God, I hate voice mail.

Prior to hating voice mail, I had a nice sideline going in hating answering machines. But you get older, times change, and you gotta update your habits.

Basically, if you call me...I'll see your number on the Caller ID and call back. Ignoring that thwudda-thwudda noise that says you said something to the computer.

This is, on occasion, I'll admit, problematic.

"Hey, it's Elizabeth. You called?"

"Thank God you called back so fast. So what's the number?"

"The number?"

"Of the emergency vet?"

"You need an emergency vet?"

"I LEFT A MESSAGE!! Diddums has swallowed a hypodermic needle full of crack and I need the number of the vet that helped you that time when it happened to you."

"I have never....! Why? Uh, I mean...."

"I LEFT A MESSAGE! Didn't you listen? This is life or death, here! I mean, poor Diddums, I think he's dragging himself to a corner to...oh, what is that number?!"

So, sure. Once in a blue moon, it causes trouble that I avoid my voice mail.

On the job, it was not unknown for me to listen to my voice mail barely once a week, on Fridays....

"You have 17,000 new voice mails! What is your frequency, woman? You think I got nothing better to do than stuff myself full of chat from your people?"

Instant messages, email, and text messages I am fine with. Prompt, attentive, responsive. But the bugaboo of voice mail has remained my nemesis.

Recently, we decided to turn off our home line. We never use it much, and it's costing us $50 a month to, in essence, give chimney sweeps and siding companies a way to contact us about their seasonal promotions.

So I've given myself permission, even though there is still some dial tone on it, to ignore the thing altogether in preparation for it being gone.

CD gave me the fish eye this morning, the phone against his ear, after I asked him if he thought I'd missed a call I was expecting.

"Please check," I begged.

"We have 33 new voice mail messages," he said with an arch of his eyebrow.

I shrugged.

"Have you EVER checked the house line for voice mail?" he pondered.

"2004."

"Prove it."

I stuck out my tongue when he wasn't looking.

He pushed some buttons and listened a moment.

"Chimney sweep. Siding company. Chimney sweep. Credit card protection offer. Oh, Katie and some kid's mom are going somewhere and want to know if you want to go with," he relayed.

I looked interested.

"In SEPTEMBER," he added, all he-man snarky-like. "Computer talking, time sensitive offer. Hey, the counter tops are ready."

I looked in the kitchen where they are already installed. Turned back to the window, where I watched the drizzle that was delaying our annual pumpkin excursion .

He pushed more buttons. He listened some more. Counted them down for me. "20 more messages..." he sighed. "15, we're finally into October..." I scrunched my nose. "More computers, they love to leave messages...." I nodded. "5 more."

I waited.

He looked at me. "Sorry, hun," he said.

I shrugged.

"No big deal," I said.

But he knew better. He knew that this is why, deep down, I really hate voice mail. Because it never seems to be the locker of good news, of voices you really want to hear.

Ah, well.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 05:45 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 570 words, total size 3 kb.

My husband spent much of his growing up years moving from small apartment to small apartment with his working dad.

Despite all the years since, I suspect CD still harbors this deep need to roost. To be rooted, and never left.

Life has very little to do with what we see when we look into the mirror at ourselves.

The mirror sees a pink-haired woman, with too many curves and slightly creased with age.

But I see more than a reflection. I see a rebel, a mother, a free spirit, a lover. I see the scars from falls I took in small strips across my skin. And in my heart. I see my own eyes, and all the stories they hold.

I can't know what he sees. In me. In himself.

Other than this gnawing sense, that where you live shouldn't be a place easy to leave.

No amount of time could hope to completely erase this from him.

No amount of love, or help, or maturity can wipe clean the truths we cling to as children.

Maybe that's why it's so hard for him to think of selling this house. Why it is so incomprehensible to his heart that this home, that holds so many of the memories of us as a family, would belong to someone else.

And I begin to see it now.

Tomorrow, Bear tests up in karate to a blue belt. On Sunday, we take our annual trip to the pumpkin farm. When will there be time, he asks me, to get to that list of things we need to finish on the house.

And there it is, behind his eyes.

I begin to see it now.

This is home in a way that no place has been to him since he was his own son's age.

This is the place I always come back to, the bed I share with him. This is where we eat dinner. This is where Bear lays out his Magnetix creations for us to admire. These are the boxes with the winter sweaters. And over there is the bin with the Halloween decorations.

And as awareness began to dawn in my foggy head, I reached out to him.

It isn't each other we're leaving, I promise. If we sell this house and move - wherever we go, it will be home just as much as this place has been.

He nodded.

For years, I have been ready to go. To kick off a new adventure.

But it isn't only me that has to go.

And he's finding this house, hard to leave.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 03:56 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 439 words, total size 2 kb.

1 What an absolutely beautiful post. I can relate, in a strange way. My mother didn't leave, but rather died when I was three. I spent many years being shuffled first to my grandmother, then back to my father and his new wife, and then as a family moving several times. Never feeling at home in any of the places we lived. I am an only child and extremely shy and never made fast friends along the way. Finally, when I met and married my current husband (I had one before and he and I moved frequently, too) I found home. I married a man who had only lived in a different place the four years he was in the service. His parents built a new house when he got out and he moved back into the homestead. He also farms, and you don't pick up and move the farm, so farmers stay put. Fast forward to three years ago. We finally decided to build a new house. We are only two miles away from the old one, but the old one was where my husband had always lived, and where I had lived the longest. Where I had set down roots and raised all of my children. The memories are deep. I'm sorry to get so long... I just know that if our son hadn't moved into the old house and I'd had to let it go to strangers, it would be much worse than it was. As it was, it took some adjustment... but now we are fine. As will you all be. "Home is where the heart is"... is very true.

Posted by: sue at October 12, 2007 08:45 AM (WbfZD)

2 The way you write is amazing. Instead of going back into the corporate world you should think about doing a book. You inspire me.

Posted by: Mrs Groovy at October 12, 2007 12:31 PM (qod59)

3 Thanks so much for this writing. It is indeed beautiful. I'm glad you have eyes to see and a heart that understands. And soon, he will know that what you say is true - home is where y'all are...all together.

Posted by: Janie at October 13, 2007 03:00 PM (UCqK5)

4 You are such a beautiful writer! I stumbled upon you by accident looking up things on Google. I thought I'd stop for a moment and scan down a few posts but got captured by this post and had to read it through to the end. It brought tears to my eyes. It made me think of my husband. His father left him. Thank you for sharing this post ~ Valaine

Posted by: Valaine at October 17, 2007 09:28 AM (MzPSj)

5 Beautiful post! And you're good for understanding and then reaching out.

Posted by: Monica C. at October 18, 2007 12:50 PM (FMnfx)

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