Coming Full Circle

Life is full of twists, turns, and unexpected dips. Over the past few months, many things have reappeared in my life, running a parallel course that makes me remember who I was the last time I charted that course.

In high school I was a member of the dance company for three years, after missing company by 1 point as a freshman. During those four years I got to know my dance teacher very well--her husband was even my calculus teacher! When I returned home in the summer after college I visited her students and taught them a beginning dance routine. Years later, when I student taught at my former high school, I got to show her pictures of my adorable little boy. She retired that year, and was killed in a car accident in August 2010. We staged a tribute concert for her last February and the money we raised was used to fund a dance education scholarship for a graduating company member. Last week I had the privilege of attending the dedication of a beautiful dance room that now bears her name. The building was constructed in 2003, so I never got to enjoy it, but I worked along side her in the year leading up to construction; for my AP statistics class I did a study of dance programs in our district and discovered that we had the largest program (nearly double the amount of dancers) and 1/8th the dancing space of any other school.

This is a perfect tribute to her years of hard work.

Rounding another curve, I find this:

We affectionately termed it "The Cottage." I would look out the windows as friends and family approached for the first time, smiles plastered over the terror in their eyes. They always let out a sigh of relief when I opened the door: "It's actually really nice on the inside!" In reality, that was only a half truth. Compared to the outside, four standing interior walls would have been reassuring. Before moving in 2 weeks before Scotty was born, we laid laminate flooring over the flood damaged concrete. We had new carpet installed in the bedroom. And we conquered a serious case of mold with bleach, mold-inhibitor paint, mold-prevention drywall (yes, we DRYWALLED) in Scotty's room. Which was also the only closet in the house. (He is still disturbed by the idea that he lived in our closet.....)

We lived in The Cottage for 2 years, through the addition of a power pole in the backyard (the day I returned home from the hospital after a rough delivery!), a constant battle with roots in the pipes, and semi-annual "pour stuff down all the drains in the house to prevent additional buildup." If we forgot our semi-annual ritual.....well, let's just say it all came up the tub. Which had only one handle that would stay attached. We kept rebuilding the pipe, reattaching the handle, and making it look nice--but by the end we resorted to showering with a handy pair of pliers to turn the water on and off. The first year we battled the chest high weeds in the backyard with a borrowed rototiller and spread seed by the bucket. Nothing grew, except more weeds. And maybe rocks. The next summer I pulled weeds in the front yard by hand, spread seed and fertilizer, and carefully watered. Obsessively watered. Nothing grew. Except for some patches of grass in the backyard!

Getting a power pole in the backyard right after Scotty was born

We graduated from school, packed up the house, and moved to Arizona. I had mixed emotions, as the prospect of a "real" house was so enticing, but the friends, neighbors, and memories were hard to leave behind. After we left, the original historic adobe walls went from structurally sound but really ugly and peeling to a built in fan letting the drafts through. The house had seen enough, held enough, and needed to go. It was condemned by the city a year after we left and, finally, met its demise.

The view from the front street, looking down the walk to the front door

Part of me wants to stand on this pile of rubbish and raise my arms in triumph.
We conquered that house!
We tamed the wild beast!
 And part of me feels like I could sift my memories out of the dust like pictures. Our first night as a family of three. Scotty's first smile. His first laugh. He would crawl around and push his toys down the radically sloped floors. He learned to pull himself up on the child-danger of an exposed furnace. I can still hear him clicking around the wood floor wearing a pear of my high heels. I can't begin to count the number of baths in that old pink tub, or the times I found myself on hands and knees scrubbing the floor.

Driving the pink tub

We may have conquered the Cottage, but it still feels like an old friend, and a part of me, the part of me that paints life into beautiful soft focus, will miss it.