Corita Kent (Sister Mary Corita): for eleanor (1964)

Inscriptions and Marks Signed: l.r.: Sister Mary Corita IHM
(not assigned): Printed text reads: THE BIG G STANDS FOR GOODN[ESS] / 4 Eleanor

" … we could read their deep disappointment at what their future had wrought."

When I was little, on Christmas morning, my siblings and I would sometimes rewrap already-opened presents so we could open them again. July 2, 2009, brought that feeling back into focus for me. After more than three dog months living without our stuff—that having been boxed up, carted off, and stored somewhere until we found a place to live—opening those boxes felt like a ginned-up Christmas. The Muse was overjoyed to be reconnected to her extensive dish collection. That house was the only one we considered that came even close to having enough kitchen cupboard space to contain it. We parked our china cabinet along the one blank kitchen wall to hold the display items.

My office space, a narrow windowed room off the dining room, seemed perfectly dimensioned for my purpose. Like every room on that main floor, it featured a slate floor warmed from beneath by radiant coils. A picture window overlooked the driveway and onto Sherman Street, and another window on the other end of the room overlooked the wild backyard. The brick back of the dining room's fireplace made up one wall and a line of windows overlooking our neighbor Clair's side yard completed the panorama. I lined bookcases against the brick and placed my massive oak desk overlooking the backyard and my electronic piano overlooking the driveway. I felt more at home in that room than I had ever felt at home anywhere. A perfect writer's lair! The wicker rocker and a small oriental rug completed the ensemble.

I had fifty boxes of books to unpack and sort. I'd tried to get them packed in alphabetical order, fiction and non- separate sorts, but the shapes of books are never uniform enough to preserve a sort through a move. It would take me several days to complete stocking those shelves. The dining room was just large enough for the dining table and chairs. The fireplace there was a little crowded once the dining table was placed. We used it twice in the years we lived there. Still,  the mantle made a decent space to displace a few treasures and hang a precious picture.

The living room was perfect because it had been engineered to be acoustically perfect. The landlord played in a string quartet, and she wanted a room where they could practice without annoying echoes. So, when they remodeled that otherwise modest brick two-bedroom, the living room was entirely made over as an extension; it also had slate floors paved over concrete with embedded radiant heating pipes. The South-facing wall featured windows and a roof overhang that allowed the winter sun to shine inside but prevented the blistering summer sun from entering. That wall was all windows, six windows overall, with two other accent windows along the west-facing wall to allow for cross ventilation. We would keep the living room plain, with chairs arranged in a rough circle to attract dialogues and conversations. The Muse's Yamaguchi stereo provided sound within that perfect room. We set up the TV in the basement guest bedroom to keep it from getting underfoot.

Those first few days were absolute magic as we rediscovered our possessions in that radically new context. Brand new can only ever exist for a moment. First times can never be replicated. Necessity motivated us to discover where to shop—our first visit to the soon-to-become familiar Safeway and Whole Foods. We were delighted to learn that the finest hardware store in the region had a location within our new orbit. We felt disoriented but flooded with reassuring signs. Besides the disturbing break-in that first night, we found no reason to regret our good fortune. We accumulated a pile of empty packing boxes and paper in the basement. The neighborhood listserv would help us find someone who needed them, and we gratefully contributed to their adventure. We were the new neighbors, anxious to be perceived as worthy of being there. We attended the 4th of July potluck where we felt like the newcomers we were. We felt like we were unavoidable evidence that our obviously beloved landlords had, indeed, moved away. We were sorry replacements, of that we were confident. Everyone treated us with warmth and respect, but we could read their deep disappointment at what their future had wrought. We were finally home, though we would never truly belong there, of that we would always be sure. The Exile’s Curse!

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz