Donnilocks and Tales from Our Town

Seven weeks. I have finished seven weeks on the job and in my new home. Two trips back to Wisconsin, a trip to Florida, and a weekend guest have meant that I've been alone in the house only a chunk of that 49 days.

Several friends have been checking me for homesickness and signs of buyer's remorse and, along with them, I'm surprised there have been few day of panic and anxiety. Periodically, I get caught by sadness bigger than the move — like thinking about my Dad and how I would have liked him to see this house and how interested he would have been in the job. Last night I slept upstairs. While looking for a blanket, I unpacked the throw my Mom made out of Dad's jeans and logo patches from his hat collection. I put it on my bed and teared up for a while. During life's milestones, it is inevitable that you search out the knowing looks of your people. I'd like to imagine there is a cosmic soup somewhere and Dad is adding spice to my sector of the caldron. — But sidetracked again . . . I meant to share an odd and unexpected reaction to the move — the nocturnal musical chairs.

Maybe I've mentioned it before, but I've been totally surprised about my sleeping patterns. Before the move, I anticipated with absolute delirium having the big beautiful first floor bedroom suite with wood floors, an enormous walk-in closet, master bath, high ceilings, three windows, and enough room for a reading chair and ottoman (of which I’ve dreamed for some years). From the time I moved into it, something hasn’t felt right. At first, I thought it was because the room was incomplete with hanging tablecloths instead of curtains, a big floor without a rug, no art on the walls, no plants, and not enough lamplight. In short order, I put up rods and curtains, bought a rug and lamps, hung a painting and brought in plants. When that didn’t do it, I figured it was a security issue. But once I met the neighbors who reside outside the window, I felt more at ease. Nevertheless, I have taken to sleeping upstairs in what I call THE VAN BOGAERT ROOM. The bed has linens and a quilt Mom made, Dad's throw in a basket by it’s side. Once I find them, it will have Mom’s Belmont farm quilt pictures on the wall. With the roofline ceiling and wall-to-wall carpet, I figured the allure was that it was a cozier room “much more” (sorry) reminiscent of my McFarland room than the new master suite. Last night, however, I started thinking something else might be going on. In anticipation of the boys coming for Thanksgiving, I finally tackled the last room of moving boxes — the front bedroom. This is the room where I slept when I first moved in. It is bright, has two windows and also features the roof line and carpeting. I'm calling it THE PALM BEACH room because of all the pastels (mostly sage and beige) and the ginger jar lamp painted with different images of sea shells and purchased at the Snooty Fox (local high resale shop). Yesterday I bought more pillows for both guest rooms and a big, fluffy microfleece blanket for the PB room. With the new mattress and linens on the sofa bed, it is a comfortable, wonderful room. And I slept there last night.

This third change in sleeping arrangements, has me thinking there is a Donnilocks thing going on. "Donna tried the master bedroom. 'I can’t sleep here. This bedroom is too large," she said. Then she tried the The Van Bogaert bedroom. 'I can’t sleep here. This bedroom has only one window and has an uninspiring view,' she said. Finally, she tried the Palm Beach bedroom. 'I will sleep here. This bedroom is bright and comfy with big windows and a soft blanket. This one is just right,' she exclaimed with delight and settled in until her boys came the next week." This isn't a permanent move. The bed isn't as comfortable as mine, but it's always nice to know that if I don't feel like picking up the room I'm in, I can always move to another. I live for options.

Our Town

Mariemont continues to trip my trigger with it's "Our Town" charm. I recently learned that the Mariemont Theatre (home to All That Jazz bandmate Fred Jurgen's high school weekend festivities) has a dinner and a movie special on Wednesday nights. This week was my first "school night" foray. Went to see "Coco Before Chanel" with French subtitles. The dinner part of the equation was a 20% off coupon to any one of the four venues in walking distance. I chose Mios, a regional Italian chain, and ordered the chicken caesar. Upon arriving in town, I was told Cincinnatian's take their food seriously and I have found that to be true. They are serious about meat. My Mio’s salad is the first time I've ever been served a caesar with bacon on it. Loved the movie house. Reminds me of the old neighborhood theatres in Chicago.

Today I was in search of more practical town resources—specifically banking and mailing. I’m well-acquainted with US Bank who holds my mortgage. I needed to discuss with them why my checks haven't shown up in three weeks and to verify my automatic payment is in place for next month's mortgage payment. I may have mentioned the irony of finding out the head teller’s name is Debbie Anderson, also the name of my next door neighbor in McFarland. As I drove around downtown Mariemont today, I realized that I had not completely left my Wisconsin roots. There are both Madison and Belmont Streets nearby. But back to Debbie who was disturbed that somehow my check order had vanished (what a surprise). She, consequently, waived all service fees on my temporary checks. With that technicality resolved, I was ready to move on to my mailing chore. I had already looked up post offices close to Mariemont on the web, but as is my practice in my role as “new person,” I asked Debbie which post office in two adjoining towns was closer. She told me that there was no need to leave town, because The Villager gift shop next door had a small postal window. Besides being thrilled I wouldn’t have to drive anywhere, the Villager’s postal center reminded me of the LaFox post office in Potter’s General Store where I worked as a teenager. The Villager’s window is just a transaction center so it lacks the charm of the old brass front postal boxes that Potter’s had. Still it had that local meeting place feel to it and Kara, the young woman, who waited on me was very friendly and welcoming. I put my parcels into her care and headed out for Meineckes.

Those of you familiar with my GPS, Merrill, will be distressed as I am to know that she went in for surgery today. Evidentally, I did not pack her correctly the last trip to Wisconsin and she’s got a broken part (don't we all). In my search for reputable and nearby electronics repair people, I came across Meinecke’s. Naturally, I can’t shake the feeling that these people belong in the muffler business instead of electronics. It’s another one of those situations when I feel like I’m in a universe parallel to McFarland’s. Instead of a town named Belmont and a city named Madison, there are streets with those names. And Meinecke's is an electronics repair rather than a muffler business. Regardless of my inner musings, I’ve entrusted Merrill with Meinecke’s and hopefully the Monday report on her condition will not include words like “intensive care.”

I wish I had a river to skate away on . . .

Joni Mitchell’s RIVER is still one of my very favorite Christmas songs. But I don’t like it enough to want to start listening to it round the clock the second week of November—which is exactly what one Kentucky station was doing when I came back into town on 11/14. It’s hard enough to feel November when it's 60 fahrenheit and sunny (but I’m not complaining). According to the Division Director, winter here consists of a couple days of cold in February. Not Wisconsin cold. 20ish is ugly for folks around here. Nevertheless, Christmas is coming and the boys and I will begin a new tradition — cutting down an Ohio tree. I've gotten several suggestions. Most tree farms are about 40 minutes away. I'm actually thinking that a Kentucky tree sounds homey, but I'm not yet ready to fully invest in planning the tree trip. I still haven't scored my cheap holiday turkeys and am adjusting to the realization that my parties will suffer from the absence of Norb Krusiec's famous smoked turkey.

In a couple of weeks, I will have my Branch folks over for a holiday party. The biggest challenge is getting them up here (with significant others, I could have 5o guests). My new house will easily accommodate them but parking is an issue. With my steep drive and no parking on the street, I have come up with the idea of ferrying my guest from the Kroger parking lot down the hill to my front door. This means hiring a college kid to be at my beckon call for an evening. More on that story as it develops . . .

Muchmore About the Neighbors

As I plan for my holiday neighbor party (which will be small this year), the big question is whether my most famous neighbor will be in town. My brother, Ken, will enjoy the fact that one of his musical idols from college days lives only a quarter mile away on Muchmore Point. Yes, Peter Frampton married a local girl. The fact that he lives here is the first thing people bring up when they learn the location of my house. I admit to doing a bit of snooping when I found out from the handyman exactly where he lives. OK, I drove past very, very--very slowly (also known as stalking) -- and used my discreet new Olympus to snap a picture of his rather unpretentious (for Indian Hills and his fame) house. Somehow I lost the photo in replacing my camera chip, so I'll have to run surveillance again and post that snapshot later.

As I drift off to sleep, I will work on crafting my first introduction. I can imagine it now. "Hey, Pete, do they still call you Fram-Face?" Maybe not.

That's the news from Muchmore Road where the neighbors are greedy (except for Isabelle and Jarrod) and the driveways are steep.