My Newfound Empathy with Melted Cheese

Imagine, if you will, what it must feel like to be cheese. Cheese on bread. A cool, geometrically square slice of cheddar cheese between two slices of fluffy bread.

Now you, as a slice of cheese nestled between that bread, are lifted up, bread and all, and suddenly plonked into a hot metal frying pan. It feels rather nice at first. Warm, the aroma of warm bread wafting into your cheesy nose. Then it gets uncomfortable. You feel your edges drip and most of you go uncomfortably soft. You are losing cohesion as you sink, meld into the bread.

Just when you think things are at their worst, you are lifted once again and this time slid onto a cool plate. You realize you are somehow better. No longer a lonely piece of cheese, you and the bread have teamed up to become something better and more meaningful perhaps. You have become...grilled cheese. All the discomfort had a purpose...a powerful, wonderful purpose.

And isn't a well-made grilled cheese sandwich somehow more than the sum of its parts? Doesn't the heat--uncomfortable and unpredictable as it is--help create something wonderful and new?

You see, I have been the cheese my friends. I have endured the heat, along side my bready brethren, and have come out better for it.......

On Tuesday of this week, I awoke early. Our lovely neighbor Cade awoke early as well and drove me to the Uhaul office in town. I exchanged my credit card information for a 10 foot Uhaul truck.

I drove home feeling like a giraffe--perched high above the other cars, truck engine grinding in my ears.

Once at home, Cade, Patrick, to a lesser degree Aya, and I filled this truck with all the things Bob and I need to store as we make our way back to Japan. Our boxes, bins and doo-dads filled half the garage. In spite of the hundreds of books I donated and over 30 trips to various donation sites to drop off miscellany of our lives, we still had a depressingly large heap of stuff to store.

Mom-in-law to the rescue! She offered up her attic for our storage mountain. I felt so guilty....just 6 months earlier she was jubilantly returning to us all of the things that had gotten filed away in her attic over the years---Bob's high school and college papers, mementos from his year in Barcelona. Baby clothes from Patrick and Aya. Boxed up pieces of my ceramic cat collection. Our Wedding china. And she was so happy, and I was happy for her.

And here we were again, needing a place to store our lives. And there she was, giving over her attic to us.....lovely lovely.

It took us less than an hour to load up the truck. I slammed the truck gate shut, not daring to gloat yet....an even harder part of this venture was still ahead.

I haven't had a great many opportunities to drive moving vans, so I found this experience interesting. Uhaul trucks are made more for the moving of heavy loads than for the protection of squishy human bodies, so every bump and crack in the road translated into a sort of Six Flags ride for Patrick and I (Cade, following us in his car, clearly had the more peaceful journey). In the cab, clearly not insulated or sound-proofed in any way, the engine noises roared. I found myself remembering rides I had in my childhood with my big brother when he worked as a long-haul truck driver. The roar and jostling and feeling of being above all the other cars-- almost wish I had a CB radio. 10-4 good buddy.

We arrived at my mother-in-law's house and backed the truck up to the edge of her steeply sloped driveway. When I flung the door open she just looked at me and shook her head.

"Oh my" she said.

We split the job into two parts--first, we had to unload the truck by hand and carry everything up the driveway into the garage, since the driveway itself was too steep for backing the truck up into. Once the truck was empty, I parked it down the street.

Then...lunch.

My mother-in-law made us huge beef hot dogs, grilled on her gas grill, with tomatoes and newly picked green onions from her garden. Watermelon slices. Potato salad. Chips. Plenty of water and soda. Carrot cake.

Oink oink. Yum yum.

But no number of hot dogs could chase away the next step of our task: to heave each and every one of those boxes up the tiny attic stairs and up into the crevices of the attic itself.

It was 93 degrees on Tuesday. Toasty.

As the instigator of all this, and as the shortest person among Cade, Patrick and I, I went up the stairs into the attic.

Where it was at least 110 or 115 degrees. Humid. It felt like walking outside in a Japanese summer. It felt like stepping out of our air conditioned house on Kwajalein, in the Marshall Islands where I grew up. The heat was thick--it was like trying to walk and breathe through hot tea.

Goody.

And so we began. At first Cade stood on the stairs and Patrick brought boxes to him, to hand up to me like a bucket brigade. Once I grabbed a box from Cade, I would carry it, stooped at a 45 degree angle, to a remote corner of the attic, working to avoid wires and vents.

At the attic's tallest point I could stand fully upright. However there were cross beams every 3 feet that sat at my throat level. When I got tired and unattentive, I would bash my head on these beams. I comforted myself that perhaps I could revive the lost art of phrenology, with my newly bumpy and undoubtedly interesting skull.

My mother-in-law brought us ice water and ice packs and wet kitchen towels to drape around our necks. Every so often she'd refill the water bottles or to freshen the towels.

Cade and Patrick traded off positions. Our jokes and silly comments got increasingly ridiculous as we got more tired. Finally, when I started to feel lightheaded in spite of the steady stream of water and cool, damp towels, I slithered down the stairs and let Cade replace me up in the attic.

I marveled how much cooler 93 degrees felt. Practically arctic.

As soon as I had revived myself, I took Cade's place once more....unlike me, Cade could not stand upright in the attic at all, and had to stay stooped all the time--something his back and spine did not appreciate.

We made good progress and, lo and behold, I heard from below me those golden words:

"Last box!".

I eased myself down the attic ladder and we all went outside to sit on patio chairs. Patrick, Cade and I were all totally disgusting--sopping wet from sweat and the wet towels we kept draped around our necks. I was further decorated with damp spider webs gleaned from walking into them up in the attic. A breeze began blowing as we sat in the shade of the patio umbrella, gulping down water.

Now, a few days later (and a lot cleaner and cooler), I am enjoying the beautiful feeling of knowing that a huge part of our moving process is done. Finding a place and a way to store our belongings has been gnawing at me for weeks, and while there is still much to be done, all I have to do is look into that gaping, empty garage....and I can breathe again.

But hey, I know it takes a village to store boxes. So here's to my fabulous mother-in-law, who just can't seem to fully rid herself of our nonsense, yet who is generous enough to keep offering up her attic (not to mention keeping us fed and hydrated!) . Here's to our friend Cade, who sacrificed an entire day (and probably 30 gallons of sweated out water) to help me with an obviously unpleasant task. And here's to Patrick, who was a massive help--and who kept the teenager-ish griping to a minimum.

And lastly, here's to being able to heave a small sigh of relief....

Sigh......

911? OMG.

Bob and I have taught Patrick and Aya about personal safety. Our lessons started when they were young--don't talk to strangers (with the accompanying discussion of WHO qualifies as a stranger in the first place), use the crosswalk, etc... As they got older our discussions got more specific--wear your bike helmet regardless of how dweeby you think it makes you look, stop at the stop signs, even if you are on a skateboard, don't forget your house key, etc...

And we taught them about 911.

How to call. When to call. What terrible things will happen if they call on a whim or as a joke.

It's all good. And Patrick and Aya have stayed, up to this point, safe and snug and for the most part nicely law-obeying.

Aha, herein begins my tale of woe.

Last night my sister-in-law and my niece took Aya to see the U2 concert in Oakland. Sort of a lovely going away treat for Aya.

And they all had a simply smashing time.

And what with the late concert ending time, and leaving parking lots and traffic and bathroom breaks, it was the truly wee hours of the morning before Aya reappeared. Smiling from ear to ear.

When I woke up oh so early this morning to take the car to be serviced, Aya was understandably groggy. I went to her bedside and shook her until her eyes opened. I informed her that (a) I was going to go drop the car off to be serviced and (b) I would be right back. I said these things twice. Her eyes were open. Honestly. She responded. She said "Okay mom" before turning over and closing her eyes.

The car folks scooted my car right in, lickety split, and drove me right home within 20 minutes. Assuming Aya was getting a few last moments of sleep, I toddled around the house, starting a load of laundry before going upstairs to continue packing in our bedroom. I turned on the Cd player to keep me company.

Then I heard male voices. Downstairs.

I turned off the music and went down, thinking it was perhaps some fixit guys from our leasing agent. Not an unknown occurrence.

Five police officers were standing in my living room.

One of them had a rifle pointed at my head.

While my mouth hung open, several irrational thoughts ran through my mind:

1. This was someone's idea of a very, very bad practical joke.

2. I had been invaded by evil-doers while I was upstairs, and the police discovered them before I had.

3. This was possibly the delayed Rapture, although I was quite sure it wasn't supposed to involve having a gun pointed at my face.

None of the officers were smiling. Rule out the practical joke.

In short order an officer had grabbed my arm and had led me down the stairs. One officer held my arms behind my back while another began questioning me.

Who are you?

Why are you here?

I answered them quickly, trying to figure out what sort of Star-Trekkian blip in the time-space continuum had opened up in my life to account for there being upset police officers in my living room, when I was such a goody two shoes that I experienced severe cognitive dissonance if I crossed the street without a crosswalk.

Aya came downstairs. She had the good grace to look both relieved and deeply, deeply ashamed.

I explained to the good officers that I had TOLD AYA, MY DAUGHTER, THAT I WAS GOING TO DROP THE CAR OFF and that I was GOING TO COME RIGHT HOME.

Which Aya had promptly forgotten as soon as I left and she dropped back off to sleep.

So when she heard me starting the laundry in the garage, and then stomping myself upstairs to fill boxes, she thought I was an invader. She locked herself in her room with the cordless phone and called 911.

A look of relief crossed the 5 stern faces in front of me. Four of the officers went outside and began talking into the microphones on their shoulders. Outside 3 police cars and 2 police motorcycles sat with flashing blue and red lights. The last officer gave me his card, and apologized. I felt myself going into a weird sort of delayed shock while I agreed with the officers assessment that Aya HAD done the right thing.

And then they were gone. Poof.

Okay, so I give Aya great credit, huge credit for being a clear thinker. She did the right thing, after all. Intruder in house? Get to a safe spot and call 911. Good good.

However, I think I lost several years off my life from the shock of coming downstairs to meet a room full of very upset and suspicious members of Davis' finest.

For the record, I applaud the Davis police force, who took Aya's predicament seriously and responded seriously. I'd rather have the police do too much in their response rather than too little.

Most unfortunately, the culprit in this case happened to be ME.

The moral of this story? When speaking to your children, never EVER assume they are awake. Even if they look awake, sound awake, are sitting up and yodeling ABBA songs---don't assume they are awake. They might not be.

And the next time I have to tell Aya something when she is sleepy, I'm going to throw ice water on her first. Just to make sure I have her full attention.

Ambivalent OUCH

The way I figure it, this is my 9th significant "purge and pack" life-altering move. I won't go into all the others, but suffice it to say, this is the third time I've done it where Japan was involved.

"Purge and pack?" you ask? Oh, you know "purge and pack". This is where you sift through each of your worldly belongings, donate or throw away a significant amount of stuff that you thought, once upon a time, you could not live without ( greeting cards from days gone by, solo earrings that lost their twin, the collection of travel coffee mugs from all the major gasoline chains, or the five incomplete decks of playing cards).

Could someone tell me why we kept not one, but 4 empty UC Santa Cruz labeled champagne bottles from our 1989 graduation? Would not one suffice? Or perhaps you could tell me why I decided to keep, not just Aya's intact old barbie dolls, but also the ones that had been beheaded, tattooed with Sharpie or had received, shall we say, severe hair cuts?

These are the types of questions I am asking myself as I not only "purge and pack" out of our house, but also out of my classroom. My pal and team teacher Amy and I spent roughly 8 hours last week purging and packing, heaving furniture and shoving boxes. Minutes would while away while I tried to figure out what to do with the fraction circle set that was missing two of the eight eights, or pondered how to part ways with the intensely loved, satisfyingly thick book of brilliant planet and space photographs--from which the binding had totally lost cohesion, and on which pages 62 to 84 had been doused in what appeared to have been apple juice or especially sticky water. Possibly hand sanitizer. Hmmm.

Both at home and at school, as with all of my previous life-altering moves, I have to stay completely in the moment. Focus on this box, on these books, on that ridiculous pile of 10 year old receipts requiring shredding.

Because while the process of purging is undeniably enlightening and fraught with feelings of excellent freedom, the process of untying the strings that hold us all down to our world is uncomfortable, sometimes to the point of pain. All those beautiful goodbye gifts, all those tiny arms that have been thrown around my neck these past few weeks, seeing that "For Rent" sign being pounded into our front lawn--these point to the unknown.

And as we all know, humans usually dont handle the unknown very well.

Which is perhaps why we weigh ourselves down with THINGS.

THINGS hold us down.

They hold us down to the known. The familiar. To the loved.

Which is why, in 3 to 5 years, I'll be in Japan, packing boxes to once again return to California.

And I'll be asking myself, again and again, "Why on earth did I keep THIS?"

At least now I'll have an answer.

Just When Things Couldn't Get Weirder

1995-1997, we moved to Japan to teach English before the unavoidable pressures to "grow up" landed on us. Just before we returned to California, we had Patrick, who, upon entering this world in Nagoya, Japan, was told "Hana ga takai desu ne?", or "Wow, his nose is big, right?".

2005-2007 we moved back to Japan, funded by Bob's Fulbright Scholarship and his deep desire to complete his PhD before we hit retirement age. Patrick and Aya (our kids, for those of you already confused) attended Japanese public school for the first year (where they learned the wonders of total immersion) and the local international school for the second year (where they jubilantly rediscovered their native language).

Now, wonder of wonders, Bob, newly minted Phd in hand, has landed a job at Ritusmeikan University in Kyoto, Japan. This time around, I will be trading my Kindergarten teaching job for the honor of being a homeschool mom for our two rather befuddled teens.

And so we back we go. And back into blogging I go. May the force be with us.