Early in the morning, I put Mike on a plane to Burbank, where he was met by Anne and Bob, longtime friends. They walked the streets of Pasadena, eating at restaurants he’d loved from our Altadena days. They browsed Vroman’s bookstore, the oldest and largest independent bookstore in Southern California. They stopped in at one of Anne and Mike’s all-time favorite places, Jacob Maarse, described on their website as “the gold standard in floral innovation, craftsmanship and aesthetic refinement.” They kept him busy, busy, busy, then sent him back to Sacramento the next evening. During that time I was free to pick up moving boxes, take them to a new storage unit, make a myriad of sensitive phone calls, and revisit our new dwelling place at Carmichael Oaks.
The morning I returned from taking Mike to the airport, I sat at the dining room table, going over my lengthy, pre-move to-do list—cancel automatic deposits in preparation for switching checking accounts, arrange times and details with movers, get yet another detail of the power of attorney transfer notarized, call Southwest to be sure I can escort Mike to the gate and wait with him until boarding time when he flies to Florida next month. Get TB tests required for Carmichael Oaks entrance, get “soiree” on the Carmichael Oaks calendar, assess non-liquid assets, work on the next chapter of Over 70 and I Don’t Mean Miles Per Hour, get contract to Hiram Johnson High School for coming school visit, take the car to be serviced … I had so many lists, and folders, and telephone messages that I’d moved my computer away from my cluttered desk and into the dining room, expanding the clutter onto the dining room table.
I stared absent-mindedly at the teak table as I sipped coffee and pondered which of the many tasks that lay before me I should start with. A light scratch in the table caught my attention. I remembered when we bought the table at the Pasadena Plummers store, more than 35 years ago—the table that’s had all those Christmases worth of both meat and vegetable lasagna, Caesar salads, and grandiose Christmas/birthday cakes for Dale. It’s the table around which my mother, and Mike’s Aunt Virginia and Uncle Norman, and Marg’s mother, Thelma, and Norman’s second wife, Jean, and Mike’s parents, and my Aunt Gladys, and so many others of the dearly and not-so-dearly departed gathered, Christmas after Christmas, as if the Christmas gatherings around the Danish teak table would go on and on and on. And it’s not only remnants of the departed captured in the patina of the table. There’s the resonance of the still living hovering just below the surface of the now worn teak—laughter, complaints, talk of politics and the world, talk of times past and things to come. What will become of this table when we move? There’s certainly not space for it in the Carmichael Oaks apartment. And now I can’t even start on the to-do list until I know the destiny of our memory-filled table.
I call my daughter, Sharon. “Do you want the dining room table?” I ask.
“Well … we could use the table. But don’t Matt and Leesa want the table?”
“I don’t know. They’ve got the big seminar table borrowed from Whitman College.”
“But …”
“If you want it, I’d like to continue eating occasional holiday dinners on it.”
“Doug’s attached to the antique table.”
“It’s falling apart.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
I should work through the stacks of immediate importance, but what I really want is to do something nice for the table. She’s a little dry looking, with maybe a refried bean or two caked into a crack between the leaves, and a few light water spots from sweaty glasses. And there’s that little scratch that caught my attention in the first place.
After a few half-hearted attempts at the list, I shove folders, lists, calendar, bills all to the right half of the table and rush, rush as if compelled, to the laundry room where I grab the Starbrite penetrating sealer-preserver teak oil and begin slathering it on the left half of the table. I take my time letting it soak in, then wipe off the excess as directed. Two more times of this regimen, then I cover the left side with a beach towel, move all the clutter from the right, and repeat the process. Much better. The water spots are gone. There’s no trace left of the refried beans. A warm mellow glow emanates from freshly oiled teak. But … there are still two small sections of the table, about the diameter of a Mason jar lid, that are dry looking. More oil. More elbow grease.
Finally, the table renewed, I turned my attention back to the list. The top item, circled in red, was “bank accounts.”
According to the bankruptcy lawyer, I needed to walk away from the bank we’d used ever since moving to Gold River. The bank where we also had a loan account with a balance of over $10,000. The bank where they called me by name when I walked through the door. I was to set up a new account at a totally different bank.
It was time to stop procrastinating, to get on with things. I dialed the CalSTRS customer service number, canceled my automatic deposit and requested that my retirement check be delivered the old-fashioned way, by the U.S. postal service.
After I’d arranged to keep my CalSTRS check out of the banking system, I called back, relieved to get a different person on the other end of the phone. I identified myself as Michael Reynolds.
Although as a teenager I’d wished that my voice were more feminine sounding, over time I grew not only to accept it, but also to recognize that there were certain advantages to sometimes being heard as a “sir” on the phone. On that day, with CalSTRS, it was a definite advantage. I gave Mike’s date of birth, his current address, and reeled off the now memorized last four digits of his Social Security number.
In less than half an hour I’d taken the beginning steps toward skipping out on scores of financial commitments—commitments made in all good faith. Less than half an hour to launch me down a path to becoming someone I never expected to be. I was stunned by the implications of what I’d just done. I felt shoddy.
A few years back in one of my many short-lived attempts at spiritual enlightenment, I attended a half-day meditation workshop. Now would be a good time to empty my mind, I thought. Though I hadn’t practiced steadily enough to master the mind-emptying technique, it was worth a try. I straightened in my chair. Feet planted firmly on the floor, I took the requisite deep abdominal breaths, in, out, in, out. I let intruding thoughts pass through my too busy mind. My unfocused gaze rested on the table, newly aglow in the afternoon light. It was consoling. Maybe I, too, might someday be refurbished.