An unveiling of artifacts

The Tale of the Librarian's Fifth Wife is collection of moments, an assemblage of events, a bread basket of words, a swap meet of scraps left behind from a beautiful romance that will help clue you in to the real deal, to the life of two star crossed lovers that has already been lived and left behind. For the moment, anyway.


Our lives lie scattered over several states and a half a case worth of decades. It's not so much a want as a need to do this, to gather together the splinters and the shards of our times and share them here with you. Those bits and pieces of flotsam and jetsam found below in this winsome log are the bits and pieces of our times, a smattering of the trinkets of the love that Jane and I gathered up over the course of five long hard years. How they come to you now is in a story of sorts, a type of autobiographical fiction, with images cadged from places other than our satchel. Give it time, photos, sepia, wrinkled, pocket worn, are yet to come.


So, what else is there to do but get out that cobbled together blanket of dreams from the back of the car, spread it out under the branches of our favorite green and noble Oregon Maple tree that we both loved and share these words and tales of those long ago times with you. It was a wonderful time. Sit a spell, grab your spectacles and come ride along with us for awhile.

Love, Jane, the Professora and Roger, the Wild Half Mexican Boy


Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Happy for what I have, missing those things that I don't

I am happy.
I wake these days fairly rested. Somehow that period of wakefulness at two or three in the morning has passed. I have papers to sign on Friday which will pretty much leave the house in my name. I still have my name change thing to think about and a divorce to finalize. But more than anything I need to make plans for a garage sale so I can move stuff out of the basement so I can move forward with life.

I have many wonderful possessions that makes me realize how lucky I am. I came across a photo shoot in yesterday's LA Times yesterday of this one man's one bedroom home, one filled with all these things that he just couldn't pass up. That particular article balanced nicely with a book I came across this morning while I was weeding in the stacks. The words that I read when I opened it were an inspiration. The gist of the message was in order for collectors like me to have a good time collecting other collectors have to periodically deaccession their piles of loot. I am ready for that. I've been doing it with my books, now it's time for other stuff as well. When I moved everything over to the big house I set things aside for a yard sale. Once the kids get here I'll have a better idea about what else to unload. They get first dibs on their stuff, if only because I can remember the trauma that my mom would cause by unloading my things before she asked.

Everyone should get a vote, especially when it comes to their stuff.

But overall I see great progress happening except in my room and in the basement. The basement doesn't count until September, and my bedroom, well, it's just a refuge for now. When I go there I sleep, pet the cat, read cookbooks or watch movies. I wake up, yawn, putter around and then go downstairs. It's not a boudoir yet, because for now it's only for me. Who know how long that will be, so why mess around with a good thing? In other words, leave it alone, I'm happy.

It's all about that state of happiness thing we strived for as a couple. You told me once that it wasn't a constant state, that it came and went, that it was fleeting. Maybe we both said something to that effect, but I know that you valued happiness much than you said you did. I don't know, maybe you were more pragmatic about that stuff. You already had the big disappointment early on, as you said to me in an early letter. You learned to live without the romance, learned to appreciate committment, loyalty and comfort instead. Me, I'm on my own. I'm comfortable, too, but when I look around my house I see alot of raggedy second hand stuff. I love what I have, the view, the shiny goods that keep me coming home. I love where I've landed, and that this little house, the one that was once ours as well as my family's, will soon be mine.

We should value our things, you're right. You told me in your second coda that you did, hence your reason for staying. Yet there is a poverty in spirit over there that shows up in your eyes. If I was worth more I'm sure it wouldn't have made a difference. You had a committment to fulfull and you tasked yourself with sticking with it. Mine was broken early on over here so I had no reason so my integrity could not be compromised. Besides, once I told you I loved you I meant it. "To what end?" you asked me once. How about to the end of time? Does that suit you? Suits me just fine.

So there. I have what I have and that's alot. But there are an awful lot of things that I miss, too. The miss the way you would jump into my arms when you came in through my door. I miss the way you would shed your shoes on the way to the couch. I miss our coffee moments, our talks on the phone, those nights where we would kiss through your car window before we said goodbye. I miss our bookgroup and our suppers out, I miss little road trips and seeing your face over the counter at work. I miss many things, but you see, I am also in possession of those memories and the times we had. I have those things with me always, and for that I am happy, too.

I may miss some things but on the most part I pretty much have it all. Health on the most part, wealth to a degree, happiness everafter and a lifetime of knowing that I was once loved by you.

Love, Your WHMB

http://happydays.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/02/reprieve/
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