SAYING GOODBYE TO HOUSTON

The Backstory For “Saying Good-Bye to Houston"

Off and on I’d thought about leaving Houston and returning to the Pacific Northwest where I’d grown up.  Then two things happened that made me decide that was the right thing for me to do.

First, Hurricane Harvey hit Houston in 2017.  Although my house was undamaged by the wind and untouched by flood waters, the damage from Harvey took its toll. 

The air quality of Houston became increasingly toxic to a lot of people, including me, as we began having respiratory problems from the massive increase of mold following weeks of standing water.

Then in 2018 I attended my 50^th high school reunion.  I traveled by train from Houston to Oregon where I rented a car.  I visited family, went to the reunion, then spent two months camping and reconnecting with places I loved when I was a kid.  The Coast, Silver Falls, Clear Lake in the Cascades, the Columbia River, all were calling me back to Oregon. 

That pretty much finalized by decision to return to the Pacific Northwest.  I wrote “Saying Good-Bye to Houston” as I was finalizing all the details of the move.

SAYING GOOD-BYE TO HOUSTON

Although I’ve been living in a chaotic mess with stacks of packed boxes in every room in my house, it has just now hit me – smack dab between the eyes – that I am leaving Houston for good.  This is harder than I expected.  I love this old house.  It was built in 1906 and sits in the Westmoreland Historic District, walking distance from downtown Houston. 

Houston is where I ran to when I was 18 years old to escape the suffocating, under-the-microscope environment within my family, and the fish-bowl life in the small town of Monmouth Oregon.   I had talked my parents into letting me finish the last half of my senior year of high school in Houston.  I lived with my sister and off and on my nephew lived with us.  Roger was my sister’s youngest son, and he was a year older than I was. 

The high school I went to in Houston had a student population larger than Monmouth’s entire population.  My invisibility within that school was my glorious freedom, and in a city the size of Houston, it was 70 miles across from city limit to city limit, I felt I could be anything I wanted to be.  Houston had meant the world to me figuratively and literally.  I met my husband here.  I had my children here, and now I was leaving it behind.

I’m sitting at the folding table that has replaced my solid oak dining room table, the one my husband and I bought unfinished nearly 43 years ago and finished it together when the kids were babies.  I sold it to a couple from Viet Nam for barely a fraction of what it was worth.  I threw in a lot of household items for free to help them get settled in their new home, and to lighten my load.  It was that or give it all to Goodwill.  I got more satisfaction seeing the joy and appreciation on their faces than I would have from donating it to charity and never knowing where my old treasures had gone.  They were so thrilled with the brass bell I had given them that they rang it all the way down the street on the way to their car.  That still makes me smile.

Now, as I’m sitting here, looking out the window at the U-Haul rental boxes that were dropped off this morning, knowing that they will be loaded with my things and put on a truck headed for the Pacific Northwest the day after tomorrow, I’m in a daze of disorientation and disbelief.  I can’t believe I have lived in this house longer than any other place I have lived in my entire life.  I am surprised by some of the people I will miss when I leave.

Rich just walked by.  I don’t know his last name, but I’ve been seeing him around the neighborhood since I first moved here.  He is a grouchy, eccentric old man who I’ve been told is a retired physics professor from UCLA.  I have no idea what brought him to Houston.  That has never come up as we’ve nodded and exchanged simple hellos as we’ve passed each other on the sidewalk.    

Sometimes he walks by wearing a medal Darth Vader type helmet.  I also have no idea what that is about or how he keeps from cooking his brain in this Houston heat.  I’ll miss him. 

I will miss Bobby too.  Bobby has been coming by since I moved into this house.  I thought he was homeless, and I’ve let him sleep on my porch many times, setting out some bedding which he neatly folds back up before silently leaving the next morning.  Sometimes I’ve given him money when he’s asked, sometimes not. 

It turns out he is 58 years old and lives with his mother.  When they get into a fight he comes to sleep on my porch.  I met his mom, Willie after I got her phone number from Bobby once when he looked so sick I thought I might find him dead some morning.  Willie and I have talked on the phone quite a bit since then, sharing the challenges we have both faced as mothers.  Yes, I will miss Bobby and Willie.

I know life goes on, and heaven knows I’m looking forward to new adventures.  I am sure there will always be new people and new places I’ll miss as I continue moving forward in my life, saying many hellos and good-byes along the way.  I will probably be just as surprised by what I’ll miss as I transition from one place in my life to the next.

As for now, my neighbors yes, I expected to feel a loss as I leave them behind.  But Rich, Bobby and Willie?  I’m amazed to think how much I am going to miss them.  I will miss them far more than I would my possessions should they not make it across country.  Most likely I will see some of my possessions again, the things I haven’t sold or passed on, but who knows?  That’s out of my hands now.  What I do know is I will never see Rich, Bobby or Willie again.  That makes me sad.

However, I am grateful for the fullness their presence has added to my life, and I trust my new life will be just as enriched, if not more so, by new acquaintances whom I have yet to meet.  That is my hope anyway and I’m sticking to it for dear life in this topsy-turvy time of disorientation. 

I’ve had a habit in the past of landing on my feet, and I’m sure I will again. 

Goodbye Houston. New adventure awaits.