Behind Every Lining Is a Silver Cloud
Do you hear that? Sometimes it’s a soft swish like reeds against a canoe. Other times it’s the lengthier, unfurling darkness of a full-on sea monster. Antlered and amplified, a family of deer had taken to sliding their coarse fur along the aluminum shell of my 1968 Airstream camper.
Perhaps they were just dislodging ticks. I like to think they were welcoming me to the neighborhood. After eight years spent joined in holy acrimony, I’d finally given up. I felt ashamed that my marriage had failed and embarrassed that I had to rely on the kindness of others just to get by. (Is it just me or does gratitude sting at first?)
One of my oldest friends is a building permits-be-damned kind of guy. He owns a house and some outbuildings on a long, wooded lot. Out of nowhere he’d said, “I bought an Airstream trailer. It’s in my back yard, and you’re welcome to stay there as long as you like.”
My parents joked that I’d joined the tiny-house movement. Living inside the 133-square-foot pod, I suppose I had. For some, living simply has become a perverse status symbol. But for plenty of others? They never had the luxury of choice, instead living small out of necessity. I admit it wasn’t until I joined their ranks that I considered all the times I had maligned “trailer people.” I may have been a classist asshole, but, thankfully, paradigms shift. (And shift. And shift. And shift again.)
Ironically, readjusting to life without continual gaslighting would require plenty of propane. The Airstream was outfitted with a teensy propane-powered water heater, cooktop, and oven. It also had a mini fridge, a microwave, kitchen sink, a toilet, and a shower which emptied into a 40-gallon horse trough. In good weather, a garden hose ran water from one of the outbuildings to my new home. During winter freezes, I filled empty jugs and lugged them back. (Seven gallons will stretch for drinking, cooking, dish-washing, and sponge baths.)
I’d climbed up the cracked, plastic step stool and into a new normal. The Airstream’s arched, silver hatch sported a flimsy, cabinet-style lock. Truly, it could as easily have been accessed with a pry bar, a large serving spoon, or maybe just a stick. Nevertheless, I felt safer than I had in a very long time. I felt sadder and more exhausted than ever before, too.
Divorced and broke, I’d also just taken an extra job as “Community Garden Supervisor” for the city. There were about 200 plots that would-be gardeners could rent. I mowed and string-trimmed, repaired tools, pulled weeds, and soothed concerns about stolen strawberries, invasive plants, the errant slug. Week after week, one man’s perimeter stakes moved inexorably outward. As I pounded them back into their correct positions, I noticed the knuckles on my hands had nearly disappeared under painful swelling. My feet were in a similar state. Stiff joints in my knees and hips made me move zombie-style. Another new normal was about to sprout right there. It had taken months of tests to figure out — rheumatoid arthritis.
Living in the Airstream for the next two years tested me in some significant ways. A few words to the wise? In summertime: before dressing, give individual items of clothing a good shake to dislodge lurking spiders, camel crickets, and other creepy crawlies. In winter: two space heaters and an electric blanket are a good start, but, for sleeping, wear gloves, a wool hat, and quilted coveralls, too. Even then — no, especially then — your heart will hurt and you will wonder why you ever left this or that relationship.
It is cold enough that you will still be able to see your breath. (But, also, you’ll rejoice just a little because you can finally breathe!)
Living in the Airstream also opened my eyes to the horror show that is rich-lady yoga. “I’m going to open this back building up for some classes,” my benefactor told me. They parked their cars down the street and carried Technicolor mats through the long stretch of trees and past the Airstream. When their classes were in session, I instinctively knew to lay low. It was bad enough that the Airstream “intruded” on an otherwise lovely scene. (That comment was one of the more frequent ones I couldn’t help but overhear.)
On sunny days they draped themselves all over the yard. I pulled my curtains shut and hid. And if I did have to go outside? Some of the yoga ladies avoided eye contact with me. Some tossed me polite smiles. The smiliest ones also made some of the most cutting remarks.
My cheeks burned, and I remembered the water balloon mother. It was climate-crisis hot out. She entered the community garden with three or four toddlers and a small bag of balloons. Grab the hose. Flip the spigot. Fill balloons! She was filling and tying them off as fast as she could.
“She doesn’t rent a plot here,” one gardener complained to me.
“That water is for paying members,” admonished another.
I zombie-shambled over. “See these people behind me? They want me to ask you to stop filling balloons and leave. Technically, that’s my job, so I should do that. I’m just going to keep talking, OK? And you keep filling…”
I met Beatrice Owl soon after that. To give the yoga ladies a wide berth, I started spending time deep inside a nearby woods. There, I could sit on a log and cry all I needed. Sometimes I’d shut my eyes, sit as still as I could, and just listen.
By late fall my garden job was winding down. I spent my spare time sitting on the log. A sudden musk. Pores on noses. Tiny puffs of steam. Foot stomp. Foot stomp. A pair of deer came unnervingly close, regarded me briefly, and moved along.
I relax my eyes. Run them up an enormous beech tree with smooth bark and deep hidey-holes. Then a change in texture. Two coals—dark and utterly fixed on me. Right then, the barred owl, staring down, inserted her name directly into my mind. I am Beatrice. I bowed my head. I am the girl with the walking stick.
I visited Beatrice nearly every day after that. (A quick glance up and back down again is polite.) And there she’d be, nodding off high on her favorite branch. Other people sometimes walked right by without noticing either of us. Can you imagine? Seeing her meant everything would be OK — even on days that didn’t seem OK at all.
Occasionally her beech tree would be empty. She could be on an early evening hunt.
I still visit that woods at least once a week. I have become acquainted with two other owls posted up in some sycamore trees. Still, it’s not the same.
And, it seems, I’m about to squeeze myself down into a new new reality—what may be my last new normal. One with loads of needles, cotton gowns, no-slip booties, and, I suspect, a heartbreaking scarcity of owls.
See, the human appendix is a diminutive and dangly thing. (At least it’s supposed to be.) Turns out, mine is shaped a lot like the old Airstream. And inside? A 4.5 centimeter tumor has been bumping its head in there for nearly a year.
It’s been about that long since I’ve seen Beatrice. I can’t help but think, “Maybe she’s gone because, this time around, things aren’t going to be OK.”
But, no. That can’t be right.
If Beatrice has passed away, she is surely saving me a place. It is a silver cloud expertly lined with downy, striped feathers and fragrant tufts of moss. The great mass is tied with threads of mycelium. There are alternating layers of rich humus and crisp stars. And then there is thanks and calm and the strongest sense that I’ve been here before — and so have you — and that, little by little, we will all manage this. And then we do.
