Eau de 2019

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.