A country girl can survive

I did get out early yesterday. I got to the house, let the dogs in, fed them, fed the cats, let the cats out, changed to riding clothes, filled my water bottle and put the dogs back out in the beautiful weather. I got the door up on the garage ok, for a change. It likes to stick on me.

And there they were, ol blue and the Black. I thought, "Hell, why not!" and decided to take the mate's ride over to its sale lot at a friends house. I put my key in and turned it. No juice. Not even the chatter that means the battery is dead. No problem, I'll put it on the charger and do my errand and then take it over when I get back, I thinks to myself.

I discover the battery is not under the side covers that don't pop off with a latch like I am used to by finally getting out the owners manual and looking it up. Jolly! It's under the seat. With no instructions on how to get the seat off.

By now I have had to shuffle through the cassetts and the CD cases and the cash stash in the trunk and am not breathing well or seeing clearly. By the time I found the bolts for the driver's seat it was all over. I put the book away, shut the trunk, took my key out of the ignition then found a clean rag in the rag bag and wiped the salt off my eyelids, blew my nose and tossed the rag in the trash where I saw the boxes from the parts for my bike from when he had gone through it last August. I went back and got another rag.

This time, after I cleaned up, I got on my bike, started it up, manhandled it over the two by four and shut the damn garage door. I let her warm up and then got my face in the wind. It felt soothing on my swollen eyes and hot skin. She's running a little rough still but it's only the second ride. I cranked her up to 60 and set the cruise so I could just "be" for a mile or so.

I had lots of good intentions of doing banking and chores but thought I would stop and see if my friends wanted to ride to town with me. They had just put their bikes up for the night. I ended up visiting with them for more than an hour and it was almost dark by then. The "he" of them is going to give me a hand with the Black this weekend I hope.

I figured out why it is bothering me so much to handle and sell the things that were his. The bike was the mate's but I have to sell it. He can't use it anymore, anyway. But when I have sold it, it won't be "his". The little and big red trucks were the mate's, they are not his now, either. I was the mate's. He can't use me anymore, anyway.....

Each thing he used and enjoyed that goes on to another user is one more thing changed here. Everyday it is something else that is changed. The sheets, the clutter, the books, the cars, the number of dishes I do, the kind of clothes I fold.

My home, my routine and my rut are being shredded ruthlessly away from what I am used to. I not only can't stop it, I have to continue. I am being force to do this to myself to get to where one person can run and afford this place alone. It's like pulling out an ingrown nail or putting peroxide on an open sore. You know it has to be done, but it's part of you. You can't help it, it's going to hurt like hell to fix it .

There isn't anyone to blame, no one to be angry at, not even the mate. Even if I had all the insurance in the world it would all still keep changing on me. Its why some mates can't get rid of anything for a long time. That stuff is supposed to be there. That little stack of tiny tools for working on the computers is ALWAYS right by the table in the window sill.

Putting them in the tool drawer, where they belong, is admitting the mate won't need to find them ever again. Putting them in the tool drawer, where you will be able to find them, makes them yours now, not his. And it makes the window sill look neat and tidy. And it stays that way. So the house feels subtly different.

With every thing else around you changing to have your living space altered is just one more rock up side your head. It's a constant reminder to you that only one person lives here now. I think this is why it keeps hurting - getting harder - every day, not easier. It can't get easier till things stop changing so quickly. Till they stay the same long enought to get comfy feeling again.

Going home gets harder all the time because it doesn't feel like home anymore.