floating home

I am on my way home.

For the past month I have been in Oregon assisting my mother in moving from her house into a retirement apartment. That sounds simple -- except to the people who have participated in this rather esoteric form of torture.

Things accumulated during a 92-year life that have been stored in a house do not easily fit into a one-bedroom apartment any more than my 72-year old body can fit into my first Air Force uniform.

The analogy is not apt, though. I simply threw away my old Air Force uniforms. My brother and I did not have that luxury with our mother's life.

About ten years ago, I went through a similar exercise when my house in Salem sold. Most of my clothes, my art collection, years of correspondence, my library, my record collection, my kitchen filled with every cooking device known to man, and assorted furniture and memorabilia purchased on my travels -- all had to go. A few items went to family and friends. But most were passed either to Goodwill or the dump.

That process was simple. Because I was vetting my own life. My house in Villa Obregon was filled with what I took south in my Escape. I needed nothing more -- and, even if I needed it, there was no room for it.

Clearing without sentiment is easy if you are getting rid of your own possessions. It is not that easy when dealing with someone else's property, especially when you have shared in many of the items that need to be cleared.

Mom went into her new apartment a week ago, and is now undergoing a two-week semi-isolation. But there are still three rooms untouched that need to be triaged before the house can be placed on the market. And that needs to be done. The housing market is so hot in Bend right now that houses are selling in bidding wars within a day or two of being listed.

Then, why am I headed home? I had originally planned on being in Oregon for only three weeks. Because there was still so much work to do, I extended my stay for a week, running out of some of my medication.

I wish I could have stayed longer, but I needed to return to Barra de Navidad to take care of various financial matters and to set up Omar for his first semester of university -- now, only on-line.

And there is one more reason. Earlier in the week, Tropical Storm Hernan rolled north well off of the Mexican coast. But its influence was felt on shore when it altered weather patterns. As a result, the little villages where I live my life were hit with rain. Rains that Noah may have recognized.

Based on comments from people who are there, this is the worst flooding I have seen in the 12 years I have lived in the area. All of the usual areas that flood each summer have flooded once again -- just more so.

My house in Barra has never flooded since I owned it. That appears to have changed -- slightly. Omar reports that the sewers backed up. I am not certain if that was in the house or just in the street. Sewage in the street here is a regular summer phenomenon.

I am currently waiting in the Alaska Board Room for my flight. So far, it is scheduled to fly. Friends informed me yesterday that the road from the airport to the highway was under water. In the past, the force of that much flood water has washed out portions of the road. I can only assume that Alaska knows best on this.

So, if all goes as planned, I will be in the house with no name around 5 this afternoon. Otherwise, I will be sitting on a pile of luggage on the shores of an engorged Marabasco looking like the forlorn refugee that I will be.