My Sweet Home Away From Home - On the Road #32, Part 2

Image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay

It is absolutely excruciating to read this particular letter of my DIY booktour/roadtrip in January 2006. I had just come to Santa Cruz due to Lili, the Rock Lady, who I had met on the ferry. I ended up staying in Santa Cruz for 6 months, and it was one helluva ride.

This is one instance where I let my romantic side interfere with my common sense and my intuition.

Before making a decision on where to live, I stayed a night in the main house where Janna and Fred lived. I woke up in the middle of the night with this oppressive feeling of some dark and heavy bearing down on me. I could hardly breathe and it scared the shit out of me.

That was all I needed to know. But I moved in anyway…

Big mistake. Huge. I did end up in a good place, but it was a crazy ride to get there.

Hey y’all,

Next I’d like to introduce Fred, Janna’s husband and father of Austin, the third and youngest son – chef by day and fire-dancer by night. He lives in San Francisco. 

"Fred is one of the most detached people I've ever seen - one of those people that has a strong relationship with himself and doesn't need anybody," Janna explained. "I think Austin takes after him that way."

Fred is the left brain in a coop of right brained artists – the voice of reason in the nuthouse. 

The first day I met him, he kept busy doing chores and I’ve hardly seen him since. Probably not the most desirable position to be in, but somebody’s gotta do it. 

“Fred works two jobs,” said Janna. “He’s hardly around.”

Laurie, who answered the post around the same time I did, will be moving in later in February. 

She’s moving to Santa Cruz from the east coast to be near her yoga guru. A former professional dancer, she stayed to dinner and was won over by the magic of the place.

And last but not least…Janna, the lady of the house and what else can I say? 

Janna is an artist, writer, homemaker, improvisor, survivor, and one of life’s miracles. 

I’d been hanging out with her all day when she mentioned her lawsuit for having been fired from her last job for being disabled.

Huh?

“I’m a cancer survivor,” she said, pressing her left shoulder and arm to accentuate the total lack of substance of her prosthesis. “And an amputee.”

I had no idea. 

She had had cancer when she was twenty-nine and had her left arm up to her shoulder amputated. This woman does more with one arm than several people do with both. 

I once saw a picture of her taken right before she found out she had cancer; it hangs in the stairwell going upstairs. 

It was taken when she had gone back to college and was an artist/model to make some money. 

In the photograph, she’s dressed in loose flowing, creamy clothes, sitting sideways from the camera, with her feet tucked under her and her folded legs laying at a diagonal. 

The profile of her soft, Swedish features camouflaged by a cascade of pale blonde hair flowing down her back and along the sides of her face. 

It is her arms that are the focus of the picture, however. 

They are stretched out, resting on her crooked knees, with the left arm overlapping the right, her hands clasped loosely, her fingers casually interlaced. 

She already had two young sons and a divorce behind her, but you cannot see that in the comely young woman posing for a photography class. 

The effect is eerie - those slender arms look vulnerable and the beautiful girl in the picture has no idea how much her life is about to change. 

She’s fifty-seven now.

She married Fred and had her third son by her mid thirties. All her sons are grown, and she suffers from empty nest syndrome.

“I lived in a commune years ago,” she said. “Finances are not the only reason I have boarders. I like living with other people.”

The night I met them, they asked me to dinner, and I stayed the night. 

The next morning, I thought as much as I liked the place, it would be better to live at the other one…and then Fred got up and puttered around, making his breakfast on the antique gas stove, and making me a cappuccino. 

I couldn’t not live here. (Huge mistake!)

Meg, from the other place, made it clear she and Cristopher were very disappointed. She was a sport about it, though. 

We’ve talked several times, and I know I made the right choice. (Ha!)

When Meg started dating a guy her age, Frank, her alcoholic landlord weed-whacked her garden in a jealous rage. 

Within a week, he had to be taken to the hospital.

Not because of Meg, but because decades of bitter self-abuse finally caught up with him. His pancreas had exploded. 

Christopher, the other roommate, took Frank to the hospital one day when he was complaining about a pain in his stomach. 

When Meg went to see him, the first thing Frank does is shout at her: 

“I can’t believe you slept with that guy!”

The nurses were looking at her funny, like she, at thirty-eight, was this guy’s lover. 

Meg was mortified, but being a good woman with a kind heart, she stayed and was holding Frank's hand when he passed on.

I found out as soon as I got back from my godfather's funeral.

"Wow," was all I could say. 

Appraisers and greedy relatives have been swarming the place ever since, and Meg and Christopher are wondering how long it will be until they get their walking papers.

How’s that for bizarre? Not to mention tragic. 

I’m in a good space. Can you believe I found it on Craigslist?

Same place where Meg found her new boyfriend.

Peace,

Montgomery