More Than Just Stuff

I never imagined that I’d be so grateful to have the temperature outside rise to 35 degrees, and have clean running water inside a house full of memorable things I cherish. But this is what I am feeling. Today.

Over the last four days, I have run the gamut of thoughts and feelings. What was so important to me one day was replaced by a new challenge the next. It began when my husband scheduled a seven day business trip to Southern California. We joked about how lucky he was to be heading towards warm weather, while I watched the forecast for our first snow of the winter here in Virginia. Work trip. I get it. The most daunting work I was anticipating was the care of our herd. Walking out to the barn has never been too big of a chore—the goats, horses and chickens always make me smile. Our indoor animals are simple, they match my mood—chilling by the fire reading–as long as I don’t say the word “walk” or put on my Hokas. The house and barn were well stocked with feed and hay, thanks to Kevin braving the pre-storm shelve clearing, before he left for California.

Admittedly, I was excited to have the quiet house to myself to read and write all cozy under a blanket with snow falling outside the window. A whole week of it sounded dreamy after the busy holiday. Not paying too much attention to the warnings of freezing rain and ice, I wasn’t one to panic shop or fill bathtubs with water. We live in the country (twenty minutes outside the city) on a well. If power is lost, so too is running water. You get maybe one or two flushes per toilet. That’s where a bathtub full of water comes in handy (A little something we learned living up in Connecticut when Nor’easters knocked down power lines).

On Sunday I did not fill any bathtubs. I did charge all my electronics. Snow was due to arrive overnight. Monday morning I woke to the “bleep bleep” sound of the power coming back on. It had gone off and on before six am. Outside of the window, it was beautiful—a white layer of snow blanketing the driveway and pastures. I jumped out of bed to race to the coffee maker, quickly brewing several cups and putting them in containers to keep warm. Priorities. Then I filled two insulated carafes of hot water for the likelihood that the barn water would be frozen. 

The morning routine with the barn animals is to stall the horses and let the goats out, then feed and water. The thrill of the first snow outweighed the discomfort of the frigid air and having to lug fresh water out to the barn. It’s one hundred and fifty steps from our house. A football field. Or less. I walk along the fenceline, whistling to the horses and calling out to the goats. Here is where I should clarify that half the time it is not I who does this, but my other half, who is in sunny California working this week.

Snow continued to fall all day long on Monday, turning to icy sleet, weighing down the branches. Some trees had branches break off and collapse from the heavy snow and ice. Several trees broke apart right in the middle of the two pathways we use to get to the barn. The footpath along the fence as well as the Gator path we drive. On my midday walk to the barn I took the Gator and drove through a “carwash” of snow. I laughed and learned (fluffy freezing cold snow all over me). The next time out to the barn I crawled through downed branches like a Ninja. I laughed. It’s par for the course living out in the country in winter.

Cozy and warm inside, picturesque white fields outside. 

Then my power went out. 

It was around four o’clock that the whole house got quiet. No humming refrigerator. No HVAC sound outside. Silence. Even the blower of the gas fireplace shut off. My saving grace was the gas fireplace that continued to run—providing my only source of heat. The sun was going down quickly. The temperature was dropping. The house was darkening. I added on layers of clothing, rounded up all my flashlights and candles. Just in time. The candles were lit in the one large area where I planned to huddle under a blanket—the kitchen and the family room with the gas fireplace. It was quiet and cold. Before hunkering down, I still had to run out to the barn and put up the goats, and feed everyone (and bring hot water, from the carafes I filled earlier, to de-ice their buckets). 

This is where I must remind people who don’t know livestock too well and might be worried about our animals, they are hardy, especially the herd animals. The seven goats have the thickest soft coats. To hold your bare hand between two goats who are side by side, you can just feel the warmth they emit. Their stall has extra straw during the winter, which they kind of nestle in together. I wish I had a camera in there, but in the morning I can see indentations of nesting areas where they have posted up together. The chickens are similar, as they roost side by side in the corners of their little chicken shed. It has a heater—when there is power. The horses’ coats grow thick in the winter, and withstand freezing temperatures as long as they have shelter. The hardest part for us is getting fresh water out there when it gets below freezing. This is especially challenging with downed trees in the way.

There is something about a power outage that makes me nostalgic. I remember losing power growing up (in Northern California) and my mom lighting candles and no television to watch. It felt like “the olden days.” Eating cold meals by the firelight. It used to be a disappointment when the power came back on. As an adult, I still feel a bit of that. However, our house was getting really cold on Monday evening. I ate a sandwich for dinner, sat under a heavy blanket next to the gas fireplace and read a book with a headlamp. I refrained from phone scrolling or conversations, conserving battery juice. The house grew colder and colder. It was around 8 o’clock when I started to think about how I would sleep through the night. Next to the gas fireplace? Under a heap of down comforters in my bedroom? I had this hardy country toughness that refused the offer of a city friend to come sleep at her house (with power). I couldn’t leave my cats and dogs. I didn’t want to drive on the icy roads. So I prepared to tuck in for the night. 

Then, just like that, the power came back on. The bleep bleep and the hums and all of the lights. And the heater. I was saved! Thank you to Dominion Power. Running water once again. Still no WiFi, but who cared about that? I was deep into a good book I had started earlier in the day. Electricity—how I missed you. It made for a much more comfortable sleep on Monday night.

The next day I woke up with renewed energy, and needed to tackle another obstacle literally in my way. With the help of my son-in-law—who wielded a chainsaw and lifted heavy branches like a lumberjack—we were able to clear the passageway to the barn. There’s no way I could have done it myself, even as handy as I am with pruning shears. No way. This is when it hit me how lucky I was to have great neighbors. To have family nearby. Isolation is peaceful but can be problematic if you need assistance. I needed it. Our herd needed it. I was disconnected out here. 

By Tuesday evening, the internet was back up. This is when I became aware of problems outside of my own. Richmond, the city twenty minutes away, was having a water crisis, and still is as I write this. The whole metro area was impacted. Water needing to be boiled. Losing (or no) water pressure. Shortage of water. You know it’s bad when the airport bathrooms are closed and no water is available to purchase. And when all the shelves of the stores are empty of bottled water. I was in disbelief. Water? When our power was out I had experienced no flowing water—something about that makes you thirsty and have to pee. But the restoration of power, returned my well to working again. But then I read about the city water problem. Here I have been transporting buckets of fresh well water out to the barn for the animals, and a whole county is in dire need of water.

Right around this time, I started to hear the news about fires in Southern California. My first thought was my husband and son, who are there for work. I was relieved to know that San Diego, where they are, is not close to the fires. But then all of the images and stories came pouring out over the internet and tv news. Devastating loss of homes, neighborhoods and whole communities. I was just in Los Angeles on the Pacific Coast Highway in May, envying the Californians for their beautiful landscape and weather. I grew up in Northern California, and lived in Southern California for four years, experiencing the Santa Ana winds. It is unbelievable what we are seeing on the screen. My heart goes out to everyone affected. 

I sit here inside of my house in rural Virginia. As empty nesters, we surround ourselves with things that mark the stages in our lives. Picture frames of the four children at different stages, during holidays and on vacations. Old photographs of family that are no longer with us. Original artwork—pinch pot clay sculptures made by the kids, watercolors painted by my mother, and years of homemade birthday cards (our family tradition). Antiques and trinkets. Nostalgic stuff in boxes in the basement. Everything, everywhere, evidence of the life we have lived together. I cannot imagine a fire sweeping in and sending it all up in flames. Gone.

Seventeen years ago, we had a loss, miniscule by comparison, but still it haunts me. We were living in Wilton, Connecticut. I’d decided to clean the whole bar cabinet of collectable crystal glassware. Each piece held special meaning to Kevin. High ball glasses from his friends’ wedding. Rodeo collectibles from his late father. Crystal flutes engraved from our wedding. And so on. When I was done the four shelves were spotless and gleamed brightly. I was proud of myself for taking on such a task to clean each one and wipe down the glass shelves, as a surprise for Kevin while he was out of town. The kids and I were eating dinner in the kitchen when we heard the loudest crash from the other room. My stomach lurched as I knew the sound of glass shattering. I hopped out of my chair and ran down to the room, slivers of crystal everywhere. The whole cabinet shelving had given way from the distribution of weight. I was just sick. All of the meaningful irreplaceable delicate pieces destroyed into tiny shards. By the time I had cleaned up the whole room my tears had subsided. The moment I told Kevin over the phone, the gut wrenching returned. I apologized profusely for accidentally putting things back in a way that made the shelving give out. This was my fault, and there was nothing I could do to bring everything back. Do you know what my husband said? 

As I was in despair, he said, “Carolyn, it’s just stuff.” He repeated the phrase.

If I could feel that sick about shattered glassware that held meaning, how could I ever stomach the loss like what these families are going through whose homes burned to the ground? I know many try to look at the bright side and say that at least they are alive and safe. Of course that is true. And yet we need to hold space for the grief they are suffering from. It is more than just stuff. I am so sorry for their loss. 

Recently, my sisters and I helped my parents to downsize, moving from their house to retirement living. We went through closets and bookshelves and a garage full of stuff. Everything held memories. It was emotional having to help them slowly let go. We made trips to the donation center, hoping the items would find their way to others. Each sister took home things my parents were parting with. I felt like we taking a walk through our childhood, the lives of my parents (eighty-four years), and even my grandparents. Pictures, letters, artwork made by their grandchildren. I even started referring to the process as boomerang boxing. All of the pictures and cards I’d send to them from across the country my mother had never thrown out, so I was taking them back. So much stuff (and my parents are minimalists compared to some). Along with the sadness of letting go, my heart was full with memories of what it all symbolized. It made me realize that I still had the memories of everything. Maybe my husband was right when he said, “It’s just stuff.” We should all be so lucky to reach a point in our lives when we can slowly acknowledge, show appreciation for, and let go of our stuff.

Not taken away so suddenly by fire or flood.

This week I went from losing power, running water, and passage to the barn. But I have shelter. I have family as neighbors. I am surrounded by my meaningful stuff. I don’t want to take any of this for granted. 

After posting this, I am off to the store to buy toilet paper and cat food. Another storm is coming tonight.