Mixed Metaphors

“The first step in getting somewhere is to decide you’re not going to stay where you are.”  — Unknown

It’s that time of year in Madison, Wisconsin when U-Hauls and Two Men and a Truck will soon clog the streets. Popup curbside flea markets appear overnight as university students dump their second-hand furniture and poorly-assembled IKEA desks and bookcases rather than move them. It’s so commonplace that when student leases expire on August 15^th, we’ve dubbed it “Hippie Christmas.”

June 1^st is the other peak moving day as student semester leases end or some students sublet their apartments for the summer as they return to their hometowns. Madison is on the move again.  Once again, I find myself in the queue. More about why later.

I always thought — or least hoped —that each move was the last move, yet over the years I’ve learned that things change as I do.  And, with change comes this, “The first step in getting somewhere is to decide you’re not going to stay where you are.”  Yes, I’m on the move again!

Looking Back

When I look back, I’ve moved at least two dozen times, not including the year I couch-surfed as a hippie in the late 1960s along with Frank, the man who would become my husband. We stayed in two or three temporary living situations with only overnight bags and a couple of boxes of books and record albums so we could be on the road in a moment’s notice. Before I married Frank and after living in my first place, a recently remodeled second story apartment where the cockroaches were trapped behind the fake wood paneling in downtown Racine, Wisconsin, I promised myself I’d own no more possessions then would fit in the large appliance-sized cardboard box that I scavenged. I failed at keeping that promise!

I had to give up the box at the age of 20; the one time in my life when I temporarily moved back home to my parent’s house. Mom was worried I’d move the cockroaches and their eggs home with me — so everything — including the clothes on my back was thrown out. That was the year I received a new wardrobe courtesy of the Gerber Life Insurance policy Mom and Dad cashed in that they purchased for me when I was born. For a brief time I became a well-dressed, fashionable hippie.

A Move-a-logue

I’ve moved for many reasons. Here’s the not-so-short list which is a timeline of my life:

• My first apartment, to be on my own and live with friends (and unknowingly, cockroaches) while I went to college at my hometown campus, UW Parkside.
• Second apartment, to leave behind one of our two roommates (and the cockroaches).
• Third apartment, on my own, while I returned to school after dropping out for a semester.
• Back home. Mom didn’t let the cockroaches join me.
• Couch-surfing at multiple locations after I dropped out of college again with my soon-to-be husband, Frank.
• Frank, his good friend, Mike, and my gay friend, Dick, moved into an apartment above what turned out to be drug dealers. Frank and I decided to get married and abandon the “psychedelic-rock-a-rock-a bullshit” scene the hippie lifestyle had become.
• Frank and I moved into our first, small apartment in our hometown. I was 20 years old.
• Frank lost his job and we moved in with his brother, Dennis while we looked for jobs. We had a blast, playing the Jeopardy home game, watched All in the Family, comparing Archie to their father, Art, who sometimes watched the show with us and couldn’t understand why people laughed at Archie. We spoke in a nonsensical language that the brothers created. Dennis began to fall in love with me.
• Frank and I moved to Kenosha to look for jobs and lived very briefly in a cheap, old rooming-house hotel that smelled like cigars and old men. It was extra motivation to find jobs.
• We both did find work, blue-collar working class jobs, Frank at Anaconda American Brass Foundry and me at Jockey Menswear International. We also found a sweet second floor flat, walking distance to both our jobs and a couple of blocks from our favorite new diner, The Javelin Restaurant (named after the American Motors car made in Kenosha). It was one of the happiest most satisfying times in my life.
• Then I met Gloria at work, Gloria as in G-L-O-R-I-A, and my life changed forever. Read more about that here.
• Frank and I moved to Madison, a city we both loved so I could return to school and geographically escape my heart’s conflict in Kenosha.
• We found a home, another second floor flat. Frank found a job, I went back to school at the University of Wisconsin and worked part-time. Life was good for awhile.
• I quit school again. I was an undisciplined student and school couldn’t sustain my interest. I began working full-time and learned a new craft, screen-printing. I enjoyed the physical labor during the day, and began committing time to a community of women, becoming a feminist-activist, facilitating consciousness-raising groups and volunteering with the National Organization for Women (NOW).
• I began questioning my sexual preference and had my first affair with a woman, Frank and I opened up our marriage. Months later I had my second affair and on our 7^th wedding anniversary, Frank suggested that we separate so I could decide if I wanted to be with him, or not. I was 27 years old.
• I sublet an apartment a block away from Lysistrata, the Feminist Restaurant & Bar which became my first Third Place. It was clear I wasn’t returning to Frank and my marriage.
• Mary, the woman I was having an affair with and I decided to get our own place together. Not long afterwards, Mary was ready to commit to a long-term relationship, I was not. We broke up. I remained in the apartment.
• A series of short-lived relationships followed, including a relationship with Sandra, a woman with whom I was convinced I could create a lesbian marriage.  After we split up, I had a rebound relationship. I fell, quickly, deeply, madly in love with a woman, a single mom with three kids. We rented a ranch-style home and literally played house. I was drinking too much by this point and losing my ability to cope in a healthy way with all the changes in my life. Deb broke up with me. I moved out. I was 30 years old.
• I answered a roommate ad I found at Lysistrata and moved in with a University of Wisconsin French teaching assistant and film buff. Chris also played the piano as my former partner Deb had. Deb was a ragtime piano phenom. I found it comforting.
• I white-knuckled sobriety and substituted alcohol with marijuana in between relapses with drinking. I was a mess and in a downward spiral. I moved into my own apartment, thinking I would have better control of my life. I was wrong. Lysistrata, the hub of my social life burned down and I was lost again.
• After not being in a committed relationship since Deb, I met Laurie #2 (Laurie #1 was one in a series of the women I dated when I lived with Chris). Laurie #2 was the mother of an amazing boy, named Joey. I fell fast in love with both of them. After dating a few months and when my lease came up, we found a place together.
• We were happy until we weren’t happy anymore. My drinking had become a problem again and I made a decision to get help to get sober. I joined an outpatient program and was optimistic about the future. Now that I was finally getting help, Laurie felt it safe to leave me and to move back to Alabama where she had lived before and had friends. I was devastated. I was 35 years old.
• I remained in our apartment for about a year and a half until I moved into a brand new contemporary townhouse. It felt like a fresh start and I was optimistic about my future again. I had started dating Laurie #3, another mom, this time with a young daughter named Kelsey who I also had to woo. Laurie had left Kelsey’s father to be with me, and Kelsey was a having a difficult time with the transition.
• After a year, a larger two-bedroom townhouse with a den opened up next door to mine and Laurie, Kelsey and made a home together. I was successfully sober and happy that we had created our lesbian family.
• After four years it became clear that Laurie was restless. She had been in monogamous relationships for a long time and she wanted to be freer. It was a sad time, but ultimately the right decision for all of us.
• I moved into another brand new two-story loft apartment. I was on my own again —at least for awhile.
• I continued to remain sober and began spending more time with my recovery friends. Friendships sustained me and fulfilled my need for companionship. I discovered a new Third Place, Apple Island, founded by my friend Lois and supported and nurtured by our women’s community. It was part performance space,  celebration venue, a place to hold classes and meetings and dance on a Saturday night. I was 42 years old.
• There one night while performing stand-up comedy. I met Tracy, a young bass guitarist and physical therapy student 20 years my junior. I was surprised when she aggressively pursued and seduced me. I knew from the outset that this relationship would not last, but I wanted to enjoy it while I could. I did. Tracy stayed with me weekends while she attended school in La Crosse and stayed the summer with me while she worked. The following spring she graduated and one day when I returned home from work she had left me a note moved out.
• I remained single for the most part and renewed my friendships. Life felt complete in many areas yet a long-term committed relationship with a woman eluded me. I had been working my 12-step programs and had been in therapy for a number of years working on family of origin issues, when my therapist invited me to join a new group she was starting on “Healthy Lesbian Relationships.”
• There in the group, I met Cindy the only woman I didn’t know prior to the group. One of the ground rules was that you couldn’t currently be in a relationship, and for the duration of the group, you couldn’t “date” members of the group.
• After the group ended, Cindy and I met for coffee and lunch and shortly afterwards officially began dating. See Fifteen Valentines.
• I kept my apartment but began spending time at Cindy’s living out of a suitcase and periodically returning to my base camp. It was a good thing too. Cindy and I took two sabbaticals from each other and then a couple of years later, I moved in with her and let my apartment go.
• I believed that Cindy was my soulmate, the relationship I had worked so hard for, for so many years. Counting our sabbaticals and the times she moved for jobs and I remained in Madison, we were together for almost 15 years.
• When we separated, I moved into a brand new condo (yes, a pattern had been established of living in new buildings) that I rented in the neighborhood I had grown to love while living with Cindy. I remained there for almost 5 years as a single person, learning how to live a satisfying life as a solitary person until the condo was sold.
• At the age of 63, and as a single lesbian, I moved into an upscale vibrant neighborhood, west of the Capitol. My new neighbors were young professionals, tech workers, and residents at University Hospital and Clinics. I enjoyed living here until it became clear that rents in Madison were becoming less affordable. Read more about my journey here:
• I joined a community of like-minded others who were interested in creating a cohousing community that was both senior and LGBT-friendly at an urban site, Union Corners that had remained undeveloped after a Rayovac plant had been demolished and the site remediated. My plan was to stay in my current place until I could move into the cohousing community, MESCoH (Madison East Side Co-Housing). I thought I could age in place, since the first phase of Union Corners is a UW Clinic, followed by a Fresh Thyme Farmer’s Market store and other retail and commercial business and market-rate and affordable housing. The development would also feature public green space, gardens and easy access to public transportation.
• As fate would have it, life dealt me some new cards to play. The first was the challenge for me as an entrepreneurial community-activist and leader. My strong suit was developing new projects or groups yet I had a hard time sustaining groups and I lacked the willingness to participate in protracted consensus decision-making process which is an essential component of living in a cohousing community. The second card was dealt by my employer when I was essentially demoted from a salaried position to hourly, and my pay reduced substantially.  I’m grateful however that I still have a job.  Let me state that I whole-heartedly support the cohousing effort at Union Corners though at this time is not an option for me. Read more here:

“In life, a person will come and go from many homes. We may leave a house, a town, a room, but that does not mean those places leave us.” — Arik Berk

Moving Forward

Since my lease is up in June and I’m 66 years old, it looks like I have a move or two yet ahead of me. Because I need to reduce the cost of housing and give myself more options moving forward, including how many years and for how many hours will I need to and be able to work as I age, I’ve found more affordable housing.  Next, I’ll pay down credit card bills, and minimize monthly expenses. If my genes are any indicator, I will most likely live well into my 80’s or 90’s banning anything unexpected. Like many Americans of my generation, especially single women, I don’t have a large nest egg to rely on, so the time has come, though late in the day, for me to finally do some financial planning.

Next stop: Atwood Courtyard. I found affordable housing in a neighborhood I love. It’s a block away from the condo I rented at Kennedy Point after separating from Cindy. It’s in the vibrant neighborhood bordering Williamson Street, Marquette, Atwood and Schenk’s Corner. It’s walkable with independently- owned and diverse ethnic and American restaurants, nearby parks, brewpubs, more than one gourmet chocolate shop, cafes, art galleries and a concert and performance venue. The apartment building is for over 55, independent, active seniors. I guess —I must admit — that’s me.

So the adventure begins: The stress and worry of planning for a move, first creating then executing the extensive “to-do list” of how to get there from here. The greater effort required is in the emotional journey that begins with packing, deciding what to hold onto and what to let go. As I age, material things don’t hold as much value and like those early years when I tried to keep my belongings limited to what I could fit in one large cardboard box, metaphorically that cardboard box has become that downsized home, less luxurious, but simpler and housing the basics of what I need to get by.  I’m no longer defined by what I have or how much I have, but who I am and how and what can I give back to the world before I move to the next one (if there is one!).  Stay tuned — there will be stories!

Related Reading:

A Moving Story

A Moving Story II

A Moving Story III

Third Act

LGBT-Friendly Cohousing

Cohousing at Union Corners

Cohousing Developments on the Rise in Madison 6-28-15