Unloading the Wife and Keeping the Mistress

*The following is not part of a class assignment.  I was exploring how other types of writing appeared on the page.

After a carefully considered plot, we unloaded the “wife” and “mistress.” Got rid of her straight out—sold her in a crass bidding war at the top of the market—like a demeaning pirate hocking her ‘larboard side’. The archaic etymology doesn’t matter near as much as its emotional content. And my love of all things Darwin including our beagle named after the Voyage demands the connection. Larboard refers to the port side of a merchant vessel on which they are loaded. Apparently calling out larboard in the wind sounded too much like starboard, so the Captain of Darwin’s HMS Beagle, Robert FitzRoy, taught his crew to use the term port side instead of larboard, and the use of port side officially replaced larboard in Navy vernacular. The best part is that the larboard side is marked by a red navigation light at night. How loaded it that—and here we were selling off my entanglement.

Unlike Anne Fadimen in her familiar essay on “Moving,” I did get into bed with our “weekend country home.” Ours was a clerestory ski chalet among the “Big Trees.” It was a full on love affair. As these tangled things go, I was ready to unload the “wife” long before I was ready to give up the “mistress.”

By strange coincidence with another of Fadimen's essays, we too inherited our “Piece of Cotton” with our new liaison. Perhaps Fadimen unearthed an unwritten rule that says the colors flown at one home should permanently remain as part of its provenance. We flew our flag whenever we were in residence with the lady. While my husband and I unloaded the car, the first thing the boys clamored to do was race to the closet to secure the flag to place on the deck railing. We were barely to the top of the stairs with our heavy loads, when the boys pushed past and set the door-harp a-tinkling in their race to be first. The warm tones of the harp string announced our arrival, but the flag signaled their own personal claim. We carried out the flag ritual for nearly seventeen years. I’m surprised no one looted the place when it was so clear when it would be safe. Gradually the time between door harp notes grew longer—their announcement barely specified a score—and capturing the flag became another outgrown blanket.

But like any lover who is not ready for the end, I held on to the fantasy the place inspired. The hiking, the fly-fishing, the skiing, the snowed in history-channel marathons, the roaring fire, the pine and the cedar, the eating and playing and talking out on the large deck, the summer creeks, and the reading. My beloved reading. Up early with a cup of coffee in my favorite chair while everyone slept in for hours. Oh, the glorious serenity that was all mine. Not a mom here, nor even a wife. No shoulds or musts competing for my attention. Just freedom and respite. Room to be. Where I in fact became more of a mom and more of a wife. Our second one may plug his ears to this fact, but I carefully constructed this affectionate nest…the inviting feather beds and turned down comforters…the giant redwood table for Yahtzee, Cribbage, and more…the hand-made bunk beds with my “transcendentalists” set alongside…my comfortable “come join me here” denim furniture bought before the trend…and the playful dark green carpet with domino dots of color inviting their tummy tracks. Yes, the cabin was my boundless place—my "Mother Road"—my inspired Route 66 stretching across the US.

Such thought and care went into the place that I became rather a pain about sharing it. Not to over do the whole lover trope, but I really did fuss over it. I loved everything from staining the deck to hammering the warped winter boards to selecting another book for my inner Muir. I meant to have people enjoying it, and I felt really generous at first. But when friends or relatives borrowed it and then broke things or took things and failed to arrange things the way I left them, I’m ashamed to admit that I quietly collapsed their calendar. It wasn’t just that their infractions added to my list of responsibilities; I felt betrayed like discovering some damned lipstick on a collar. I knew someone had been there, and they were diminishing my experience of the place. It irked me that they had time to enjoy it while I was busy with routine affairs.

I sensed my time with it was slipping. The roof was leaking they reported back to me. One forgot to turn off the water at the spigot a few days ago. Another just broke open the garage door after forgetting his key that my enthusiastic Dad made for every family member without my knowledge. The other that did remember his key broke it off in the door. No I didn’t know the coffee maker was broken. Adding insult, our boys were naturally growing interested in other commitments, and our beagle tethered my excitement. The cabin was losing its appeal. I sensed the end. Our oldest was going off to college soon, and the time was near. We had always planned to sell the cabin to pay for our boys’ college education.

Perhaps it explains why I broke down in “blubbery” tears when the new couple who out-bid the others by a large margin—saying they loved the furniture and wanted the cabin just as it was and were willing to buy everything including the dishes—simply junked the flag at the end of the driveway atop their moving box refuse. How could this be? Didn’t they see the possibilities of the place held in the symbol they were tossing aside? After September 11, I had even driven up to the cabin to procure the flag to fly at home for a time after our national loss.  My attachment to the place and this symbol-of-my-affection was so strong that I was unprepared for their callous disregard. I broke down into heaving tears. The soul-turned-inside-out type normally reserved for the loss of a loved one.

I was uncharacteristically mad. I did the whole scorned bit. I refused to turn over my favorite pieces of furniture. I threatened to not sign the final deal. We thought we had arranged a proper transfer like we received when we first bought the cabin from another family who had to sell it because their daughter had cancer. We promised to honor their home and make it a happy place. I wanted that ritual too—I felt I needed it to let go—not this top bid hustle. I hadn’t yet understood the college good byes that were complicating the mess. But I sensed their approach. The loss seemed a double blow. While the sale made our son’s college education affordable, and I do not begrudge that for a single moment, it also marked the end of his needing me to help him zip into his fat snowsuit, to warm his sore frozen fingers in my hands, or to tuck him in with Twain’s Book for Bad Boys and Bad Girls. I was utterly unprepared for this loss.