Today, I thought, among other things, that I'd write "the story for another time" from my blog entitled Life's Amazing (the glass is half full/empty).
For one short year, my ex-husband and I lived (well, we lived in most places for one short year, which is why I've moved a eleventy-million times in my life time already) in a small CCC cabin, which had been expanded into a three-room, ranch-style home, on the side of a hill, resembling but not related to, and only somewhat near a mountain outside of Charlottesville. If you know Charlottesville, you may or may not know Albemarle Lake, but that's where we had the distinct pleasure of living for a year.
And despite it being just a year, I have many stories that are associated with that house. So far, you've been introduced to the place unknowingly in the above mentioned Life's Amazing. It was the place in the country in my blog Flying Into the Mouths of Dogs and is the setting for this one. And let me just take a moment to say now, that it was a real honor to live in a CCC cabin and so a special shout out goes to not only the men who served in the CCC and to the government (at the time), the US of A, that had the brains to initiate such a program. That the house and the facilities built at many US parks are still standing and being enjoyed today is a testament to the hard labor of the men who worked in the camps and the near brilliance of our one-time government.
(Here's a Wiki link for foreign readers who are unfamiliar with the Civilian Conservation Corps, which will give you some idea why I am taking the time to praise it here NOW in 2011 during a world-wide economic crisis, although the program, like everything else in America from our past, was stained with racism and sexism.)
The place was amazing. Well, the house... let's just say it had its ISSUES (all in the added on bits and parts, none of the CCC parts) and some rather odd and interesting features. Like? Well, all the interior window frames were painted black (the owner's preference) and since there was not another home in sight, the bare windows framed the outdoors, giving the affect of having fabulous nature scenes painted on the walls. I have fond memories of watching deer outside the window in the snow while I snuggled next to my Franklin stove, birds feeding in the morning, large uprooted trees felled by tornadoes. As I said, many stories.
There was a large, broad, built-in bar that separated the kitchen (all added features within the main structure) that had a Tiki hut like roof, which made the bar act like a pass way of sorts and added loads of "sense of fun" to the space. The column that attached to the bar--the part that was inside the kitchen--was lined with terra cotta chimney piping (the owners stored wine there). It, the kitchen, had one of those old rounded refrigerators that looked like this only not as gnarly; at least not once I got through cleaning it. The fridge cooled but the freezer froze up on the average of about once every three weeks and had to be defrosted or the door wouldn't shut. (And no, we couldn't replace it because the owners lived in London and visited once a year for precisely 3 weeks and they loved how quaint it was with their posh London accents.) I had nightmares about that fridge.
Seriously, I make the place sound like a nightmare (have I mentioned the mice that we shared the house with or the tub that started to disappear into the foundation), but truly it had it's charm and I have no regrets (you'll have to ask my ex whether he had any as he lived there full time for two years, a year of which I was in my first year in law school two hours away).
Did I mention the porch? Lovely. (And like all lovely things that will come up again having to do with another story about Doogie Dawg, lovely personified or dogified.)
At any rate, the house, the lake, the general setting were not the only wonderful things about living there. On the drive in, the trees opened up to reveal the most picturesque farm. There might be prettier farms and even more picturesque ones outside of Charlottesville, speaking of lovely places, but I didn't have daily views of them.
Well one day after rounding the curve that gave light to that wondrous sight--the farm--on my way out of my little piece of heaven and hell, I headed toward the trees of Barracks Road. And THERE, starting right above the trees, and stretching until it literally filled up the sky was a double rainbow. It literally filled the sky. No blue was seen beneath it and no blue above it. I would have had to have eyes on the top or the back of my head to see the sky. I'm not joking. I got out of the car to make sure it wasn't the roof of the car blocking my vision. (And in case you are wondering, "No, I was NOT high.")
To try to put this vision of loveliness into perspective in a place (Charlottesville) already burdened with more than its fair share, I will try, though I will fail, to size each band of color in each of the rainbows for you. Each single band of color in a typically-sized rainbow when you look at it might look like it is ten feet tall when seen on an average rainbow day. Each single band of color in this rainbow was at least 70 times larger (each band itself was about ten times as thick as the average rainbow that I've seen and rainbows have, as we know, 7 colors if we pick up on all of them).
Did I mention it filled up the sky in front of me?
Which gets me to the question What Size is the Sky? Oh, I know, there's probably some official answer to that question somewhere, but not a human perspective one. At least not one I can relate to. I can barely relate what my eyes witnessed that day and my eyes took it in.
What size the sky?
All I know from my year of living at Albemarle Lake is that the sky is big enough to hold all our dreams, all our love, all our loss. Large enough but not so large that our love can feel like it is bursting at the seams and in indescribable color. The sky, and the love we can barely contain or the loss we can barely bare, can inspire awe and reverence in us. And for me that was a year of reverence, a year of awe.
Did I mention my ex restored the house from uninhabitable to habitable over a summer where I lived with his grandmother (a story for another time)? I was unable to participate because, well, ME/CFS is often accompanied by multiple chemical sensitivities, which precluded participation (at that time in the day before VOC-free products and now, ennervating fatigue precludes participation). (Yeah, it CAN BE a real pain in the ass coping with a partner's disability.) On top of that, he learned about and rebuilt the stone fencing that surrounded the home, one without cement. He lovingly sorted and stacked at least a ton of stone. One of the many things I loved about him: the willingness to pick up a book to learn about things--i.e., objects and processes like mountain climbing (more stories for another time), save perhaps the fear involved--and the courage to try without having a guide.
I loved my ex with my whole heart despite our tumultuous seventeen-year (at that point) history together. (Heck, I loved him dearly when I left him four years later; it broke my heart to leave.) I remember that year fondly despite... whatever.
That year, I more clearly saw and experienced the knowledge that eternity lives in the now, and I was happy to share those nows with the person I loved despite... whatever.
Looks like the sky is big enough to hold... whatever.
4:39 p.m.
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