What happened to the simple things?

I took a trip to Nebraska last year to allow me some time to be alone. No better place to be alone than in the insignificant town of Wauneta, population 600ish. There was not much opportunity for distraction in my mother’s home town. The drive to Nebraska is straight, flat and, to some, boring. Not for me. I revel in the idea of physical solitude, and in the company of Robert Smith, Dave Matthews, Trent Reznor or any artist who may cause a stir inside of me. Listening to The Cure under the stars of the middle-of-nowhere HWY 6 is what I would call a spiritual experience. I remember stopping the car on a small dirt side road surrounded by the browning stalks of recently harvested corn. I lay flat on the hood and stared in to the universe. Looking up in to a sky like this was like looking in to the eyes of my son the day he was born. I could not help but to feel a sudden sense of awe and reverence. Millions…no…billions of stars lit the night sky. Each one a force beyond my wildest dreams; each one a distance I would never be able to travel. And, as if by instinct, the radio in my mind tuned in.

Somewhere out there...beneath the pale moonlight...

“Somewhere out there, indeed.” I said aloud.

There was no moon this night, but it didn’t matter. The light created by the spectacle of stars was almost as bright as the moon. Before I lost all sense of time, I got back in to the drivers seat and sped away.

After a 4 hour drive, I arrived in Wauneta and headed for my grandmother’s house in the center of town. The old brick house had been added on to more times than I even know. The "flow" of the house was never considered. So it is now a series of square rooms attached to one another, each one gaudy in its décor. From the completely finished, yet meaningless, attic, to the recently remodeled, windowless, dungeon of a bedroom at the far end of the basement, each room is a collection of things from the past and things from now.

I cannot say that I do not enjoy the oddity of the house. There is something still so familiar about it, even now in my adulthood. It still smells the same and there are still the same creaks in the floors, even if the carpet is brand new. There is still a shiny Cadillac in the garage. Although, this is Sinner’s Cadillac XII, or something close.

Yes, my mother’s family name is Sinner. We will get to that later.

The poor car sits in the garage and racks up a sorry ten thousand miles at best before being traded in for something better. Oh, to get that Deville on the back roads of south western, who-gives-a-crap Nebraska…out where no one cares because there is no one to care...

When I was a young girl my grandmother seemed so wise and so exciting. She now seems more, well, like a grandma. That is really the best way to describe it. I find that conversation is a bit slower these days because her daily routine has not changed in the last 27 years. She still gets her hair fried and permed at the same salon, in the same little town an hour away from her little town. She still tells me all about how great Mike, her stylist, is.

“How meticulous he is, Amber!" She exclaims. "Why, he has the most spotless shop in town, and the girls there just love him. I cannot understand why he can’t find a nice girl and settle down.”

I think what I cannot say; “Because he’d rather find a nice boy and go down.” I chuckle to myself.

One thing I hope never changes is her food. This seems to be true for just about every family I know. How is it that the generation of our grandmothers can be a collective group of geniuses when it comes to throwing things in pots, ovens, and crock pots and, as a rabbit from a hat, pull out something that makes mouth water in anticipation?. My grandmother made the best cornbread. Today, I cannot stand cornbread as it is made everywhere else in the world. My grandmother’s was a light, almost crispy, delicacy that complimented fresh green onions and cherry tomatoes from her garden with perfection. Every meal was planned and prepared for immediately after the previous. My grandmother still lays out the serving utensils, bowl, napkin and cup for my grandfather’s breakfast, the night before.

I wonder what has happened to the percentage of the 1950’s culture, other than my grandparents, of course, that actually made it through their lives as the Cleavers. If it worked out for my grandparents, how many other wives are still planning every meal to perfection, cleaning daily and making weekly trips to the same salon they have been going to for 20 years? How many of them are there to wait upon their John Wayne at the end of the day with devotion and love? Are there really women out there who are truly meant to be a housewife and excel at doing so above anything else? It would seem that is the truth for my grandmother.

This particular road trip was due, in part, to my need to study for my Colorado real estate license. Something that I never wanted to do in the first place, the test was now becoming the only thing seemingly holding me back from “unparalleled success.” I spent much of my 3 days in Wauneta studying and trying to absorb useless information about a subject that made me nod off with boredom.

I tried, I really did. But, I have learned now that if your gut is telling you not to do something, then it is not in alignment with what you are really supposed to be doing. Thankfully I have learned that at a relatively young age. This real estate license thing was definitely not for me. I didn’t want to be one of them and found it embarrassing to tell people what I was doing for a living. It only took me 3 months after this little road trip to figure that out.

While I was in Nebraska I spent most of my time alone. I went to the park that my brothers and I used to play at as children. It is much different now. The metal twisty slide that existed when I was young was replaced by a more modern plastic slide. Good thing, too. A metal slide that has been sitting in the intense summer heat is capable of doing horrible things to a young butt. I speak from direct experience.

The park is still right next to the public pool. A place of many memories for me, the pool seems much smaller and shabbier than it did when I was growing up. Back then it was a haven for the children of the town. It was an exciting place where I was taught to swim by the same girl that worked as a secretary for my grandfather. It was the place where I would be rewarded with a 3 foot long licorice rope at the end of the swim day. I would walk back to my grandmother’s house eating the licorice until the red, sticky juice would run down my arms.

They recently added a tennis court immediately behind the pool. I find the idea idiotic. I cannot for the life of me think of a single person in the town who is a big tennis buff. These people are into Cornhuskers football and whose tractor is bigger than whose. In my grandfather’s case, it is whose Big Rig is bigger than whose. These are the same people that look at me as if I were an alien when I jog past their house in the morning. Yeah, physical activity is not the norm in Wauneta. It makes me wonder if there was one person on the city council who really wanted a tennis court, or if they are trying to increase tourism.

I slept in the original master bedroom upstairs. It is the creakier, older side of the house. I love every minute of it. It smells like an old bed and breakfast. The sheets are spotless and stretched to fit the hard mattress with military precision. Most people may not be thrilled with a hard bed, but being a person who has slept in far worse conditions, I thought it wonderful. The pillows are always big and soft and the cases smell like Downy. When I am there, I am family and a guest at the same time. While I am expected to help with the dinner dishes, I am also allowed to sleep in as late as I like with no interruption.

Amusingly, I have been trained as a parent to wake up in the morning so the latest I make it is usually around 9:00. I awoke around this time each day and went out for my run. The humidity in Wauneta is more than that of Denver, which lacks it altogether. A relatively moist morning is something that I enjoy completely. I enjoyed it when living in Texas and appreciate it every time I experience it now. I relished in the feeling of the morning on my face and the complete silence of the sleepy little town. Traffic consisted of more than 2 cars traversing the immense 3 block stretch of what locals call Main Street. The silence was intoxicating.

Taking the time to observe how the people of Wauneta lived I was struck by the wonderful simplicity of it. I started to think that I was missing something. The harder and harder I worked to make my life better, the more stressful and complicated it became. This brought my thoughts back to the real estate licensing exam and the seemingly impossible mountain I was expected to climb. I felt nauseous.

"Fuck it." I thought to myself.

Three months later, after I had attempted the practice exam for the third time and failed, I told my boss that I was not heading in the right direction. After a few heated words and a few tears shed by both of us, I finally made the first step in walking away from 5 years in career that I hated every minute of. Shortly thereafter, the whole thing collapsed.

This evening, I read articles about the impending depression the US is facing which began with the collapse of the subprime mortgage market. This was the field I had studied, fought and agonized over for half a decade. Then it hit me. I am done, completely done, with that entire period in my life. I am so happy I find my eyes misted and the prospect of tomorrow exhilarating.