Independence Daze

Independence Daze

Me and The Boyfriend, Pete. 

Monday was the 4^th of July in New Zealand. The 4th, of course, is American Independence Day. In NZ, it's just another Monday. And Monday here is Sunday in the States, thanks to the massive time difference. Summer in Spokane. Winter Down Under. If it feels like life is upside-down and opposite – it is. The kids and I are still out of step with the people, places and seasons of our old lives, not only because we're far from home, but also because our old lives vanished like mystery socks when Sean died. You know those socks – you once had a matching pair, but now, you’re left with a solitary sock, which you keep, in  hopes its mate will mysteriously reappear.

Holidays often leave me vaguely unsettled. Like I’ve forgotten something just after leaving the house: Keys? Yes. Wallet? Yes. Kids? Got ‘em – stuffed in the hatch (that’s a joke, although they’d probably love to ride in the tiny “boot” of my car).  

What’s missing? Who’s missing?

I had a long “must-bring” list Monday.  I’d signed on, weeks earlier, to co-host the Hash House Harriers run. The Hashers are the bunch I call my “raunchy runners’ group” – an international mob that refers to itself as “a drinking club with a running problem.” http://pickendawn.blogspot.com/2011/03/on-on-at-hash-part-2.html Hashers run or walk a trail set by “hares,” who mark the route with chalk, paper shreds, or, as my partner-in-crime, Helen (known as “Liq N Stik,” because she’s a mail carrier, or “postie”), and I used, flour.  We spent about an hour walking downtown Mount Maunganui, sprinkling powdery white arrows on grass. We were grown-ups – playing with a cooking staple – in open air and bright sunshine. Too bad none of the Hashers spotted the marks in the dark (they carry “torches,” or flashlights on night runs in winter). “Didn’t see a single one,” said runners and walkers alike. Bugger.

Muff Diver, draped in American flag

Fartoo and Perky sing their version of Yankee Doodle

Fartoo and K.L. (back of head) in some kind of Hash dance

Sterile and '69'er

We’d selected an American Independence Day theme in honor of the date. Kiwis love to dress in costume –  it’s like Halloween somewhere (minus the trick-or-treating), each week in En Zed. Hashers crank up the costume action a notch or 6. Muff Diver, Farmer Tom and 69’er wore American flags. Blue tinsel hair perched atop Perky’s head. Fartoo wore a Pope’s mitre adorned with stars and stripes. I’d give you these folks’ real names, except I don’t actually know their real names. Hashers have called the house asking to speak to “Coque-ah-deux-dle-du.” Uh, that’s me. Welcome to my alternate universe.

The Boyfriend, Pete, is helping me navigate this new dimension. He came to the Hash run last night and even wore a ball cap (borrowed from my flat mate) embroidered with an American flag. I painted a tiny Stars and Stripes on his cheek. Red, white and blue suits him, although his cover’s blown the moment he opens his mouth and says, “Mate…”

Trail or no trail, the Hashers claimed they enjoyed circling The Mount (an extinct volcano at the tip of a peninsula) in the dark. Thanks to a munted (bum) ankle (2 and-a-half weeks later, it’s still sore and slightly swollen) I refrained from running - walking instead the short distance up Mount Drury for the piss (drinks) stop. Liq N Stik and I misjudged how quickly the group would complete the base track. We were late climbing the hill, loaded with cooking pots, bags and bottles (Pete carried my bag, the sweetheart) to mix a potion of tequila, juice, sparkling wine and lemons. Darn tasty stuff.

 The after-party, at a bar called The Stock Xchange, was a success, especially after chicken wings, samosas and nuggets hit the tables. I’d made 3 pans of apple crumble to complete the feast. We paused to watch a parade of American classic cars cruise Maunganui Road, in front of the bar. We met 2 American college students from Atlanta on the sidewalk. The Hashers sang something crude to the tune of “Yankee Doodle Dandee.” Couldn’t have planned it better.

“Are you missing home?” asked Pete. I told him I didn’t know. “It’s okay – you can say you’re homesick,” he said.  “What would you be doing in the States?” he asked.  I’m so out of touch with the fact it’s summer in Spokane, I told him I’d probably be at a barbeque somewhere. One day later, I realize that’s not true. Ever since Fiona was 1 year old, our family has spent the 4^th of July at Camp Cross, an Episcopal Church camp on Lake Coeur d’Alene, in Idaho. http://www.campcross.org/ We hike in the shade of Ponderosa Pine trees, canoe Loffs Bay and make s’mores around the fire. We attend short outdoor worship services, where Fiona once asked for a second helping of “Body of Christ.” A year ago, we marked the first summer since Sean’s death by sprinkling his ashes into the camp fire. Fiona smudged the grayish-white powder on her button nose and said she was “wearing Daddy.” I could still cry back then. Camp – with its sounds of lapping water, smells of wood smoke and chocolate chip cookies wafting from Wells dining hall -was a safe place to sob. I’d forgotten this was our usual camp weekend until receiving an e-mail from a woman I met at last year’s family camp:

Dawn and Kiddos- We all missed you guys at camp- a great turnout this year. :) We just arrived home after a lovely, but long, trip- always sad to leave camp and return to the reality of dishes and laundry…

Now that you mention it, I’m homesick for camp. But we don’t go there in winter. And it’s winter. I think it’s winter.  Hard to tell when it’s mostly sunny and 60 degrees.

Homemade apple crumble

Pete helps me pack up the dregs of apple crumble (the Hashers have obliterated all but 2 tiny slivers of apple), the face paint, extra vest and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t really need. We drive to his place (a large house with an ocean view and 4 flat mates). He’s recorded “Saturday Night Live” for me, because I’d mentioned I liked it. Over a “cuppa” (tea or coffee), we laugh at Tina Fey, Will Ferrell, Amy Pohler and company, then stay with Comedy Central for The Daily Show and part of The Colbert Report. It’s not fireworks, but it’ll do. I remind myself I decided to skip fireworks tonight. My decision.

It’s nearly 11 p.m. when I start the 10-minute drive home. The radio plays a song I used to listen to in Spokane. It’s R and B, yet begins and ends on a Middle Eastern note (the song features Turkish folk instruments called baglamas). It’s moody, brooding, haunting. Hang on – it’s – Justin Timberlake’s, “What Comes Around Goes Around.”

“…Is this the way it's really going down?
Is this how we say goodbye?
Should've known better when you came around
That you were gonna make me cry…”

 The song hit American radio in 2007, two years before Sean got sick. A friend at my old TV station,  morning camera guy/professional comedian, Charlie, had burned a copy of Timberlake’s album, “FutureSex/LoveSounds.”  I listened to it over and over, in the kitchen, the car, the basement, while running on the treadmill… My feet tapped, hips swayed and head bobbed interminably to that CD. Now, in New Zealand, with the Pacific Ocean on my left and droplets from a short-lived rain shower on the windshield before me, I’m back in Spokane. Transported. I think about the old life. The one that included Sean. I think about returning home, and in fact, our plane tickets say we’re leaving New Zealand in 2 weeks. We’re not leaving in 2 weeks, though I’ve yet to change the tickets. I’m unable to commit to staying and reluctant to fix a return date. I still envision us leaving next year. We’ll arrive in Spokane well before 2012’s 4^th of July, months before it's time to pack our sleeping bags for Camp Cross. Sean won’t stand on the cross-shaped dock to greet us. Or maybe he will, if only in the whisper of wind, shushing of waves and memory of ash at a long-ago camp fire.

Driving in my car, listening to a radio voice from the past, I want to cry. Really, I do. But I didn’t squeeze out a single tear on the 4^th of July. I grieve the fact (as another young widow put it) that I don’t grieve the way I used to. Why is that? The joy of new love? The march of time? The strangeness of living in a foreign country? All and none. Upside down, in winter’s daze.