I was aware at a very early age that there are no happy endings. The fairy tales that we were unwittingly fed as children had altered endings with satisfactory resolutions in order to placate our fragile and yet-unsophisticated minds. Reality has a vicious bite and we weren't yet sufficiently prepared to handle it.
As a diehard realist since childhood, I was convinced that the Big Bad Wolf not only ate Granny, but Red Riding Hood as well. And the only repercussion was some slight indigestion.
Rapunzel, when she let her golden hair cascade down the side of the tower, was cited by the Neighborhood Beautification Committee and forced to get a buzz cut.
Sleeping Beauty was snubbed by the Handsome Prince. Instead of giving Beauty a kiss that would awaken her, the Prince had his eye on a hunky farmer plowing a nearby field. The Prince galloped over to the astonished farmer, swooped him up, and they rode off into the sunset.
Whether or not they plowed together happily ever after is a matter of vigorous debate.
So what's your point, Jon?
There is no point. You simply caught me thinking out loud.
I had never expected my move to Tennessee to be absolutely perfect, because happy endings have never been part of my repertoire. Things have been going surprisingly well, but there are glitches.
What it mostly boils down to - I think - is that I'm completely exhausted, mentally and physically. The past few grueling years in Texas have finally caught up with me. And the entire harrowing process of moving has taken its toll. Being without furniture for six weeks wasn't exactly pleasant. And now that I have furniture, I don't know were the hell to put it.
Please don't give me any crude suggestions.
I love Tennessee. I love my rural location. I almost like my new house - except for the fact that it's too small. I miss the enormous amount of storage that my Texas house had.
I love the mountains & forests & snow - but somehow the bleakness and frigidity of winter has rendered me unmotivated. I have a million important things to do (I counted them) but all I really feel like doing is hibernating.
Incidentally, winter affected me the same way in Texas. Believe me, it got COLD there on the high plains.
The process of unpacking and sorting my stuff is agonizingly long and annoyingly unpleasant. I'm hesitant to open boxes because I have no place to put things. The garage is extremely damp and bitterly cold. There are hundreds of cardboard boxes and they are getting droopy with moisture.
a glimpse of my garage
I eventually dug myself out and the effort wasn't pretty. I'd been working in the garage for over two hours with no coat or gloves - and it was 23 degrees. I admittedly was wearing two shirts and a sweat shirt.
Worst of all - -
It couldn't possibly get worse, Jon, could it?
I was horrified to discover that numerous items are mysteriously missing. I checked several times. I have a lot of stuff - the inventory was fifteen pages. Moving day was completely chaotic and I couldn't keep track of everything. I told the movers exactly what I wanted to take and what I wanted to leave. I trusted them.
There are two absolutes in life:
Happy endings don't exist
and
Never trust anybody.
Ironically, the missing items are things which I want the most:
My big tool box, which contains every tool that I ever owned - including many that belonged to my father.
ALL of my mother's piano music - which I cherished.
My mother's scrapbook, which contains priceless family photos.
A ten-drawer antique dresser.
and - let's have a drum roll here -
THIRTY volumes of my hand-written journals and diaries. Most of these were written in California and contain details of all of my concerts, love affairs, and adventures. It's a virtual gold mine.
I would willingly give up everything I own to have the journals and piano music back.
This blog post is too long. I'm eating breakfast as I'm writing this. After I finish my coffee I'm going back into the garage to resume my search.
If I'm not back in a couple of hours, call 911. Tell them to bring a defroster and the Jaws of Life.
