Death of a Shared Past, or Why Fluid Dynamics Makes Me Smile Alone

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I’m in the midst of pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming moving and settling in to the new home. Those damned paint chips have been turned into almost a dozen gallons of paint that now cover the walls (marking our territory as Brock would say; Tiger has been busy marking his territory outside the home while his parents handle the inside). The kitchen is largely unpacked and the garage is staged with boxes ready to follow the carpet cleaner’s into the rest of the house. Even the man cave is taking shape and looking smart.

I’m exhausted. The last time I did a wedding/move/remodel at once, I was 22. I sure ain’t no spring chicken anymore, as evidenced by the blisters on my hands and the creaks in my back.

But I’m happy. Even more so than at 22 when I was beginning my first marriage in my first home. I’m more grateful for what I have, knowing how easy it is to lose everything. I’m more at peace, after living through my fears. I’m more focused on the relationships that will be nurtured within the home than on the home itself (the days of waiting to complete a project before inviting friends over is a thing of the past). It feels so good to start to send out roots again. This is settling in the best way possible.

Since my swollen hands and befuddled brain won’t allow me to string together too many cohesive sentences (seriously, how do new parents function with this little sleep every night? mad respect but also a little scared that there are that many new parent zombies shuffling around!), I provide you with a post about the loss of shared memories. It’s a timely post for me now that I’m cultivating a new shared past (and reconnecting with friends from childhood!) which softens the blow of losing the other.

 

Death of a Shared Past, or Why Fluid Dynamics Makes Me Smile Alone

 

Several years ago, my then husband and I were on the interstate heading out to our weekly Costco run. The roads were packed and traffic was doing that infuriating start-stop thing where we averaged about .87 mph. I took that opportunity to share the information from an article I had read that applied the theory of fluid dynamics to traffic congestion (disclaimer for those new to the site: I am a geek). I was excited about the research, animated. I used the cars around us to demonstrate the ideas in the article. He thought I was bit nuts. From that point forward, every time we were stuck in traffic, he would make a joke about “damn fluid dynamics.” It became part of our shared past.

Traffic Congestion

I am an only child and I have lost contact will all of my childhood friends. My ex was the only person in my peer group that spanned across the decades of my life. I do not miss him, but I do miss the shared past. I now have entire mental storerooms of jokes and remembrances and no one to share them with. It’s a strange feeling, memories bubbling to the surface and just sitting, lonely at the forefront of my mind rather than being released through a conjoined history and recollection.  It’s an isolating feeling, a bit like being alone in a foreign country; no one else speaks the language of my marriage.

I am building a new shared past with my current partner, but, by definition, it takes time to build a history,a shared past from which to pull forth shared memories.

But for now, when I am stuck in traffic, I think of fluid dynamics and smile alone.

Pandora’s Envelope

Posted on by stilllearning2b

It looked like nothing special really.  A plain brown 13″ x 9″ envelope.  It sat tucked in a file drawer for two years, its brown frame slightly larger than the file folder which contained it.  Over time, the edges grew a little worn, but the clasp stayed sealed tight.  I didn’t think of it often, but when I would open the drawer, it sat there taunting me.  Haunting me.

It looked like nothing special really.  But it was.  That plain envelope contained a few sample images of my former life, pictures and memories I had not faced in years. I had imbued the images within with power, talismans of a former life. I didn’t know what the consequences would be for breaking that seal.  I feared the pictures would act like horcruxes, their sum total assembling into some great evil.

Last year, I was finally ready to find out what would happen when I broke the seal.

I made the preparations.  Secluded outdoor table at a coffee shop? Check.  Dark sunglasses to hide the tears? Check.  Journal and pen ready?  Check.  Bravery?  Check, I guess. I began to pull the pictures and letters out one at a time, recording my memories and reactions.

My ex’s first car was a ’56 Chevy.  It was a noble, yet fickle beast.  He had to carry entire flats of oil in the trunk so that he could top it off every 100 miles or so.  In this picture, we were redoing the upholstery while parked in my mom’s driveway.  The older man next door always came out when the Chevy was in the driveway and he would share memories of his 20s, when he owned the same car.

This picture was the only one that actually brought tears to my eyes.  This was Max, our Wonderpug.  We got her shortly after we moved in together and she quickly became an integral part of our family.  She was so full of spunk and spirit. We would take her camping, hiking, and swimming, earning her the title, “All Terrain Pug.”

When I found myself suddenly alone and adrift, I was completely unable to care for any my dogs physically, emotionally, or financially.  Friends and family helped to find homes for all three of them.  Giving them away was the most painful part of the entire divorce, but I had to do what was best for them.  Max was the hardest to place, as she was elderly and in failing health.  One of the amazing volunteers at Southeast Pug Rescue personally took her in and gave her a wonderful home in which to spend her remaining years.  Here come the tears again…

A family portrait with an adult Max.

We had an unorthodox wedding.  We were married on the beach in Vero Beach, FL.  The only attendees were the minister (a gay Methodist minister who looked like David Lee Roth and threatened to marry us while wearing a speedo) and the photographer, who actually worked for the newspaper.  We both cried when reciting our vows, trembling with emotion.  As soon as the ceremony was over, we removed our shoes and walked along the beach for miles.

We honeymooned on a Windjammer cruise.  Apparently I though short-alls were the height of Caribbean fashion.

It was strange seeing him in these photos.  His face no longer seemed familiar to me.  What stood out was one picture where you could see a mole on his neck.  That image, not his face, brought memories rushing back: the feel of his hands, the texture of his chin, the smell of his hair.  I examined all his images, looking for emotion.  Looking to see if his love was real.  Comparing the pictures of him then to his more recent mugshot.  It’s not the same man.

Strangely, the wedding pictures did not bring sadness.  Just a disconnected sort of reminiscence.

Not long after we were married, we bought our house.  This began 10 years of remodeling projects as we worked to make it our own.  We always worked so well together.

This was the last picture I pulled from the envelope: my cat looking out my old dining room window at the activity in the garden.  That cat is all that I still have with me from all these pictures.

The past only has power if we allow it to. By keeping those pictures hidden for so long, I built them up in my mind and made them into more than they really are. Now they they have been released from the envelope, I find  that they have also been released from my thoughts.

I only have a few pictures with me.  Most of them, along with other memories, are in a sealed  box in my mother’s attic across the country.  I’m no longer afraid to open this Pandora’s box; I know I can handle what comes out of it.

Death of a Shared Past, or Why Fluid Dynamics Makes Me Smile Alone

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Several years ago, my then husband and I were on the interstate heading out to our weekly Costco run. The roads were packed and traffic was doing that infuriating start-stop thing where we averaged about .87 mph. I took that opportunity to share the information from an article I had read that applied the theory of fluid dynamics to traffic congestion (disclaimer for those new to the site: I am a geek). I was excited about the research, animated. I used the cars around us to demonstrate the ideas in the article. He thought I was bit nuts. From that point forward, every time we were stuck in traffic, he would make a joke about “damn fluid dynamics.” It became part of our shared past.

Traffic Congestion

I am an only child and I have lost contact will all of my childhood friends. My ex was the only person in my peer group that spanned across the decades of my life. I do not miss him, but I do miss the shared past. I now have entire mental storerooms of jokes and remembrances and no one to share them with. I am building a new shared past with my current partner, but, by definition, it takes time to build a history.

But for now, when I am stuck in traffic, I think of fluid dynamics and smile alone.

Pandora’s Envelope

Posted on by stilllearning2b

It looked like nothing special really.  A plain brown 13″ x 9″ envelope.  It sat tucked in a file drawer for two years, its brown frame slightly larger than the file folder which contained it.  Over time, the edges grew a little worn, but the clasp stayed sealed tight.  I didn’t think of it often, but when I would open the drawer, it sat there taunting me.  Haunting me.

It looked like nothing special really.  But it was.  That plain envelope contained a few sample images of my former life, pictures and memories I had not faced in years. I had imbued the images within with power, talismans of a former life. I didn’t know what the consequences would be for breaking that seal.  Last year, I was finally ready to find out.

I made the preparations.  Secluded outdoor table at a coffee shop? Check.  Dark sunglasses to hide the tears? Check.  Journal and pen ready?  Check.  Bravery?  Check, I guess. I began to pull the pictures and letters out one at a time, recording my memories and reactions.

My ex’s first car was a ’56 Chevy.  It was a noble, yet fickle beast.  He had to carry entire flats of oil in the trunk so that he could top it off every 100 miles or so.  In this picture, we were redoing the upholstery while parked in my mom’s driveway.  The older man next door always came out when the Chevy was in the driveway and he would share memories of his 20s, when he owned the same car.

This picture was the only one that actually brought tears to my eyes.  This was Max, our Wonderpug.  We got her shortly after we moved in together and she quickly became an integral part of our family.  She was so full of spunk and spirit. We would take her camping, hiking, and swimming, earning her the title, “All Terrain Pug.”

When I found myself suddenly alone and adrift, I was completely unable to care for any my dogs physically, emotionally, or financially.  Friends and family helped to find homes for all three of them.  Giving them away was the most painful part of the entire divorce, but I had to do what was best for them.  Max was the hardest to place, as she was elderly and in failing health.  One of the amazing volunteers at Southeast Pug Rescue personally took her in and gave her a wonderful home in which to spend her remaining years.  Here come the tears again…

A family portrait with an adult Max.

We had an unorthodox wedding.  We were married on the beach in Vero Beach, FL.  The only attendees were the minister (a gay Methodist minister who looked like David Lee Roth and threatened to marry us while wearing a speedo) and the photographer, who actually worked for the newspaper.  We both cried when reciting our vows, trembling with emotion.  As soon as the ceremony was over, we removed our shoes and walked along the beach for miles.

We honeymooned on a Windjammer cruise.  Apparently I though short-alls were the height of Caribbean fashion.

It was strange seeing him in these photos.  His face no longer seemed familiar to me.  What stood out was one picture where you could see a mole on his neck.  That image, not his face, brought memories rushing back: the feel of his hands, the texture of his chin, the smell of his hair.  I examined all his images, looking for emotion.  Looking to see if his love was real.  Comparing the pictures of him then to his more recent mugshot.  It’s not the same man.

Strangely, the wedding pictures did not bring sadness.  Just a disconnected sort of reminiscence.

Not long after we were married, we bought our house.  This began 10 years of remodeling projects as we worked to make it our own.  We always worked so well together.

This was the last picture I pulled from the envelope: my cat looking out my old dining room window at the activity in the garden.  That cat is all that I still have with me from all these pictures.

 

The past only has power if we allow it to. By keeping those pictures hidden for so long, I built them up in my mind and made them into more than they really are. Now they they have been released from the envelope, I find  that they have also been released from my thoughts.

I only have a few pictures with me.  Most of them, along with other memories, are in a sealed  box in my mother’s attic across the country.  I’m no longer afraid to open this Pandora’s box; I know I can handle what comes out of it.