snow on an
avalanche prone mountainside?
Next came a blur of disorganized memory clips. One was the
yard sale with sadly disappointing results due to changes in the neighborhood during
the 14 years since holding a similar sale before my move to Taos. Mom had a lot
of nice stuff, but not many buyers came to this sale. We ended up leaving most of her belongings in
the garage for the new owners to dispose of as they pleased. In Taos, I still
lived in the small old Adobe Casita on Upper Ranchitos and certainly couldn’t
afford to move this stuff to Taos and rent storage space. Thankfully, mom
decided to rent a storage space in Denver so that I would have some needed furniture when my
Habitat house was finished.
My dear friend Rachel helped clean mom’s two refrigerators and the a freezer full of five-year-old
peaches and long expired items bought on sale for a future that never came.
We took items from old cabinets, closets and storage sheds, carried what seemed
like hundreds of trash bags to the street for trash pickup, and found a seller
of used books willing to go through a library that contained lots of mom's Christian
literature that he didn’t take, and lots of books that I had collected before
leaving home. In the desperation of a time crunch, I had to let many things go
that I once looked forward to someday owning. Among these was a collection of National Geographic magazines dating back to 1949. At one time the basement flooded and I took the pages apart one by one to save them. But this time I had to let go and leave them to an unknown fate.
I drew a furniture layout for
her new apartment, and with the help of my cousin’s husband and grandson, moved
her in. Then I met the movers at the old place to deal with everything that
went to storage.Forgive me if I brag about how well I planned out her new apartment, it was one of the few things that came out right and gave me the courage to keep going.
I’m just now recalling what it was like going through many
files and desk drawers for anything that might be important. Several times, I
suffered brain freeze in the presence of years of accumulated papers. After that
came the task of setting up new accounts and closing old ones. I got a cell phone for mom so that we could
stay in touch with each other and all the people involved in both the move and setting
up the new apartment.
Mom’s old house lay
on half an acre of land, with a garage, a full basement, an attic and three
outbuildings full of dad’s tools, mowers, power tools and junk that he thought
he might have use for someday. While cleaning out the garage I discovered that
if dad couldn’t find a tool he bought another one. There were multiple screwdrivers, hammers,
saws and blades, plus canning jars in half a dozen places full of screws and
nails of every size. To complicate things, our restless relatives tended to
leave furniture and other items that didn’t fit in their current abode with mom
and dad to store until needed in a time that never came, and then there were
grandma’s things that no one had gone through since she passed.
My cats had a nervous breakdown. This house had always
been their home away from home and as sure as if a tornado struck it was coming
apart. Rugs were jerked from under them,
their favorite chairs suddenly disappeared and strange loud men stomped through
the house carrying frightful boxes. I decided to sacrifice
the bed in my old bedroom to the new owners because it was the only place left
for Joe and Missy to hide. Missy never fully recovered from this kitty hell.
She went down rapidly afterwards, lost weight, looked scraggly and started
peeing on the carpet when we got back to our Taos casita. Both of them were
edgy about every move I made for a long time. Now I can admit that I felt just as devastated
as they did. Like small children, animals act out the true state of things.
My life's original skin was peeling away and my emotions
were in the turmoil of fear, grief and ecstasy. It was a kind of death and reincarnation
experience, but not a gentle one. Remembering this time, I can now see that
every scene was a hologram of my entire life and I chose this theme to write about
because it chose me last night.
Finally, we all moved over to the new apartment. I remember
that night feeling like the strange calm after a disaster when you discover
that you are still alive and it’s time to give thanks and start over. We stopped at a pet store on the way to the
new apartment and I purchased a kitty bed and some catnip to put under the new
bed. Mom held Missy on her lap while I
was in the store. They always got along well and I could see that it was
comforting to both of them. Joe crouched in a corner of the van, eyes wide with
fear and confusion. Finally, it was over.
Oops, not quite! Although I’d
mentioned it several times, mom forgot to leave the old house keys for the new
owners. After dropping off her and the
cats, I had to go back to the old house and place its key under the front door
mat.
The next night Linda called to say I’d better get back to
Taos as soon as possible. Dad, (Joe J. Suazo) was beginning his final
journey. When I arrived in Taos, I
dropped the cats off at the casita and drove immediately to PQ’s house on the
reservation where Mom and Dad had been staying since he left the hospital.
However, he’d already asked the family to take him to the pueblo house to make
his transition to the mountain. When I
arrived there, he was no longer conscious but his spirit filled the room surrounding
the friends and family gathered in that ancient living room.
Two transitions emerged on this sleepless night, and now that I’ve honored the process
and memory, it occurs to me that there
are micro lives within the life of one being. Perhaps it is an illusion that there is even a single life.
There are so many changes from infancy to old age. Only the chain of memory holds them together
so that we can tell our stories.
