Pierre-Auguste Renoir: Near the Lake (1879/80)

"Better if it stays a mystery …"

As unlikely as it had seemed when we moved in the first of July, a rough rhythm had begun emerging from our SettlingIn by August. The GrandOtter was visiting, as she had back home in summer's past, encouraging a sense of continuity. Sure, we were still almost entirely unfamiliar with the territory we'd inhabited. Still, with remarkably few repetitions, the sense of surreal novelty began dissipating, with a false sense of familiarity replacing it. We were still strangers enough to believe we'd mastered what we couldn't comprehend, but a routine emerged. We knew where to go to find gelato, which provided ample encouragement that we were at least secure.

While we were still in our temporary housing, when we were still searching for a place to live, my publisher sponsored a book marketing seminar I attended. I met some fellow authors there and was introduced to FaceBook, which was my first encounter with social media. That seminar reignited my writing flame, and by the time we'd finally found a place and MovedIn, I was writing again. I began writing a series of stories entitled OtterSummer, that first summer of Exile, chronicling our GrandOtter's summer visit. In it, I wrote portraits of our adventures, and since I've never been disciplined about taking pictures, those stories stand today as the photo album of that odd summer. The Otter was eleven and not yet impressed with the Smithsonian museums, except for the Natural History one, which featured a butterfly encounter. Once inside there, she would have willingly stayed forever.

I tried to expose her to as much trouble as I could find. I was concerned about her not spending her Summer with her friends back home. Our Takoma Park neighborhood was mostly empty nesting older people, so few children were available with whom she could get into kid trouble. Her grandfather tried to compensate. We repeatedly attempted to get arrested for illegally wading in fountains along the Mall but found no takers. We set a goal of wetting our feet in every forbidden body of water from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial, including the Robert Taft Memorial. We were successful only in getting in the water, but not even that felt all that dangerous after our first few successes. We might visit the orchids at the Botanical Garden or sneak into the Jefferson Building Reading Room, where minors were not allowed, but we could not get busted for nothing!

The Muse's commuting schedule set the underlying Cadence of our days. She'd have to make the Metro by around eight and return around six-thirty, some nights later. The Otter was rarely up that early in the morning. On Friday nights, we'd often eat out, meeting up down on The Mall, then sauntering somewhere for supper. On Fridays, I'd go grocery shopping at Eastern Market, Littari's Deli, the Ugly Veg Store, and a Harris-Teeter. Saturday morning would find the larder stocked, though we'd often wander off to the Silver Spring Farmers' Market or, on Sundays, to Takoma Park's. By the time The Otter left to return home, we pretty much owned our rental. It no longer felt very alien to us.

We had no way of knowing then—and we didn't dwell on our unknowing—how long we'd be Exiled. Our tenure was necessarily open-ended. The Muse was mustering a new career there. I was readjusting to an utterly new reality. We put one foot in front of the other and kept moving ahead, perhaps forward, but maybe not. We didn't question what we couldn't answer. It would eventually be twelve years before we'd return home. That first half year anchored us there and showed that we could adapt to even such a worst-case scenario as an Exile. The initial Exile would be echoed with two additional Exile-level disruptions before we'd return home. One occurred when our landlord decided to sell the Sherman Street house, and a second, near the end of our sixth year gone when The Muse would be transferred to her Colorado home office. Each of those Exiles would retest our wile and resilience.

Exile seemed temporary, but it occurred while we were inescapably embedded in a permanent situation—every day's for keeps. No breaks are allowed, so everything that happens at home or far away gets recorded into the permanent record. Regardless of how much of a stranger I sometimes felt, I was home every second. I couldn't call a time-out while reoriented to any new situation. That damned clock kept on ticking. I often felt sidelined there, though I feel confident now that that sensation was more psychological than physical. I was free enough to exercise adequate authority to live my life, however stilted the terms and conditions seemed. Self-determination never takes a vacation. Had I known that first summer that we would be twelve years gone and that my darling daughter Heidi would be dead before we returned, the quality of my experience could not have been improved by that knowledge. I'm convinced that nobody needs to know their future. Better if it stays a mystery and I continue doing whatever I can to maintain some sense of myself wherever my life takes me, even when it takes me on Exile.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled