The
mental scabs are falling off. We can
begin to reflect on how the flood has emotionally scarred us. When I moved here to the River twenty years
ago, and was still working, I amassed a collection of hundreds of bottles of
wine. When I retired, I drank most of it
over the next few years; and started a collection of books. Books, like Cary Grant’s bottle of sherry in “The
Bishop’s Wife”, rejuvenate after every reading, so my collection grew rather
than dissipated. Alas, I lost half the
books in this past flood, hundreds and hundreds. Some ear-marked for a chess club or literary book
club, others for specialty interests: bee-keeping, gardening, mental health,
non-profit management, massage, my interests were many, and I always read
ravenously on my latest subject.
I saved
a half a dozen bottles of wine from the flood, but have re-marked them,
Eau-de-2019, just so that those that share a glass with me are aware of what it
is: originally and pristinely corked and scrubbed with soap and water on the
outside, and hopefully still delicious Russian River Valley wine – may the next
few vintages be great ones.
I would
liken the impact of this past flood on me as like the end of a marriage. I’ve had three: marriages, not floods. This is my first flood. Will there be more? Possibly, on both scores. The initial feeling is of great loss. The pillars, the foundation of one’s life has
been washed away. Just getting comfortable,
I’m faced with a lengthy term of rebuilding, re-establishing those timbers of
love, trust, and future.
As we
age, those endeavours loom harder, almost insurmountable; where will I find the
energy to take on a major renovation project?
Can I even continue with all my other fingers in many pies? Who drops out of my circle, who newly
enters? Pathways change, where will this
lead? Unknowns are always the scariest
part of life, and more so as we approach the end.
I have
met my yellow-tag requirements: scrapped the sheet rock, demo-ed the garage
door, and tossed the old fence in the debris pile. My horizons are still dim. I may toss some plywood on the floor next
year, I may wainscot some tongue-in-groove walls, but I’m going to relish, for
a while, in the fact that the raised (‘47) upstairs is as sound as ever, and
will continue to provide me with a wonderful home in the wonderful Russian
River area.
