I Got You

A catalogue of everyday moments

I know this process is going to go on for a while. It’s hard to take in the enormity of moving to another place, which Eric and I will do…sometime this year. Maybe we’ve already moved to England, in our minds. But we’re here in Catskill, working on our house, and that’s a good focus for now. Meanwhile, every encounter, lunch date, walk or festive happening feels momentous, touchingly vivid. When you know you’re moving on (yes, I’ve done this before) life is cast in amber as it’s happening. Even the most mundane situations say “Remember this!”

It’s sort of reverse culture shock - call them comfort moments. Knowing the substantial learning curve of settling into a new place, comfort moments embrace me in their poignant familiarity, the warmth of being so completely at ease I’m almost playing the role of myself in a movie of my life, the dialogue honed, the roles well-cast enough you just know this show would be a feel-good hit that would remind everyone of their own life, the things that are dear to them but that are also, like everything in life, achingly transient. We’re all changing every minute, saying goodbye even as we’re living.  Just like when you travel and everything is so new your senses are on high alert, moving on ramps up the familiarity. Stable points appear epic in their stalwartness, so much that we file them away “yes I will refer back to you when I need to remember who I am…or was. Can you hold this thing called me so I can get back to it if I lose my way?”

That place called home

At Sherwin Williams

The guy who works at our local paint store says “Your husband dresses so well. We get people in here in their pajamas, underwear even. So to see someone make an effort to look nice, every day, well it’s appreciated.” He’s so impressed by Eric’s elegance and Britishness and goes on to ask if I’ve ever been to England, and says he really wants to go one day. I think how lucky I am, that I’ve gone to England so many times, starting when I was a teenager and you could fly there for $29 on Laker or even go free as a courier. I can’t bear to tell him we’re moving there, that all this paint we’ve been buying is because we’re just fixing our house up to sell it. I tell him I hope he gets to go to England some day, that he’ll love it.

Michael’s Couch

“Where do you sleep, when you stay over at your brother’s apartment?” friends ask. I tell them I feel comfortable on Michael’s couch, which he’s had for the forty-some years he’s lived in his East Village place. Michael’s couch is dark red vinyl. Once I’m nestled across the cushions, there’s something so familiar about it that the impossible happens and I can rest easy—on a vinyl couch. Michael’s apartment decor is circa 1920s-50s, except for a big flat screen tv on the original tenement brick wall. Hee Haw plays on the screen as Michael and I talk and eventually I fall deep asleep. When I wake up the next morning, my limbs are stiff and sore. “I’m not sure I can do this again” I tell myself, but I know I’ll forget and do it again.

Hi Amy

We have the nicest neighbors just next door. When we first moved here, there was an old lady Roberta who’d grown up in the house. I asked her about the giant trees in the yard, imagining they must be hundreds of years old. She said she remembered them being planted back in the sixties.

That’s how fast things change. When she died her kids sold the house to Jason who was the local electrician and a great guy. He gutted the place and fixed it up and the young family that moved in after him have been a delight. When they first arrived their daughter was a baby, now she’s almost four. We see them in our local cafe sometimes and it was a thrill to hear her say in her kid voice, out in public “Hi Amy.” In the parlance of today, I felt seen, like when we’re gone she might even remember Eric and Amy those neighbors that saw her go from one to four.

Ladies Who Lunch

Connie and Holly and I meet for lunch in Woodstock. We’ve known each other since the eighties, through music and New York and they were both well-installed up here well before Eric and I arrived. They’ve been supportive neighbors even though we’re all in separate towns—there are so many small planets in the Hudson Valley/Catskill Mountains area, all about a half hour apart. We share gossip and the hours fly by. It being Woodstock on a weekday we’re practically the only people in the restaurant. If I weren’t leaving I don’t think I’d make time for lunch and its a shame - “we should have done this more often!” I like to think I never leave anywhere all the way, and imagine we’ll meet up again before too long.

When The Student Is Ready, the Teacher Will Arrive

I’m heading into the Catskill Liquor Store and one of my favorite yoga teachers is heading out. “Great minds think alike” she says, shouldering a box of wine and holding the door open for me. She lets me know she has a Sunday morning class now. I’ve been doing yoga alone at home since her outdoor Friday morning class ended with the cold weather, but I really do like practicing with a real teacher when its not too inconvenient. I remember the saying “When The Student Is Ready The Teacher Will Appear” but didn’t think it meant “at the liquor store.” But that’s just the way things are around here.

Once A Steelers Fan…

I’m in the aisle of the liquor store when a guy comes in wearing full Pittsburgh Steelers regalia - jersey, knit cap. Not an everyday sight in New York. “Yay Steelers!” I say and he smiles. “I grew up there,” I say, unable to keep myself from sharing. “The 1970s!” he says and I say “The best!” He tells me he’s kept the faith ever since, through the ups and downs. We smile and might even high five if we weren’t holding bottles of booze.

I Got You

I’ve given up my shifts at the bookstore/bar, and I miss it but just have too much to do right now with the house and getting the parts together for my new album to come out at the end of the summer (and revising my book too). But every few weeks I cover for somebody, and it almost feels like taking a break, putting on clothes that aren’t paint-spattered to serve people. It’s very hard to leave the place that’s been a big part of my identity for twelve years, but moving on seems like the natural order of things. Except I just feel so at home behind the bar and helping customers find their books and art supplies. I’ll also really miss my co-workers, I’ve seen a huge cast of them come and go, I’m the last lady standing aside from Kelley the owner of the store. I imagine if we weren’t moving, people would come to Hudson ten years from now and say “Oh my god, that woman’s still working here - what is she, approaching eighty now?” The bookstore has connected me to so many people, to the world of books (and beer) and the conviviality of a wonderful local spot where anyone feels comfortable gathering.  It really has been a pleasure, and an honor. When my co-worker double-checks via text that I’m filling in for him on Monday, it gives me a warm feeling to be able to text back: I got you