Writing is difficult. Well, sometimes it’s more difficult than at other times. When I have a lot on my mind, it’s difficult for me to write, and then sometimes I’m just not inspired or only inspired by bits and pieces that don’t seem story-worthy.
I’m inspired by bits like Iz and her antics with her fairy dust necklace. I went to clean her room last Sunday, and after I unearthed the first layer of clothes and toys, I found fairy dust all over the floor of her room. I said, “Iz, you’re not supposed to throw the fairy dust all over your floor.” She asked, “Well, where am I supposed to put it then?” as if she were really saying, “Duh, Mom. It’s fairy dust, and it must be scattered somewhere.”
I, not wanting to spoil the fairy dust fun nor encourage scattering that made more vacuuming for me, answered, “Scatter it outside!” Iz asked, “But what if I need magic inside?” I, not wanting to prolong the conversation, then quickly asked, “Hey, let’s go have some cookies!” By the way, that always works, and I hope it works until she’s 18!
I’m also inspired by pieces like my long stay in the waiting room after my mammogram earlier this week; the imaging center at the hospital was running about 30 minutes behind schedule. The technicians were in the waiting room every 15 minutes to tell us that, which was most likely to dispel the quiet fear we were all thinking very loudly to ourselves. That fear was the radiologist is taking much too long looking at my pictures.
After I counted seven of us in the waiting room, the brave seventh rolled her eyes in disgust at the soap opera on the TV, grabbed the remote control, and then said, “There’s got to be something better on.” We all sighed in relief at her ability to take charge of the remote, which was something we probably all wanted to do but didn’t, because we kept thinking, "I know my results are okay, and I will be out of here any minute!"
She changed the channel and yet another soap opera appeared. There was a collective groan. She changed the channel again, and there was a collective, “Yeah, this is better.” Amazingly, all seven of us played along with Family Feud for the next 30 minutes, which didn’t make the wait any easier but it made it made it a group effort filled with a bit of laughter that took our minds off of the wait.
Anyway, writing has been difficult here lately, because I have so much on my mind. It’s nothing life-threatening. They’re just things that I worry about, and they clutter my mind making words here seem somewhat impossible for me.
Today, all that changed. One of my tasks was to get myself to Nantucket to get three pieces of furniture from my Dad’s house. I undertook that task today.
Was I fetching a Chippendale desk, a Stickley rocker, and a William Savery highboy? No. I was fetching two desks (one which a Great Aunt owned and one that my Dad bought at an antique store) and a mahogany trunk that had belonged to my grandmother that some nice young woman had danced on while wearing her stilettos. The pieces were pretty much juntiques, but I felt I needed to pull something out of the emotional “rumble” that this house had become.
I enlisted my neighbor's husband, John, to help me; he’s got a huge van, and I figured he might have the bandwidth to accompany me on my one-day pilgrimage to the island. Someone asked me if I could just ship the furniture to Hyannis. I explained the trip was two-fold; it was to get my furniture and to leave a small bit of my heart behind the way I could only do in person.
This afternoon, I called the Steamship Authority armed with the make, model and license plate number for John’s van. (Actually, I called five minutes before that call, but I was naïve about the ferry ways having only the license plate number.) I pressed one to speak to a reservation agent, and then I heard, “Hi, this is Linda.”
I told Linda that I’d like to make a reservation. She asked if I had my profile number handy, which I didn’t. She stressed to me the importance of writing my profile number down, keeping it in a safe place, and always giving it when I first called.
It was painful enough making this call, and when Linda went all profile number on me, I thought, “Oh, this is going to be even more difficult.” Speaking out of stress, frustration and disappointment, I then said abruptly, “That’s okay. I really won’t need it again, because this is my last trip there.”
Linda quickly said, “Aw, don’t say that, Sweetie!” My reservation agent went from corporate to comforting in under twenty seconds. I said, “Yes. It is.” She said, “Never say never, Honey.”
I felt myself smile, and then Linda began to take my information and made a light-hearted joke about something insignificant. Yet, whatever it was, it made me significantly laugh. She immediately said, “I knew I was going to get a laugh out of you somehow!”
I then said, “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should write that profile number down. Maybe I will go again.” Linda said, “That’s the spirit.” I then blurted out, “You see, I’ve sold my Dad’s house,” and I know Linda could hear me holding back waves of tears for which I felt stupid, because I had no apparent excuse for them.
Linda offered waves of comforting words in return. I thanked her, and she asked me when I wanted to go. I told her Monday was the preferred day leaving at 9am and returning at 5pm.
She told me that the 9am ferry was sold out. I sighed, and she told me she could get me on the 8pm (what my brother and I used to call the garbage scow as it transported all the really large vehicles) and save me some money. I said, “Oh, we’d have to stay over then.”
She said, “Yeah, but you’ve got the furniture in the house, right?” I said rather sadly, “No. I’m just going to get the last three things.” She said, ‘Oh,” and I thanked her for suggesting that alternative.
She said, “When do you need to go?” I said, “I need to get there by the 31st; that’s when the house closes.” She then said that Tuesday was available, and I said I needed to check with John before I could book it.
Again, frustrated that I was missing information and making the voyage seem that much more difficult, she said, “I can reserve the spot for you. You just need to call back by Sunday to confirm and pay for it.” I thanked her; it was probably what she could have done for anyone else, but she had already made me feel like she was going to get me to Nantucket but with a ferry ticket full of hope and love.
She then asked for the make, model number, and license plate number of John’s van. I gave it to her. Then came a question that stumped me. She asked if the van was a crew cab, a regular cab, a short cab, or a long cab.
Mystified, I said, “Well, he measured it, and it’s 17.6 feet long. Does that help?” She said, “You know, I’ll just put it’s a regular one, and then you can check that and tell them when you call back.” Desperate to finalize the plan, I said, “It’s got four wheels and looks like a refrigerator box!”
Linda laughed, and I laughed because Linda laughed. She gave me my confirmation number, and I wrote it down. Linda said, “Everything is going to be all right. You will go back; miracles happen sometimes. Believe me, they do.”
Starting to cry again, I thanked Linda. She then said, “When I say my prayers tonight, know that you’ll be in them.” I thanked her again and said, “You know, after talking to you, I now know that there are angels.”
After I hung up, I pondered what I had last said to Linda. I was totally surprised that I had said that about angels. I thought it might be so and I hoped it was so, but I had just had a real angel help me cope.
We all have these tough times. They are times when we hope someone will swoop down out of nowhere and make everything okay. Thank you, Linda, the Steamship Authority Angel.
I would like to think now that my Dad sent Linda. If that's so, thank you, Dad. It will be like saying good-bye to you all over again next Tuesday, but I will have Linda with me, knowing in my head and my heart that some day everything will be all right again. ♥
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