Last night, I was tidying up my kitchen. The glass storage containers go in the dishwasher. The BVA free lids must be hand washed. I dislike seeing holes in my fancy K-pod holder, so that gets refilled or, at least, repositioned so that the empty spaces are in the back. I prep the celery used to make my disgusting celery juice at night, so that there is one less excuse I can use the next morning. That way, I just pop it into my fancy juicer and, unfortunately for my taste buds, drink it all up. The counter gets a wipe down. The cats get treats. I have found that this helps my infernal insomnia, this kitchen routine. It’s one less thing to worry about while I’m worrying about whether I will sleep. As my pillow supported head ticks off all the things I failed at today, I can end each mental sentence with “but the kitchen looks great.” Anyway, mid-routine, my phone rang. I looked at the screen with glee, seeing my daughter-in-law’s name and that odd iPhone configuration that lets you know it’s a FaceTime call. I was about to enter into an amazing conversation with my grandchildren. But, those calls generally start out the same way. I say hello. My daughter-in-law says, “What are you doing?” My son, off in the background, yells out, “Probably watching some YouTube video about people living in buses.” He knows me well.
I fully realize what people see when they look at me. I’m a ducks in a row kinda gal. I rarely deviate from my routine. I crave structure. Every day is the same: wake up/ dogs go out/dogs get a treat/ dog gets meds/dogs eat. If you want to see a woman go crazy, suggest I work out before I make my bed, try to make me drink coffee before I feed the cats, or suggest that lip gloss goes on before eyebrows. It just won’t compute. Yet, I am OBSESSED with alternative housing, aka professional gypsyism. (That is a spontaneously created word. I like it.) So, why does someone who drinks a wild blueberry smoothie at precisely noon each day long to live a bohemian lifestyle that, in its very definition, seems decidedly unstructured and dangerously willy-nilly? I’m not sure I have an answer, but I can probably form a decent hypothesis. It’s funny, the way we begin to truly understand a person, but not until they leave us permanently. I see so many beautiful contrasts in my mother’s being. She was scared, yet she did brave things. She was gentle, but so forceful in movement and voice. And, she, too, was painfully structured and yet totally wild and free. I wish she were here next to me so I could tell her that thinking of her now is like looking through a gorgeous kaleidoscope. I understand, finally. Maybe opposites attract, even in our own personalities. Maybe we are our own yin and yang. A lioness is so gentle with her cubs and so vicious with the straggling wildebeest, all in the same hour. I see so much of my mother in me. Maybe I can’t drink a smoothie at 12:05 pm, but I can birth babies in my home. Perhaps an unmade bed will be my undoing, but I know how to do cool things like make breads and nut milks from scratch. If you need someone to bounce into a fundraiser and cajole fortunes from the masses, don’t call me. But, if you need help propagating your plants or making organic vegan yogurt from coconut milk, I’m your girl.
My father’s best friend was Big John Swindle. I thought everyone called him Big John, but, in retrospect, I think it was just my father. He was a fireman, an entrepreneur, and a larger-than-life guy. He was insanely tall, to little girl me, at least. His booming laugh could rattle windows. He was an inherited friend for my mom, as my father and his first wife had also been great friends with the Swindles. And, he had a converted school bus. My father, the king of practicality, poo-pooed the bus conversion idea on spec. He told Big John not to waste his money or his time on such a frivolous thing. Yet, week by week, it kept looking less like the bus that stopped each morning at Rural Route 2 Box 378 (my childhood address – try memorizing that in 1st grade) and more like a hippie, crunchy, caravan of epic 70s proportion. I was mesmerized. I recall telling my father how much I loved that bus and how I hoped we could get one, too. My father responded by telling me that the bus was sure to be the ruination of his friend. Why, wait until that transmission goes out. Wait until winter, when all that exposed plumbing freezes. Even though I never took a ride in that magic school bus, it clearly left a mark on my soul. Turns out, lots of YouTubers feel the same way. They’re called Skoolies now. The converted versions sell for insane amounts. The aficionados who own them raise the roofs for ease in walking. They add solar panels and deck gardens on the roof. They build in actual bathtubs & string hammocks from the ceiling. Turns out, your fancy juicers and coffeemakers work just fine in a skoolie. You can meander from state park to state park. You can boondock to your heart’s desire. You can wake up somewhere new every day. Just don’t forget to make your bed after you feed the cats. Also, I gotta go. It’s 11:55. Time to make the smoothie.
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