My favorite song by the Dixie Chicks is “Wide Open Spaces.” Here are a few lyrics:
She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes.
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes.
This song
appeals to me in two ways. First, I identify with the protagonist who
wants to establish herself beyond the norms set out by her family and
society in general. Second, I love wide, open spaces.
For me, moving to Montana has certainly fulfilled both those desires. Though Montana
certainly has its share of wide, open spaces, I still look longingly at
Alaskan and Greendlandic picture books featuring icebergs (non-Titanic
related) and frozen tundras.
Arid
starkness really speaks to me. In fact, the day I’m writing this is
quite bleak, the high temperature at 9 degrees and the wind chill factor
in the negative teens. Usually, this would be a perfect day for me to
hibernate inside and read.
But
lately, I’ve been feeling dry, itchy, and anxious. Those of you who are
regular readers of my column will no doubt remember a piece I wrote two
years ago about my “shocking” experiences here in dry Montana.
While
thick layers of body lotion and copious amounts of drinking water have
helped, the dry, itchy, anxiousness I’ve felt has less to do with dry
air and more to do with something that’s missing.
I spent
the last two months with family while my dad recovered from by-pass
surgery. Every part of my being was infiltrated with all the emotional
and physical turmoil that goes along with caring for an ailing family
member. Tense trips to the doctor’s, waiting in endless lines at
pharmacies, and cooking (and eating) bland, low-sodium food were a daily
part of all of our lives.
Sometimes,
I felt as though I were drowning, and as I struggled to keep afloat,
metaphorical water buckets – bills, a lost filling, my on-line class –
kept dumping on my head.
But when I returned to Montana,
I felt parched. Quite literally, I couldn’t seem to drink enough water,
but figuratively, I looked at the life I left two months ago through a
very different lens. Everything around me seemed stiff, scratchy, and
generally inhospitable.
Maybe I
just got used to my mother’s penchant to crochet an afghan for every
existing piece of furniture in her house, but my apartment (and its
furnishings) seemed bare and unadorned. My thread-bare, un-padded
carpet, though easy to vacuum, cut cracks on my heels. My white bathroom
(with its lovely porcelain tub) seemed stark and unwelcoming, and I
tended to walk from room to room, aimlessly.
And then
my bathroom ceiling developed a leak. The ceiling paint started to
bubble before I left to take care of my dad, and to make sure I wasn’t
hallucinating (was the ceiling really expanding?), I tested the bubble
with my finger and ended up pulling down several inches of sodden
drywall.
While I
was gone, I expected my landlord to fix the ceiling, but he didn’t. Now
instead of exposed drywall, there’s quite a large hole in my ceiling,
revealing a bit of the attic.
And it’s dripping.
I’m not
sure what message I’m supposed to take from this. Maybe it’s a sign that
I should move. Or maybe my apartment is truly too dry and it’s trying
to give itself a shvits.
Or maybe it’s that, like my leaky ceiling, my family is always with me, no matter the miles between us.
Whatever the message, I kinda like my leaky ceiling. After all, I’m a big fan of wide, open spaces.
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