Cars, Cash and Kavin

This was written back in the winter---just now posting.

Three weeks ago, my California children had their car stolen off the street while they slept. Inside were the scarves crafted by my daughter's senior residents at her workplace. She was to deliver them to a homeless shelter the next day.

Two weeks ago my niece's car was stolen from her apartment parking lot while she slept. Some of the papers from inside were left behind, but not her tennis shoes.

Saturday morning my baby girl  ran 18 miles as part of her marathon training. While she ran around a lake on a beautiful day surrounded by families with young children, other runners and walkers, her car window was smashed. Everything was stolen from the trunk, even the shampoo she had just purchased.

Saturday evening I sat in my living room watching the sun set out my window, the bare oak trees eerily graceful in their silhouettes against the violet sky.I'd not accomplished a thing all day long. Dinner was in the oven, but we needed a salad. I stood up, picked up my keys, told Ed I'd be back in a sec.
 As soon as I walked out the door, I breathed more easily.
It felt so good to be outside.
 The car was on empty, so after the Kroger stop, I pulled in to the neighborhood Shell. I saw him right away. He had a white garbage bag of stuff and was leaning against the wall along the side of the building.

As I started to pump my gas , he spoke to me- something about 90 cents left over. I told him I had a credit card....
Then I thought. nah... I've got cash.


For at least the last 5 years, probably longer, I've made a practice of keeping dollar bills. whenever I get asked for money, I give a dollar. I don't try to figure anything out. I give a dollar, and we touch hands,  and I look at them. I am doing them no great favor or harm. A dollar isn't going to put them in the gutter or get them out of it, but I am reminded that we belong to each other. We share something.

 I think it's the touching hands that stays with me the most. Sometimes it's the eyes.

So I rumbled around and found a dollar. I gave it to him, touched his hand.
 I started praying. I prayed for the children of whoever stole my California kids' car. Was something different that next day for their family, "good" or" bad"? Who was wearing my niece's shoes now? What was going on at home for them?And who in the world ate all that Wendy's bought with my daughter's  credit card? How was their weekend? What's their mama doing tonight while I'm headed home to have eggplant parmesan?
I finished pumping my gas.
 As I closed the tank, I looked  over the top of the car  to where he was leaning against the wall. "What's your name?"
 I'm not not sure why I asked.
 He looked at me across the night.

 "My name's Kavin,"he said.

         *****

Well, of course his name was Kavin.
Of course.

You see, Kavin is ours. He is the local grifter. I know Kavin by reputation. He has stolen all over the neighborhood. Some time back, I came home to a partially raked yard. I couldn't believe Ed had actually done it! And in truth, he had not. He had  (unknowingly) hired Kavin to rake the leaves. and , not surprisingly, Ed fronted him cash for lunch and lord knows what else. Ed even drove him home.
When Ed dropped him off, Kavin took his white garbage bag with him. That would be the white bag that had Ed's electric drill in it. Kavin had stolen it from the back house.
.

"My name's Kavin."

I did take a beat. I thought about all of those faceless people who had entered my life in the last few weeks. I really wish they hadn't. I don't really want to know them, don't want to touch their hands or meet their gaze.

 I don't really get it.

"Kavin," I said.
"You have a nice night, Kavin."

I went home and had eggplant parmesan made from the summer's bounty.
A California Pinot Noir.
A spinach salad with clementines, pears, tossed with blood orange infused olive oil..
And chocolate.

So damn proud...

 Last Saturday evening, Ed and I were privileged to host  a celebration at St Columba Center. They asked me to talk a bit about our time there. Preparing for the event made me quite nostalgic. For just a moment, I forgot about the horseflies...

Here's what I said:

When I was about 10 or 11 years old, I read Little Women. Every night at the dinner table I would fill everybody in on the latest adventures of Jo, Meg, Amy and Beth.

 Night... 

    after...

        night...

I mean, it's a long book!

 Eventually, my brother James said, ,"Andrea,we could read the book in less time than it takes you to tell the story." 

Well. In order to spare you a similar experience, I have written down what  I'd like to share tonight. Because, not only is it my nature to embellish and-- you know-- go off on tangents every once in awhile, but also the Mr Scheibler/St Columba time in my life is one rich and full of tales I love to tell.

Spring, 1982 . My sister in law, Suzanne, and I are herding babies in the living room when the phone rings. I must have been changing a diaper or feeding a baby, because Suzanne answered

." Hello?"

 " Well, you  don't hafta be so damn proud anymore." His voice was unmistakable.

 "Oh, Mr Scheibler, I think you want Andrea." She handed me the phone.

 No apologies. Just, "You dont hafta be so damn proud anymore. "

You see, I had been showing off my beautiful baby boy  on our daily visits for some time now. I was 5 months pregnant when we moved to St. Columba, never having met Mr Scheibler. I'd heard of him, of course. We knew he'd donated the property to the church years before. Ed had been to the pavilion for Grace-St. Luke's picnics in the 60's. 

And--

 we'd heard he was a bit of a curmudgeon.

 

So once we got settled, I made some bread and we walked through the woods over to his house .

We met him in the cutting garden. He seemed ancient to me at the time, but he was just in his early 70's at best. He suffered severely from arthritis and was unable to stand straight. There he was in his golf cart, wearing a straw hat, his shirt was neatly tucked , and his little dog, Bossman, was by his side.  This was October. The next spring and summer I would  in this garden watch the asparagus come up, pick huckleberries and raspberries, for the first time smell the sweet scent of mock orange. I have a favorite picture of me holding Nathanael in front of the pastel bunny rabbit heads of larkspur. 

He took us up to his house. We went through the iron gate as he told us some of his story. This was his family's summer place. It had been his permanent home since the 40's. As the gate swung closed, weighted by the heavy iron cannon ball thingie he told us of replacing the fence a few years. back . "The fence cost $4000 to replace. That's what it cost to build the whole house. So you see, sometimes it doesn't pay to remember. "

We sat outside facing the lake under a canopy of 8 foot tall camellias, all taken in a cold snap a year or two later. He told us tales of Lohengrin his swan that escaped some former life and lived peacefully for several years on the lake. Until a freeze came and poor Lohengrin was unable to flee his predator. 

And then there was this mama duck .She would come every year in the spring. And once she had her babies, that mama duck would line those babies up and march them up to the house to meet Mr Scheibler. 

"Well you don't hafta be so damn proud." Mama duck had brought her babies. I was no longer the only proud mama around. I had competition.

Just days after our meeting, UPS left a box on our front porch. 100 daffodil bulbs.

 "I hope you don't hate me. Giving you a gift that makes you work."

On the contrary these city kids who'd moved to the country were thrilled. I once asked  Mr Scheibler how many daffodils he had planted . 

"Back in my prime, Sister and I would plant a thousand a season .We'd stand in the meadow, throw the bulbs over our shoulders and plant them where they landed."

But daffodils were just the beginning of a long stream of UPS deliveries. European Lego type castles for Nathanael, a handcrafted wooden puzzle of his name (it was kind of hard to spell) , nativity books form the National Cathedral. He loved his mail order catalogs. Remember, this was an era before cell phones, home computers,  internet.

And then there were other things he gave us. He called Ed one winter morning . His pipes had frozen. Ed spent the morning out in the cold getting things fixed. While he did so, Mr Scheibler took his grandmother Wessendorf's silver hairbrush and mirror set outside. With his arthritic fingers he polished it using the snow since he had no running water. He  gave that lovely set, which we have still, as his thank you. 

The few years we got to spend knowing Mr Scheibler I treasure. I was a young (24) year old mama and he was a bachelor who'd lived alone for years and years. I'm not sure what he expected when we moved out here, but I know it's not what he got. I'm pretty sure he thought he'd get a churchy type. What he got was a young man who grew up reading Johnny Tractor books. 

A tractor? 

That he got to drive?

 And mow 40 acres??

 Ed Wills had died and gone to heaven.

He and Mr Scheibler used to swap stories about the foxes they'd see on the edges of the meadows when mowing.

 

  Ed really did love his tractor.And yes he mowed all 40 acres. One hot July day he busted in the door breathless, hot and sweaty.

 " I ran into a yellow jacket nest. Jumped off the tractor and ran. Left it running. "

So now he had to figure out how to go turn the tractor off without getting stung. He pulled out his big down winter coat. Put it on. Pulled the hood up. Got me to pull the strings really tight down over his face. He put on another pair of pants on top of what he already had. Hands. How was he going to protect his hands??He was just figuring on gloves when Mr Scheibler walked in the door. Remember. It was July. Probably 110 degrees. Mr Scheibler , perpetually stooped, slow moving, looked at Ed and said, "I turned off your tractor. And what the hell are you doing in your winter coat??"

 

 When he got sick and took to his bed, we brought him his meals. I was over one day when Katherine Nesbit came by. Mrs Nesbit was 94. She lived down here on the corner --what's  now a park .She had long since given the property to be a park, but she had life estate. She lived there with dear Tommy Ruth who drove her all over town. She had an old wood burning stove--on which she cooked nothing but hot chocolate which she'd serve us on visits. Her gift of choice was a 10 lb box of Dinstuhl's cashews. Even the electric company guys installing the power lines were recipients . They called her the Cashew Lady. 

This day she'd brought Mr Scheibler a box.

 "Young man, come down these stairs. "

 I think he yelled some expletives back. They'd been friends and neighbors for generations.

Mr Scheibler never came down those stairs. It was Advent. Ed took him breakfast every morning. "Porridge again," he would complain.He hated oatmeal and cream of wheat, but Ed made him eat it. Every morning Ed announced his entrance with the morning prayer advent antiphon. "Our king and saviour now draws near!"

 We don't remember what his usual response was, but it wasn't, "Oh, come let us adore him".

 But this morning  there was no answer. Mr Scheibler had died in the night .At his funeral here in Scheibler lodge, Mrs Nesbit's hug was light and love to me.  He was buried right here on the property alongside his mother and father.

We celebrated St Nicholas with our family that weekend. Even from beyond the grave Mr Scheibler celebrated with us. UPS delivered that day...nesting blocks from Europe for my children.  

We lived at St Columba for 10 years.I had my 3 beautiful babies. Only those first few  years were with Mr Scheibler living. 

 

But walk through a meadow of daffodils.

 Smell the mock orange.

   Listen carefully to the versicle and responses at the liturgies celebrated in this place. 

He's still here.

 

We love you Mr Scheibler.

Thank you for the gift you gave us--St Columba.

 

Here's my story...

In June we took a trip. We headed to my beloved Gulf Coast to spend some time with friends. BEST friends. Best GREAT friends. 20 years before, and many times in between, we had joined these same friends, breathed in sunsets and salt sea air, usually with our families. This week was the four of us. A sweet and holy time. Delicious. My soul is so so so happy in that place, with those Kindreds.

We left on Friday, headed to New Orleans for conversation with more time-tested friends. (Sounds better than old.) This meeting was supposedly about PH and the Next Nine Years. He has been in our parish for 9 years. Would we stay 9 more (barring being run out of town on a rail) or was it time to go elsewhere? If we stayed, it would make PH the second longest lasting priest. What would that look like?

 Now when you tell people you are in New Orleans and talking to someone about your future, an image is conjured, voodoo and back alleys.... Don't get all excited now.This story involves no palm reading or tarot cards.Our meeting was with a spiritual director/friend, a woman we've known for years, through 3 states and as many parishes. She knows us and our parish well. 

I was grumpy. I considered not going to the meeting. I mean, it wasn't really my meeting. They were going to talk about St Michael's and how to approach the next 9 years. But I went. Right away SD (Spiritual Director) keyed in on me. "How are you? How are the kids? What's happening in your life?"  I know this seems highly improbable, but, I did NOT want to talk about myself. For some reason I had a huge lump in my throat, and I DID NOT WANT to talk. I managed to deflect (crazy, I know!) and my clueless husband launched into his stuff. She came back. "Tell me about you." I deflected again. Clueless husband carried on.  (Maybe I'll change his name to CH instead of PH. It fits, mostly.)

Now I have to say, being raised a good southern girl, I know how to fake it. I was not pouting in the corner, although I also know how to do that very well. But the 3rd time she asked me, I tried to answer. I rambled around about the last year or so being a little off for me, colored by back problems and a sort of "in betweenness". And then I started crying and said, "I just need to live on the water, and I don't."

At which point she said, "Ocean Springs is looking for a priest."

Well.

 What SD did not know was that every time I get a little out of sorts, late at night  I go to  realtor.com and zillow.com and look at real estate in Ocean Springs. I don't know if  I will ever live there, but it is my metaphor??Hmmm, maybe not a metaphor. Come on, you English majors, help me out. It's the container for all my longings. Now that's a metaphor for my metaphor. Needless to say, my heart either stopped or raced, I'm not sure which. One part of me thought,  "Oh, my goodness. That would be way too serendipitous and woo-woo." (Remember, no tarot cards.)  Another thought, "Wait! Did I say I wanted to move to the coast? I was just kidding. I'm about to (maybe) be a grandmother! I have a great life where I am! I was just whining. Don't mind me. Talk to PH. This is his meeting."

Fast forward to the end of the meeting...SD looked at Ed and said, "You and St Michael's are in a good place. Here's how you cultivate that good place. And you--"she looked at me--"you need to sell your house. Just sell it out from under yourself. Just do it. " (There is more to why that made sense, but you just gotta trust me. Mostly had to do with me and my "stuckness".  And some about intention and commitment.Not anything wrong with my house. Which is for sale, if you are interested. Just sayin'...

http://www.zillow.com/homedetails/321-Crystal-Court-Little-Rock-AR-72205/2111539713_zpid/ )

Sooo..we came home. We batted around the idea of selling. We drove around a bit, looked at some fixer uppers, got in some fights. We told our kids about it. Interestingly enough, nary a one of those children who spent their growing up years in this house were the least bit sentimental about it. Ha! Will save that thought for future therapy sessions about how I failed as a mother.

Anyway, still thinking....ughh. So much work to  move... We've been here 17 years... I love my Big Bill Memorial screened porch...but maybe...

Then one Saturday we were walking to the market with friends who were visiting from out of town. We passed a cute young family, said hello. When we got to the market, Farmer Boy(FB) said, "I just sent a family to look at your house. They stopped at the school garden booth, said they wanted their kids to go to that school and were looking for a house. I sent them to your house. And there they are." We looked across the street to see the same young family we had passed earlier. We got together, exchanged phone numbers and planned for them to come look the next day.

Okay. That ended up being way too serendipitous and woowoo as well. They did not buy our house, but they got me going.

Then..

A day or two later, FB called and said,  "I've found the house y'all need to buy. " It was a foreclosure. It had been covered in brush for 5 years, a haven for feral cats. Just recently, the brush had been cleared, a lockbox placed on the back door. Ed and I looked at it. And we did NOT have a fight. It had good bones. Definitely needed lots of work, but we love a project.

Two other things about this house---it came with an adjoining lot, perfect setting for FB's  greenhouse and further urban gardening ventures. And it was right across the street from FB and his cute bride (DIL).

Thus would begin the Wills Family Compound.  Still working on those offspring in foreign countries (California and Northwest Arkansas), but we're getting the place ready for them!

We made some offers and some counter offers. And we were in. In mid July, they accepted our offer. 

BUT WAIT!

A week before closing, we got a call. "So sorry, but it turns out the extra lot is NOT included." What?? That was really and truly the biggest part of all this. That was the exciting adventure part. Working with FB and his urban farming has been the shining light for me this last year. Yes, we were excited about restoring life to this sad little house, but what would happen with this lot and the life of the community was central to our dream. 

Apparently, a few days AFTER the lot and the house were turned over to Freddie Mac, the lot was sold at auction for back taxes. The folks who bought it for peanuts were not likely to accept our peanuts in exchange. Cashews, more likely. Gold ones. (More metaphors.) So even though we had a contract stating we were buying a house and a lot, that was not what was going to happen.

But somehow, I still knew it would. I'm not usually that way, but I was...what's that  really calm peaceful thing people talk about all the time?..totally zen about the whole thing. Not really my style. Meanwhile, PH was a mess. Not really his style. 

Cue the lawyers. Emails were buzzing. We were lucky enough to have served up some (apparently) mighty fine martinis to a close friend the night we got all of this information. He just happens to be an attorney and volunteered to "take a look". That was two and a half months ago. 

But you know what??

We got it!!! The house and the lot!!

And in the world of cruel, punishing gods, the world I  occasionally visit, I know all of this is to remind me....

When I am over there in that new house, missing all the roomy comforts of the one I'm leaving behind...

"You asked for this, Andrea! This is what YOU wanted!" 

We closed Wednesday.

Roofers came Thursday.

PH found and repaired the water leak on Saturday.( He's really proud of his methods, too.)

Took off the awnings and started uncovering the front walk.

Here we go...

I'll post upstairs pictures later this week.