The Tiny Corners Journal

We’ve now been living at the new house for nearly two months. It still doesn’t have a name…I kind of like calling it No Name New House, but I imagine that James will come up with something better.

We lived a year or so in Cemestos Gardens before settling on its name. I remember laughing about it, the absurdity of naming our 1,144 square foot house like it was some grand estate. Hell, who am I kidding? It was, and is, a grand estate.

The story of Cemestos Gardens is wrapped up in the story of my brother. I can’t think about that house without thinking of him.

My mom bought the house in 1997 with money she inherited from her mother. She already had a house in Clinton; this was her fallback if anything were to ever happen. The house needed an occupant, and my brother Justin needed a place to stay. At some point in 1997, Justin, 23, moved in.

I went to visit him once. I hadn’t spent much time in Oak Ridge and was totally confused by the roads. I was a little confused by the house, too, as it wasn’t completely apparent which door was the front and which one was the back. I knocked, but he was soundly asleep and didn’t answer.

In November, 1997, I found out I was pregnant. I was barely 20; James and I had been dating just a month. I really remember so little of that time…memories that I would like to be crisp and sharp are fuzzy, distant, blurred.

But not all of them. Some memories are sharp, and crisp, and sometimes feel as fresh as they had just happened.

On June 30, 1998, I sat, 8 months pregnant, with James on my old brown couch in my apartment in Fort Sanders. I had treated myself to cable and we were watching X-Files reruns on FX. The loud knock on the door made both of us jump. I was surprised to find my mom and step-dad at the door – almost a pleasant, confused surprise for the first moment, and then the dull instinct of something is wrong fell over me.

“Justin is dead,” my mom said. I very distinctly remember not understanding her, like she was speaking a foreign language. It just didn’t compute. I don’t think that it computed for a very long time; sometimes it still doesn’t compute.

Justin had been diagnosed with juvenile diabetes at age 12. He had a few scares over the years, and didn’t do the best job of maintaining his disease, but for the most part he was able to stay healthy. But not this time.

Who knows what really happened? He was at a party the night before. Perhaps he had a little too much to drink and fell asleep before he was able to eat a blood-sugar sustaining snack. Maybe he simply miscalculated – thought that he could make it until morning without eating. We’ll never know. Whatever the circumstances, he went into insulin shock early in the morning of June 30 and died in his bedroom, the corner bedroom of Cemestos Gardens.

His funeral was on July 9 at the Chapel on the Hill. I sat, still 8 months pregnant, and thought about my mom, who was 9 months pregnant with me when her father died. She told me that everyone worried she would go into labor at his funeral. She didn’t, and I was born 10 days later.

October waited a bit longer than that, and was born on August 6. I had moved out of my apartment a month prior, and James, October and I were squatting at my mom’s house in Clinton.

We needed a place to stay, and once again the Cemestos house needed an occupant. We moved in on July 26. My mom pointed out some iris stalks in the front flowerbed by the steps to the sidewalk. “Justin planted those,” she said. “Take care of them.”

They bloom year after year without much tending. I divided them once and gave out some to James’ coworkers. I lazily left a few out back, where they took root. Year after year, flower gardens. Justin’s gardens. Cemestos Gardens.

The day before we moved to No Name New House, I dug up several to bring along. Spotz and Lugnut volunteered to help plant them. Working together in the late spring sunshine, we dug holes, got dirty and successfully planted 9 or 10 irises. They’re looking a little shocked from the move, but they’ll bounce back. Irises are very hardy.

…

It’s been 10 years since Justin died, and the first year that I haven’t been in Cemestos Gardens on the anniversary. It makes for a little bit of melancholy on this bright Monday morning.

California!

October left this morning on her grand California adventure.  James and October rolled out of here at 4:08 this morning to catch her 6:00 flight.  Presently, she’s in Atlanta and will soon hop another flight to Los Angeles, where she’ll meet up with my dad.

This trip has been in the works for about 3 years.  October was so excited and chatty this morning she could hardly contain herself.  I’m actually not very nervous or anxious about her travels.  She’s got a good head on her shoulders, and I think the opportunity to do something like this without parents hovering around is fantastic.

This is an alternate post to the Dark Matter picture:

It was originally going to be called Guarded, before I remembered my favorite Andrew Bird song and gasped aloud at its relevance.  If you haven’t watched the video, you should.

But Guarded still works.  I am a very guarded person.  I let people see the shadow, but not the self that makes the shadow.  What kind of consequences does that have?  What connections get lost, because I am constantly working to hide anything remotely emotional, vulnerable, negative?

Even this post feels like it comes from my head, not from between my sides.  Eeek.  I’m trying.

Is it in your head or between your sides?

Last night’s enormous and brilliantly colored clouds were fantastic; of course, when I saw them, the first thing I did was grab the camera and curse myself for having the wrong lens attached (James ran inside to grab the right one - thanks!).
I was delighted this morning to wake up and find the same clouds (or same system, at least) pictured by other photographers in the area.  I dunno, it made me feel all sentimental and earnest and ‘oh look, the same thing experienced by different people.’  It made me feel a little fluffy inside.  Hee.

October, Spotz and Lugnut are spending the week up the James’ parents’ house. I was hoping for a nice quiet week with little mellow Wingnut.
Ha.
Wing evidently misses them terribly and is channeling their absent energy. Yesterday, he kept body-slamming me (all 24 pounds of him - ouch!). Whenever I put him in the car seat, he starts blowing very loud raspberries (…on second thought, no…he’s spitting). He screeches, squawks, snarls. Refuses to nap. Climbs up and pounds on my laptop (actually, he does that all the time…sorry, work).
It may be that he does these things when the kids are here, but that it’s more noticeable in the quiet. Or, it could be that he’s in the spotlight and feels more comfortable asserting himself. Still yet, it could be that he’s 17 months old, which is essentially 2 years old in my book.
We’ve been having fun, though. Think I may try to get him out of the house a bit today.

I’m not into politics all that much, but I love watching Meet the Press. Sundays, while Bos and the kids would scoot off to church, I would stay home and get work done around the house and watch Meet the Press. Sometimes, I might be interested in some of the guests on the show, or the topics covered. But mostly, I just liked watching Tim Russert. I loved hearing him read the excerpts, ask the tough questions. I loved how he was able to mix in a little bit of humor when needed. It was joyful to watch him — like he was just meant to do that job.

Needless to say, I was shocked and devastated yesterday when I learned that he died. Sundays just won’t be the same anymore.

Sitting at Panera. The super-nice ex-hippy Panera worker fixed me up an experimental (and therefore free) frozen green tea. I had already purchased an iced green tea; assuming that this stuff is caffeinated, I might be in for a long night.

I’m looking out the window; a lady just got out of a Ford Explorer. She looks to be at about the same stage of pregnancy that I would have been at this time 10 years ago. I wonder if she’s scared? Excited? Worried about epidurals and episiotomies? Wondering what the baby will look like? Is Panera food one of her pregnancy cravings?

When I was pregnant with October, I had some bean soup from Panera early on, during the morning-sickness phase. I couldn’t eat at Panera for a long time after that. With October, I craved Indian food. Aloo gobi. Chicken korma. Yum.

Today, my little Indian food baby graduated the 4th grade, and scooped up awards for physical fitness, participating in Math Olympiad, earning a scholarship to the Knoxville Museum of Art summer camp program, and making the all-A honor roll. She’s a well-rounded kid. She’s confident and poised and ready for middle school. I’m so very proud of her, and can’t wait to see what happens next for her.

And…of all the kids, she’s the one who likes Indian food the best. Coincidence?

When I first moved to Tennessee (some 17 years ago now - eek), I didn’t know what a Mamaw was. Grandma had always been the common and accepted name in my family. One fine middle school afternoon, someone asked me about my Mamaw. I squirmed uncomfortably and tried to make it seem like I knew what the heck they were talking about. Hee. Eventually, I figured it out. Must be one of the many rites of passage to Southernness.

I first met Bos’ grandmother, Mamaw Davis, nearly ten years ago. Over the years, I didn’t get to hang out with her very often, and when I did, it was usually for short periods of time. Just from those brief visits, though, I feel like I was able to get to know her — at least a little.

She was a remarkable woman. She had faith in her God like the rest of us have eye color, or freckles. It was just part of her. She could talk about Jesus and praying and all that kind of stuff, but it didn’t feel like she was shoving it down your throat. It was just her life view. As a tried-and-true agnostic, I really appreciated her mellow confidence in her religion.

And she had poise. There are pictures of her from her younger days (she was a beauty, too) that capture that very well - maybe someday I’ll scan one and put it up. Again, like her faith, she had a confidence that wasn’t arrogant; a self-assurance that wasn’t about her ego.

She will be buried this morning at 11. I’ll miss her, and I know that Bos will, too.  What a Mamaw she was!