Moving On

I moved to Kansas City in 2018. I should say we but, I haven’t introduced my wife to this blog. Her name is Sara and if you want to know all about her check out her blog. It is an unflinching look at her life, her spirit, and how her past and present are taking their toll or giving her all the blessings. It just depends on how you take it.

So, we moved to KC in 2018. Yeah, right on time to get settled in for the pandemic. By the time of lockdown I’d already chewed through two meaningless jobs. Probably the only thing I did during that time of any consequence was volunteering for a local charity that I won’t name. When I first approached them I was looking for something to do with my time that seemed a little more meaningful than providing customer service to people with more money than brains. With this charity I spent four or five hours every Saturday morning tending plants at the charity’s greenhouses aimed at resolving one of Kansas City’s many food deserts or working on one of their many residential properties they maintained for the low income residents of that neighborhood. 

After we’d been in KC for a year our lease was up and we were a little sick of living in a multifloored apartment building in a faceless, midtown neighborhood. Instead of signing up for another year there, I approached the owner of the charity. I’d come to like the neighborhood in northeast KC that they served and I knew that they had a few vacant properties to sell or rent. We struck a deal and moved into a tiny little house about five blocks away from the charity’s headquarters. After a year of apartment living we suddenly had a yard, a washer and dryer right there where we kept our boots and bikes instead of a laundromat 2 miles away, four unshared walls, and our very own driveway.

Now, I’m not the best neighbor you could imagine. I’m quiet, at least I think I am. I can only guess but, I imagine that from other’s perspective I can seem secretive or maybe even suspect. Suspect of what, I don’t know. I just know that when I try to withdraw and not offend in most situations this tactic backfires and I become a subject of some attention and negative speculation. The more I withdraw, the more I seem to be up to something.

To be a neighbor, one must exist in a neighborhood. This neighborhood was largely hispanic. Sara and I thought that we could fit in by quietly living our little lives and doing our best to not interfere. Our neighbors, on the other hand, were joyously loud and involved in each other’s lives. Brothers got brothers places to live nearby, children grew up and moved into the house on the next corner. Birthdays, especially those of young girls, were huge affairs that involved huge cookouts with hired musicians, fireworks, light displays, and dancing long into the night. This was before marijuana was widely legal and available in Missouri. Any holiday, be it secular or Catholic, meant that the streets in our little part of the world were heavy with the smell of pot. I swore that on some occasions I could literally see a haze of the sweet smoke traveling up and down the streets like a silent specter.

Sara and I were living our best lives then. She had a job at a dog day care, the perfect nexus of her biggest passion and her need of a job. She would often come home with tales of this or that delightful misadventure with her dogs. I found a job working from home for a company that provided medical supplies for folks on medicare. In the mornings I was riding my bike regularly, striving to add one more mile to yesterday’s ride. Mind you, we were still drinking like fishes and it was from this house that I would enjoy the first of what would turn out to be many hospital visits due to my internal organs revolting to the booze. I’ll just say that Sara and the teams of EMTs that she beckoned on my behalf saved my life more than a few times. If hospitals had punch cards I’d be owed a free sandwich by now. We don’t need to dwell on that now.

By the time the pandemic was real we were firmly nestled in our bungalow. I had a vegetable garden in the back and flowers in the front. Predictably, our neighbors had begun to dislike us. Well, they’d begun to dislike me. They probably wondered why such a sweet women as Sara would put up with an asshole like me. I’m not sure I have a healthy enough self-perspective to give you an honest assessment of my role. Let’s just say that none of us behaved well and, by the time we left, everyone was glad to see the back of me.

Here’s one little scrap that doesn’t have much to do with me: That charity I mentioned above was a bit rudderless. What had started as a well meaning food charity slowly began making of its owner a minor real estate baron in that low income neighborhood. I don’t have many details. It seems that the house-flipping scheme - let’s admit that’s what it was - was just supposed to be a side thing to underpin the food charity. In time, the housing arm began to demand more and more the owner’s attention. It all ended after a dramatic weekend where half a dozen cop cars with lights whirling surrounded the owner’s comparatively grand house in the neighborhood. We never knew what happened but, several months later I found a piece written by the owner after the dissolution of the charity. It didn’t mention the charity; it was a Kaczynskiesque screed about the powers that be and the end of our socio-economic system. 

The pandemic was hard on us all.

Now, we live in another apartment in North Kansas City. This one is much more livable. We’re on the ground floor with a decent patio and laundry just one floor downstairs. Most of our neighbors are as reclusive as us so everyone happily minds their own business. 

Pipe Pouch

This is one of my favorite things. It’s a pipe pouch made of deerskin. It has a slot along the top for storing pipe cleaners, a little pouch on the inside for my pipe tools and lighter, and a nifty string that goes around it to wrap it up tight. It also has a stain on the front flap so I can “tell people you stole it off a dead cowboy.”

That’s from the homeless guy who made it for me.

I met him in the courtyard of a coffee shop on the corner of a busy-ish street in downtown Cape Girardeau. It was the summer of 2016. I stopped in for a latte and to gather my nerves. He was sitting at one of the tables outside with a whole manner of crafty shit spread out in front of him. He told me how he wouldn’t sell any of his bow and arrow sets until he had shot the bow 70 times. He told me how he made and then broke in the moccasins he was selling to passers-by.

I visited at that shop a few more times that summer and I was always glad when he was there. We talked about politics, religion, sex, and all the other stuff you’re not supposed to talk about in casual company. Meanwhile, his dog, a lab named Ginger, would dash around and harass the other customers. They didn’t mind, she was a sweet dog who just wanted to say hi. Nevertheless, our conversations were constantly interrupted with him yelling, “Ginger, get over here! Leave that lady alone.”

Maybe the third time we met, and after watching him make moccasin after moccasin, I told him that my pipe case had recently fallen apart and maybe he could make me a new one. He was all over it.

A few days later he had it done. It was perfect.

We continued to get together. He told me about the time he got a bad cut on his leg on the road in Wichita. It went septic and he had to spend time in the hospital, which he hated. I told him about my recent divorce and my plans for the future. All the while he was yelling at his dog - “Ginger, stop that!” - and stitching leather.

He drifted away at the end of the summer.

A month later I met a ginger with a bunch of dogs, one of which was named Ginger. We got married the next year.

Anyway, this pipe pouch is one of my favorite things.

Teddy Bear

I like to give people rides. If I see someone hoofing it and the stars are aligned I’ll pull over and offer them a lift. It’s a good way to meet some interesting people.

The last time was a couple of days ago, December 26, Boxing Day, to be exact. I really don’t know what Boxing Day is, exactly, I just know it’s a thing in some English speaking countries.

Anyway, because of the holidays I got off work earlier than expected. It was mid-afternoon and there was a heavy fog nestled on Kansas City. I took a meandering route home, stopping occasionally to take pictures.

Once I’d had enough and just wanted to get home I pointed my car north - couch-ward. I was in a part of town that I didn’t know well. I saw a woman loaded down with backpacks, bags, and satchels. I noticed a long loaf of bread poking out of one of her bags. This is a woman who’s been shopping and, for whatever reason, is having to walk home on a chilly, damp day. This is a person to whom I should give a ride, I told myself.

Her story was different.

“Do you want a ride?”

“Oh, yes, sir!”

There was no hesitation. No, ‘Are you sure?’ Just ‘Hells yah!'

She danced around to the passenger side and, without adjusting any of her ponderous baggage, dropped herself into the seat. Face-forward, she didn’t say anything as if I knew where she needed to go. I drove in the general direction she had been walking until the first stop sign.

“Which way?”

Meanwhile my phone’s GPS was barking rerouting instructions. It was muffled and frantic under the pile of stuff I’d chucked in the back seat in order to give her room.

“Left.”

“Oh, my name is Bryce, by the way.”

We shook hands. Silence.

“And, what’s your name?”

“I don’t remember.”

It’s wasn’t bread in her bag. It was a teddy bear. I realized she wasn’t bringing shopping home. This was everything she owned. She didn’t shift her bags when she sat down because they are always on her. She wears them like clothing.

Her face was mottled and weathered. She was young, probably early thirties, but she’d been living hard for a long time.

“Do you want some water?”

“No.”

“I have some food. I have a peanut butter and jelly if you’d like.”

“No. Do you have any drugs?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Any pot?”

Isn’t pot a drug?

“No, sorry, I don’t have anything like that.”

“Oh. Left.”

We took three lefts. I wondered if she was leading me into some kind of ambush. Just for a moment. Of course she wasn’t. What would be the plan there? Wander the streets with all your possessions on your back until some naive dude picks you up then steal, what, his driver’s license?

Finally, she said turn right. I said I can’t, it’s one way the other way.

“It’s just a sign.”

I looked around. This was an empty part of the city. The few houses were boarded up, crumbling. The right turn led us to a T intersection. Straight ahead was a path leading into a wooded area. The path was littered with moldy clothing, an abandoned shopping cart, trash bags...you’ve seen it.

“This is it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. My partner is in there. Come with me. We’ll party. He wants to meet you. He talks better than me.”

“Oh, thanks. I can’t. I need to get home.”

I regretted saying the H-word immediately.

“Yeah, come on. He can tell you.”

“Isn’t there somewhere else I can take you? Do you know somewhere warm?”

“No, I’m safe here.”

She asked me where I lived. I gave her a vague description of the house that Sara and I are renting. She asked about Sara and, again, invited us to stop by to party.

Playing with the buttons on the radio she asked how much I paid for the car. I told her. She said it’s nice. It’s warm. I let her sit for a while. I held her hand for a little bit. She looked like someone who needed to be touched.

I hope it helped.

She broke my heart. She was clearly confused, probably drug addled. I told her to please stay warm. I only had three dollars on me, which I gave her along with a lighter. She was far more grateful for the lighter.

I watched her walk up the path to whatever it is that is her place. She disappeared into the trees.

Second Hand Therapy

 I need a teapot.

Please don't get too invested in that idea. You will be disappointed.

Still, I need a teapot. Two weeks ago I had a very nice teapot. Well, I had a teapot that fit my very specific requirements. I like whistlers. Don't judge me I just like it when they whistle. I also want a kettle with a lid, which can be a problem. A lot of whistlers on the market these days only have the neck with a tight-fitted cap which facilitates the whistling. The combination of a wide, equally tight-fitted lid and a whistling neck isn't always the easiest thing to find.

But, like I said, up until two weeks ago, I had one of those. It took me a few years to find it. Besides those specifications, it had to have the right look. Simple, clean, classic – it can be a troublesome equation and I'd solved it. Then, my wife, my love and companion of +20 years asked me to move out and, as is her nature, very efficiently organized our divorce.

I take kitchens very seriously. I'll drive a POS vehicle for years and never give it another thought but if a kitchen I'm associated with is out of order in any way, I will not rest until the problem is rectified. So, in packing up my belongings, I could not bring myself to remove the perfect kettle that I'd found for that kitchen, even if it left me without one.

Which brings us back to the frustrating truth that I need a teapot.

This afternoon I stopped in on a local 2^nd hand shop to find my teapot. In the meantime, my friend, Beth, was asking me to explain fractions to her. (We can talk about my choice of friends later.) I think I helped but, whether I did or not, I entertained myself by sending her some silly pictures of the stuff I found in the shop. I found a rack stuffed with bad ties and snapped a picture with the caption: All The Ties! There was a basket full of thin vases for $5. My caption for this was: I was hoping for a bag of dicks but a basket of vases will probably work.

I'm clever. My friends are lucky to have me.

There is an extensive collection of old, classy clothes in one section of this shop. I'm not what one would call a classy dresser but I like to slow down and admire the racks when I'm there. There's a wall there with nothing but ladies' hats. It's really stunning. I texted: All The Hats and lifted my phone to get the best angle to capture the amazing array of hats.

Just as I was just about to snap the picture...

Wait, first this. Among the beautiful, generations removed clothing and accessories I spotted the piece I would have to have. It's a heavy, cotton weave messenger bag. It's 70 years old if it's a day. It's busted to hell, worn and shredded on every corner. Still it's well made and despite it's state, there isn't a hole or flaw in it that would challenge it's functionality. As I admired it, I felt something in a side pocket. I stuck a finger in and pulled out a buckeye. How do I not buy that right then, right there?

Well, because my cash on hand was a dollar short, that's how.

Oh, well, I thought, maybe I'll come back later and grab it. Then I saw the hats...

I was ready to snap the picture when, from around the far corner, stepped a woman. At first, I truly believed that I was seeing one of the comically comely mannequins that the proprietors like to scatter throughout the shop. She was slender yet shapely and wore a snug, silk dress that would have been the jewel of the classic, outdated collection in this shop. It was tan, the color of stained pine, with a floral print in reds and greens, slightly and beautifully faded with age.

She was younger than me but I won't venture a guess how much. She had a beautiful smile and so happy eyes. Her skin was the blackest of black, gorgeously threatening to make the exquisite silk dress seem drab.

I never got that perfectly framed picture of the wall of hats.

Instead, after seeing my fellow shopper, I fumbled my phone/camera. It shlooped out of my grasp like a bar of soap. I juggled it for a few moments and finally lost the game as it clattered and broke open in a box of old post cards. The woman glanced at my antics and smiled as I tried to make a joke while gathering the pieces.

Pulling myself together as best I could, I headed for the nearest exit.

After driving a few blocks, I decided two things. First, I must have the buckeye bag. Second, I must offer to make dinner for my new beauty. Never mind, that I'm floppy, grey-haired old white dude with a scruffy beard and inability to speak to humans. It was just the necessary thing.

I found an ATM so I covered the cost of the bag which, I'm pleased to report, is now mine. After buying it, I found her and showed it to her. I showed her how it is so busted and told her how I like that. Then I showed her the buckeye. She didn't understand the significance but was engaged and listened as I told her about it. Then, I told her that I would like to make dinner for her. She was very nice and wisely declined with, “I doubt my boyfriend would appreciate that.”

I laughed – not nervously – and said, “Yeah, I suppose not.”

She smiled, warmly, and told me she appreciated the offer, even adding that it was flattering.

Who knows if there's a boyfriend. It doesn't matter. There's not a version of that scenario where she accepts. There are hundreds of versions of that scenario where I don't ask the breathtaking woman in front of me to spend some time. I rejected them and at no stage of the process did I lose my mind to dumb fright.

I've known my wife since I was 20; we've been together almost as long. To repurpose a line I think I heard in some TV dramedy, we had 21 amazing years in a nearly perfect relationship and then a year and a half suffering through hell together.

At 43 I'm back to single and I wasn't sure how I'd handle it. Thanks to some second hand therapy today, I think I might be okay.