Dusty bears

In anticipation of my parents moving (Monday, yay!), I’m cleaning out my room so I can migrate 12 feet up the hall to their own room to make way for Monica’s eminent arrival.

Now, I have to preface this with the fact that I collect teddy bears. Not just any teddy bears but North American Bear Company VIB’s (Very Important Bears). They represent either actual historical figures (Beartte Davis and Bearishnikov) or fictional characters (BEary Poppins and Anna Bearanina). They used to be highly collective and very, very expensive. I have 15 of these. If you want to see kind of what they look like, go to Ebay and search for North American Bear Company.

There are a few of these that I don’t really care about. They were bought because my ex was a completionist - you don’t start something and not complete it. So he bought or made me buy four or five that I didn’t really want.

But there are a few that I adore and will never part with.

Bearishnikov - my very first VIB, given to me by my mother and my sister in 1981. He is my favorite. He saw me through my first divorce, my move to LA. He has been loved to pieces, almost literally. I will never part with this bear. (I borrowed this image from an auction site)



Anna Bervlova - you can’t have Bearishnikov without her. Another favorite that I tracked down years later. (borrowed this image, too)




The Snow Queen - she is just beautiful - baby blue and gorgeous. (borrowed image)



Cinbearella - my favorite of all. My ex bought this one for me when I was writing the early drafts of “Cinderella Drives A Pick-Up.” She is one of only 750 made for the Disney Toy Convention in 1991 and extremely rare. She is another one I will never part with because of what she meant to me when she was given to me and the thought my ex put into getting this one for me and the significance of that. Real photo of my real bear.



Twyla explored the bears after I cleaned them. Real photo of my real cat.




Okay, long way around to where I’m going.

These poor bears have been ignored since I moved in with my folks. They’ve sat on the top of my bookshelf, watching, waiting, slowly collecting dust. They’ve faded a bit, they’ve lost a bit of their luster but none of their charm, although 15 of them staring down at me are a bit creepy at times.

What made me stop and think tonight was the fact that I feel like I’ve been gathering dust for the past two years. Waiting, watching, slowly collecting dust. Not moving forward, not moving backward, just sitting on top of something, waiting for someone to take me down and vacuum me so I could mean something again, get some of my luster, my charm back.

The past couple of weeks, I have felt very buried under dust, unable to write, unable to paint, unable to do just about anything. I’ve knit, I’ve watched a shitload of stuff I’ve DVR’d, I’ve packed a lot of boxes (with no thanks or acknowledgement from those I packed them for). But really, for just over two years, I’ve gathered dust.

I’m hoping this move and my ability to actually sit in the living room instead of living in my room with shake the dust off and get me moving again. The universe has taken out the vacuum and is slowly sucking the dust out of me, off my head and, hopefully, off my heart.

And instead of sitting myself back on the shelf, I hope to take the newly cleaned and primped and tidied self out into the world, never to sit on a shelf again.

And now back to my regularly scheduled life...

In just over a week, my parents will be wending their way across the country to their new home in Burnsville, MN. Where it’s cold. Where my sister lives. Where they will spend their rest of their days, hopefully gardening at my sister’s and playing with their grandchildren and maybe having a more full life than they’ve been able to have here.

I’m filled with mixed feelings.

On one hand, I am happy to have them moving somewhere. It’s been a tough two years, sharing this space. My mother is not the most considerate person in the world, to put it nicely. She smokes in the house, despite my asthmatic bronchitis. My lungs will be relieved and happy once that’s gone. Her birds are a sound nightmare, making noise every possible second that they can. The bickering between my parents makes me crazy. My mother sits in the living room and bellows her questions, then yells when she doesn’t get an answer. And on and on.

I’ve reverted to being 13 again while living here. I am apparently incapable of doing anything correctly or doing anything at all. My mother likes to point out when I don’t do something correctly or chastise me for… well… pretty much everything.

Watching my father’s health fail has been the hardest part. This is a man who, until about three years ago, still golfed 9 holes three times a week, despite his heart only functioning at around 15 percent. He loved to go to the casino and sit for hours and play. He loved to go for walks in the neighborhood and hang out at electronics stores.

Now, he can barely manage to get out of the car at the grocery store. Mom usually goes in without him because he’s not strong enough to shop. When the weather’s good, he’ll still shuffle around the block but it takes him about a half an hour to do a 10 minute walk. But he tries to do as much as he can. His newer cardiologist seems to have gotten his medications balanced better so he does have more good days than bad. But now he’s changing doctors and it’ll start all over again.

I have given up a lot these last two years to be here and be available for my parents. Some are tangible - mornings when I’d rather go to a movie than drive Mom to Target, when I’d love to be able to take advantage of free museum days but give them up to help out here, coming home early to see if they need anything. Some are intangible - tolerating my mother’s negativity, giving up a lot of emotional life to be here with them. Maybe even giving up a lot of my life to be here with them.

Yet, I’m very sad that they’re moving across the country. In my entire life, we have only lived that far apart for maybe three years. I moved down to California, they moved shortly thereafter when Dad retired early. They have been a confusing mixture of support and frustration but I know I can always count on them to help me out when I’m in trouble. One phone call and Dad is there. Mom has saved me financially more than I can ever repay.

I’m sad that I won’t be able to just jump in the car and drive down to see them. To take Mom to the mall and hang out. To grab a bite with them at some senior restaurant. I’m sad that we won’t see each other for long stretches at a time. I’m sad they’ll be so far out of my life.

But I am excited at getting my life back.

I feel like the time I’ve had since I left my husband has pretty much been on hold. I knew the roomie situation with the fabulous Tiffany was temporary and then moving into my own sublet for a few months was even more temporary. Moving in with my parents was also temporary. So I’ve been temporary for the past three and a half years. That’s a long time to be temporary. I’m hoping that since I’m staying in the same apartment for the foreseeable future will give me some sense of permanence, some sense of place. Some sense of my own.

The wonder that is Monica is moving in with me, which will only help bring more positivity to my life. I have to be careful not to be so excited about having “my” own place that I don’t forget that Monica needs to have that same sense of place, that sense of her own space as well.

I’m excited at having some peace and quiet in my life. Although I am a social creature and tend to get very depressed when I am not around people, I do need those times of quiet and zen. Haven’t had a lot of that in three and a half years. I’m excited at being able to pick up my guitar and pick up the re-learning curve again. I’m excited most of all about having a space in the living room/dining room where I can paint and not have to move wet paintings into the shower to dry so I don’t knock them over in my bedroom.

And I’ll have a bed. A real bed. Not an Ikea special or a day bed, which is where I’ve been sleeping for two years. But a full queen-sized bed. Where I can spread out and Twyla can again sleep near my feet instead of almost on my head. I can stretch out, not sleep curled up against the bars of the day bed.

And just to finally feel like I’m a grown-up with my own place and my own space and not have to worry about when I have to pack up again or if someone is not going to approve of what I’m doing, even if it means I’m laying in bed all day. My own place.

So I’m sad Mom and Dad will be so far away. But I’ll start saving my pennies for a Christmas visit. And in the meantime, I’m ready to get started on my life -- finally.