Jo-Ann Mapson

Moving, Homecoming and Making a List

When I left Wasilla in April, brown grass was beginning to peek through the patches of snow. The willow trees had buds. I hated to go, knowing I would miss that incredible transformation from winter to spring. For six weeks, my life was a jumble of airplanes, taxicabs, interviews, hotels and room service. Sounds like a dream, right?

In Cincinnati, people rioted over the outcome of a cop on trial for accidentally killing a black man. The hotel sent up bottled water and six desserts along with a note suggesting guests stay in for the night. I opened the window and listened to the hooves of the police horses in the street outside. Nobody got hurt. All that happened was the people of Cincinnati came out to lend physical presence to their verbal outrage.

In Louisville, I connected with an old friend, but it was so humid I never really felt dry. In Lexington and Charlotte, parts of the country I'd never explored, every hotel pretty much universally featured really loud parties that went on far too long into the wee hours. The idea of room service is great, but a person can only order so many Caesar salads before all she wants is something from home-anything from home-peanut butter on crackers will suffice.

If you have a home to go to, that is.

Mid-April, we'd been given notice to move out of our rented house in the valley, our home for the last year. The owner wanted to move his daughter in. We'd intended to look for a new house, but comfortable where we were, dragged our feet. Stewart loved his studio, the separate outbuilding where he could fire up the woodstove, tuck in, and paint for hours undisturbed. Having mountain views on three sides is hard to give up. We spent a frantic week house hunting, not really happy with anything in our price range. The minute we drove by this place, I knew from the outside it was our house. Inside was a studio with northern light for Stewart. Two rooms had stone fireplaces. The tall ceilings, good light, and space were inviting. Yes, the fixtures were dated, but possessed potential. Nestled among grown trees, quiet, with a teensy view of the inlet, the house became ours soon enough-on paper. We pored over our pictures and planned a new kitchen. Finally, I'm going to get the Viking professional stove I've craved. The dogs will have a yard with plenty of trees. There's room for a greenhouse.

All that was left to do was wait.

Meanwhile, on book tour, once I hit Denver, things improved tenfold. I don't know what it is about the West that makes me feel so welcome-the friendly and casual people, the fact that when you ask for a vegetarian meal there are CHOICES, or if it's simply the lack of humidity. My book drew small, enthusiastic crowds, and I made three bestseller lists, an event as humbling as it is validating. The hotels were quiet. I slept. My second wind blew in. I even wrote a little, which always helps to ground me. Best of all, I visited with friends I hadn't seen in years and made new ones. Of course, walking the miles of aisles in Powell's Books in Portland is probably the most restorative act there is for a writer. I spent money on myself. I bought books for friends. I sat in the rare book room, a sacred place, about as close to the universal writer's desk as any lover of books can be.

When I returned home weeks later, it was to a studio apartment while we waited for escrow to close. Alaska was in riotous spring bloom. That special smell we have here was everywhere. I couldn't get enough of it. Bluebells, iris, lilacs. Stewart took me canoeing on Nancy Lake, where we saw loons, and one lunatic with a gun. We packed our final boxes. Unlike escrows of the past, where last minute glitches made everyone break out in shingles, everything had gone smoothly.

What is it Grandma always says? Don't count your chickens before they hatch? Pride goeth before a fall? Be careful what you wish for? Whatever it was, she was right.

Nothing prepared me for walking into the mess the previous owners left behind. On what should have been a relaxing night of sitting by the fire and sighing at the thought of our mortgage (and all that unpacking), instead we were on hands and knees, hauling out everything they'd left behind, shocked with every full and filthy cupboard we opened. After removing eight bags of trash, disposing of leftover food, dirty socks, the odd shoe, hockey equipment, emptying medicine chests, and scrubbing the kitchen, the fridge alone for an hour, the stove, which turned out to be fairly new once I got the grease off it, braving each bathroom's caked on grime, we felt we could let the movers in the next day. We fell into bed delirious, and waited for dawn.

All through the cleaning process I couldn't stop thinking that there was some kind of inherent hostility in the way things were left. The sellers had lived here nine years. How could a woman do this to another woman? How did she live with herself when she walked out that door? What went through her mind at leaving behind so much crap, and in the mix, things like crystal wine glasses? I wondered if her husband gave her the ultimatum: We're leaving now. Or if maybe she didn't really want to go. I thought of when I sold the California house where I'd lived for twenty years. How the last thing I did was kiss every wall good-bye, and say thank you for the shelter. Then my cleaning person made every corner shine. I wasn't always happy in that place. I spent far too much time crying there, for sure. But always it was my home, the place I dwelled, and I loved it for the morning light through the stained glass window, the way the family room held visitors as if in the lightest embrace. I promised my new house I'd love it back to its original self. I kissed the newly washed wall of each room. I hauled more trash to the curb. I thought to myself, from book tour "celebrity" to maid once again.

The universe delivers its lessons with a slight smile.

Now I have no mountains, but sixty-foot tall spruce trees. Elderberry bushes are blooming. Insects flit around the blossoms. Shafts of sunlight illuminate the yard where my dogs are happily investigating. Just outside the fence, a pile of fresh moose nuggets lets me know I am not alone and I was not here first.

No more room service, unless I make it myself. Nobody's going to come watch me write, and applaud at my clever sentences. Once again, I'm sitting in my chair staring at a computer screen, trying to get out of the way of myself enough to let the story through.

There's no place I'd rather be. Honest.

More later,
Jo-Ann

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