Phoning Home

“You don’t write, you don’t call.”

I was feeling very neglected-mother last week, wondering what it would take to have a longer than two minute conversation with my daughter. Was she avoiding me?

Knowing she has two jobs…a new band with their first gig coming up…a boyfriend, I still thought “maybe she just doesn’t like me anymore.”

Then it hit me. She’s busy! She’s happy, doing what she’s been wanting to do. Isn’t that the goal? I relaxed. And then, magically, she called.

It would be the same for me, if my mom were still around. She’d probably wonder why I haven’t been to visit. I talked to my dad the other day, telling him what I’ve been up to:

I’ve worked a few full shifts at the bookstore/bar. My Saturday coworker is a young Japanese guy who used to live in Brooklyn and moved up the Hudson.  It’s fun, pouring good beer and talking books with customers. The time goes fast – I love looking at all the people: weekend visitors from the city, a little older with money; younger artist types stretching one beer; couples with young children who curl up in the corner armchair with some classic while the parents browse.

Last Saturday Eric picked me up after work and we headed to Chatham, a pretty town, more fancy than our side of the river, to see “The Artist” at the local cinema that’s always $5. I felt like crying through the whole thing. Partly because the movie was an absolute wonder, partly because I was so happy to be in a theatre full of people sharing the experience.

The next day we went up into the mountains, fifteen or twenty minutes from our house, where there are waterfalls and skiing and odd mountain boarding houses, motels, cafes and bars. There’s always something new to see and do around here – one small town after another, each with its own unique character. I ended up in the Irish Catskills this week, a bizarre enclave of shanty-looking Irish-American summer cottages and pubs and motels with shamrock motifs. Then it was back over to Hudson with the mid-century antiques and vintage clothes.

At home, Eric and I have been making good progress on a new album. We had our friend Chris Butler up to play drums on some songs, the first outside musician on one of our records. I think we have twelve songs getting close to being finished. There’s a lot to do on the house, and now that spring is here, the garden, but got to get the record done to get some money flowing.

I explained to my dad that we were looking forward to visiting. But that it’ll have to wait a little while, what with the record and the house and the job. He said he understood completely.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

After an initially timid and shaky start, it was all going so well this new relationship. I guess it was bound to hit a rocky patch. And like many a fledgling romance, it came down to a toothbrush.

When you’re still in the early stages, the getting-to-know-you part, the toothbrush is like a loaded gun. Okay to carry one around, just don’t go whipping it out in front of anyone unless you really have to.  And for God’s sake don’t leave it on the bathroom sink after you’ve left.

Which is exactly what I did last week, at the local hipster coffee place.

Eric and I had started out wary of the sleek decor and the bearded young bohemian baristas who, when they weren’t behind the counter, stood smoking on the sidewalk out front. We heard they were all brilliant, inventive musicians and no doubt this was true – the music they played on the vintage turntable was always interesting. Intimidatingly so, even. But the coffee was excellent, and their skills were superb: perfect espresso, immaculate lattes and macchiatos. And after a while, they even started to nod and smile at us, joking about the sameness of our order, but politely so – only after we’d pointed it out.

Things hadn’t progressed much beyond the mild chuckle stage but there was a growing sense of camaraderie there. Clearly way older, we could still fit in as struggling artists and musicians, shaking every last penny out of my ratty wallet some mornings at the same time taking care that the AARP card didn’t tumble out too and come crashing down on the counter. Yes, there’s no hiding our seniority but don’t want to spoil their scene looking too safe, too careful, too boring.

We were adapting so well, I even took a part-time job at the bookstore/bar across the street. This magical place, in an 1800′s firehouse that retains its original ornate wooden ceiling and doorway, also houses an art supply section and doubles as a low-key music venue some nights. Strictly in a community outreach and research capacity I jumped at the chance to sell books and pour artisanal brews when my friend Karen, an esteemed music writer who works there, offered to put in a word for me.

It was only because of my first day on the job that I brushed my teeth in the coffee shop rest room – we’d eaten lunch and I was going directly across the street to work. I remember admiring my cute little Sonicare multi-colored stripe travel toothbrush against the red bathroom walls. I must’ve been nervous – I haven’t worked a day job in years, even though I’ve been needing to – and I left the thing there on the sink.

So when we went in for coffee on Sunday, I had to ask: “Did anyone find a toothbrush in the bathroom? A really nice, striped, battery-operated one?”

And one of our bearded near-buddies suddenly turned cold. “I’m sure it was thrown away,” he said, implying that it was the only sensible course of action. Like my special device, the one I’d treated myself to for Christmas and had looked lovingly at for the past few months as a reminder that I’m not always so completely broke that I can’t have nice things, was no better than a used tissue.

“But it’s not just any toothbrush. It’s got a motor!” I shrilled, my throat constricting. “Would you throw out someone’s glasses, or keys?”

I pictured them laughing, “Who brushes their teeth in the middle of the day?” in the way only the young can.

It could have all blown over, but I’d made the bigger mistake of leaving a message on the store’s voicemail: “Did anyone find a toothbrush in the bathroom? It’s striped, really nice…with a battery?” No one ever called back. They probably all had a good laugh about that, too.  Some bearded genius is no doubt working it into his latest sound collage.

I know exactly where part of my first paycheck is going. So when he plays the sound collage at the bar across the street, and I’m pouring somebody a beer, I’ll reach into my purse, press the button and hold the whizzing striped toothbrush aloft: “You’re gonna get older someday too, buddy.”

Keeper Of The L’Âne

One stuffed donkey in official Hee Haw overalls – check.

“Barry Manilow Magic”, on cassette – check.

Half-assed collection of shabby charm bracelets and costume jewelry – clank.

A box of PG Tips tea bags – present and accounted for.

I’ve finally emptied my storage space and been busy sorting through the mythical valuables it cost thousands to keep safely warm and dry for several years now. And aside from way too many items like those listed above (okay, being the keeper of the Hee Haw donkey is a privilege and responsibility I take very seriously), there are master tapes; photo, press and clothing archives; along with some of Hazel’s baby and kid clothes – artifacts I would never part with. Fiestaware and Hall teapots and odd bits of furniture my mother gave me that make me feel like a missing part of myself has been put back in place.

But where’s the toaster? The iron and the vacuum cleaner? What’s in this huge box marked “Amy’s Favorite CD’s” and if it was so vital, have I been operating on a temp soundtrack all this time and maybe the movie of my life will look like it’s really supposed to, now that the music licenses have been cleared?

I doubt it.

Still, thank God that’s done.

I’d taken Amtrak from Hudson – a real Americana special heading north then west through places like Schenectady and Syracuse – to Buffalo, where my friend Norma Coates, professor of pop music, picked me up. She’d been guilted into coming down from Ontario to help me through one of my last blog posts – I don’t think I could’ve done it without her moral support.

Norma’s a big fan of Airbnb and I’d been wanting to try it. We checked into a cute young couple’s house minutes from the storage space in Cleveland Heights and had a wonderful day of taking in the sights: great food in Little Italy and Tommy’s on Coventry and Thai and the heavy metal wine bar. The sun was shining, people were smiling! It was like a lunch date with an ex, where you see the charm, the goodness and feel alright about that part of your life – it just wasn’t meant to be, but there’ll always be a special place in your heart for…

Forget it, what really made the trip was our visit to the Rock Hall of Fame. Not the Women in Rock exhibit, though I did enjoy that. No, it was the sweet young coat check guy, who said: “Excuse me, but…are you – Amy Rigby?” I figured chances were good he wasn’t a bill collector and said, “why, yes.”

“I love your music,” he said.

I wasn’t “in the Rock Hall”, so to speak, but for a few seconds I was, y’know?

(It occurred to me later that Norma possibly phoned ahead and then tipped him to say it but whatever, it worked.)

The Key West cafe of “Taste Of The Keys” had closed, though the sign remained. The dowdy corner that housed the UPS store where I got mail these past several years was now on its way to being a gleaming art museum. It was the end of an era.

By the time we had to load the rental truck, the fabled Lake Effect had taken hold, cold and grey with snow blowing horizontally into the back of the truck as we heaved furniture and boxes in. (Eric just pointed out that we could’ve turned the truck around the other way…that’s why he’s the packing master)

I left Norma to commune with the 16 Magazine archives at the Rock Hall and headed back to Catskill. The 9-hour drive was painless, with all my old radio friends to keep my company: Larry Groce and the Mountain Stage crew, John Tesh, Delilah. I’d saved some cash for the Thruway toll, remembering the last time I’d traveled without EZ Pass and ended up digging around on the floor for change because they don’t take cards.

“That’ll be…twenty seven fifty,” said the tollbooth attendant.

I’d only budgeted for twenty five, tops. He must’ve noticed the stricken look on my face. “That’s if I charge you as a truck, which technically I’m supposed to do,” he said. “Let’s make it…fifteen fifty this time. But next time, you’d better be prepared.”

“Next time? There’s no next time!” I cried. “This is it. Finished. I’m done. No more trucks, no more moving.”

“Good,” he said, and smiled. “Welcome home.”

EFPTOZ

Ever since we moved, I’ve had certain tasks I need to do in order to feel like I’ve really moved. Like it’s not enough to have heaved everything across the ocean – there are musts on my to-do list that loom…and loom, and grow in importance until they seem so huge, they’re impossible.

One has been getting a New York state driver’s license. The whole time overseas, I never felt the need to replace my Ohio license. Apparently there are a few states that have worked things out with the French government to make their licenses easily transferable to a French one: Arkansas, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Illinois, Kansas, Kentucky, Michigan, New Hampshire, Ohio, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, Texas, and Virginia (I think France just took a poll of the people least likely to come to France and made those the allowable ones), so I could have dumped Ohio for a more continental-sounding permis de conduire but that wouldn’t have been so handy for evading speeding fines. The fines are more and more frequent due to the number of discreet speed cameras they’ve been installing.

No, I stayed Ohio-proud as a cost-cutting measure in Europe, but back here in the US, I was eager to trade Ohio for New York. I wanted to turn model citizen and be who I say I am, as well as not have to withstand the looks of pity or hear tales of woe about the time someone had to live in Toledo for three years. And I worried about things like the NY state trooper who pulled us over on the highway for the van being “too loud” (the problem has since been fixed, honest Officer!) and how he could have cited me for the out of state license when I told him we’d been living in New York for two months.

Anyone who’s lived in New York City has likely been scarred and traumatized by a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles, where the line of applicants stretches around the block, and the sadism of the clerks is legendary.

But mostly I was worried about the eye test. Maybe it’s the stress but my eyesight has gotten worse lately. I kept thinking I’d better get a new eyeglass prescription before I went in to exchange licenses. What if they decided I’m too vision-impaired to drive, even with glasses, and said “we’ll hold on to this” with my current license? I remembered the rigorous eye test at the Ohio Dept. of Motor Vehicles, where you look in this dark box and lights flash left and right…if the girl at the counter hadn’t prompted me a little bit, I honestly don’t know if I’d have passed – and that was a while back.

But to get some new glasses I’ve got make some money and I’ve got to drive to make some money so…

I got some sleep and cleaned my glasses and went first thing last Monday. The main street of our town is charming and old-fashioned, with an old movie theatre marquee and cute shop fronts. That particular morning, I saw a policeman leading a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit and leg irons from the jail down to the courthouse which was a little jarring, but I guess it kept things from looking too quaint.

There was a total of one person in front of me in the DMV. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and telling the clerk how he wished he had his birth certificate but it was with his ex-wife and she didn’t allow him in the house anymore.

While I was filling out my form another guy came in, somewhere in his seventies, with a lumberjack shirt and boots, very thick glasses. They call everyone by their first names in this DMV, which is kind of sweet: “Now, Richard – it says here you have a hearing aid?”

“What’s that?” Richard the old lumberjack said. The clerk showed him where he’d ticked the box on the form. “Oh, no, guess I got that wrong,” he said, squinting. “My hearing’s fine!” he shouted. “It’s my eyesight that’s not so good.”

“But what’s that in your ear?” the clerk asked, pleasantly.

“Oh, that’s just some cotton I keep in there,” Richard said.

“Okay, well, let’s get you in front of the eye chart here,” said the clerk. They pivoted Richard around and he recited the letters, left to right. I was sitting a good six feet behind him and I could read them too, so I knew I was going to be alright.

Not In Cleveland

It was all set to happen, the other week. We were playing a benefit in Rochester for a friend, Tom Kohn, whose legendary record store the Bop Shop had been forced out by greedy landlords. He’d managed to find a new spot and a bunch of musicians had gotten together to raise money for him to move tens of thousands of records.

Sitting in the audience watching the Chandler Travis Three-O, I got very choked up. They’d left the stage and were playing and singing while moving around the audience. It’s the kind of thing that can seem forced, but it felt so intimate and wacky at the same time. When they played Things To You, that sweet NRBQ song, it almost did me in. It was a mixture of sad and happy, just like the song. Sad about Tom Ardolino, the NRBQ drummer who’d passed away the week before. Happy to be “home”, and simultaneously audience and participant.

They played a Travis/Greenberger composition next, called “This Is Home” – you know that feeling you can get when it seems like a band is telepathically channeling your life into song? He got to a line about “I’ve got boxes of stuff somewhere else” – and then I remembered: Cleveland.

Cleveland. The reason I put “home” in quote marks. Because if I’m honest, part of me still lives there.

“That’s How I Got To Cleveland” is the potential title for a country song parody, or memoir-turned-work of fiction. No matter how it happened, six or seven years later I still have an Ohio driver’s license. A nice guy named Bill still gets the occasional piece of mail for me at the UPS store on Euclid. My cellphone still mystifies people when it comes up in Caller ID – “who the hell’s calling from Ohio?” And there still sits in a storage place in Cleveland Heights a 5 X 8 space with my stuff in it.

Every time I go to make a piece of toast, I remember I’ve got a toaster. Bending down to take a charred piece of bread out of the broiler – “in Cleveland”, I sigh.

“That shirt’s looking a little wrinkled,” I say to Eric. “Let me get the iron-”

“Can’t – it’s in Cleveland,” we say in unison. A certain book, or something from the archives, that space heater or bit of Fiestaware – all in Cleveland.

In France, it was too far away to deal with. There was something comforting about having my little stake back in the states. And there were other toasters and irons. But those things don’t work here in the US. And there’s all that useful stuff sitting only a day’s drive away.

So I figured Rochester was even closer – four hours? I’d booked a ticket on Greyhound, reserved a small truck, had even arranged for a moving guy to help me empty the space and be done with it. But it snowed, and I was running low on money. And I didn’t want to be unloading a truck on my birthday.

In the time I was away, things changed. I catch up at the gym, watching TV on the treadmill. Hoarders shows, and Hot In Cleveland – aging gals who used to be somebody, adjusting their location/expectations to make the most of where they’re at in life. Geography – if you don’t like where you’re at, just change it. Is there a part of me that can’t say goodbye?

I was truly miserable when I lived there – I think I went there to be miserable. But it was the last place my daughter and I lived together. It was where I was living when Eric and I got together. It was cold, lonely, snowy – except when it was disgustingly hot and humid.

But there was a beauty to it, a purity and lack of pretension. Like Pittsburgh, where I grew up, but without the charm.

Storage places bank on this kind of inertia.

My friend Norma  was visiting this past weekend – she said there’s a Women In Rock show going til the end of the month at the Rock Hall of Fame in Cleveland. We’ve made a tentative plan to meet up there. Maybe I just need to trick myself into thinking I’m not moving again. Just stopping by to pay my respects to a small but important part of my life.

And leave with a truck full of stuff.