moving :: Susan Rooke

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Soul-Searching, Five Years On

September 28, 2017

Posted by Susan Rooke

Five years ago at the beginning of this month, Glen and I put our Austin house on the market for the first time, getting serious about our dream of moving to the country. Six months later, after a hard-fought contract fell through, we took the next six months off to reclaim some sanity. Being forced to maintain constant household readiness and submit to the whims of looky-loos with no intention to buy was draining. And humbling. “I don’t like being able to see the kitchen when I walk in the front door,” sniffed one woman. Well honey, you really wouldn’t like the house I have now.

Standing in the kitchen. Hey, whaddaya know? There’s the front door. And Lucy.

So after a breather, we put the house on the market a second time. At last, after another sixteen months, we were free. Good-bye City, Hello Country.

But was it really our dream? If you’d asked me thirty-five years ago, I’d have said, “It may be Glen’s, but it’s sure not mine!” At that point, we weren’t married yet. Thirty-five years ago, I was all about dieting into designer jeans (remember those? Charlotte Fords were my favorite), experimenting with new eye makeup and going weekly to the late, great Steamboat, a Sixth Street Austin music venue, to see the Austin All Stars play. Oh—and straightening . . . every . . . last . . . bit of curl out of my hair, at temperatures that could fry catfish. I was so successful that, until I gave up flat ironing thirteen years ago, Glen had no idea I had curly hair. And just how curly. (To be honest, I was a little surprised too.) Now he claims I married him under false pretenses. He probably would have a case against me for fraud.

After we married, we did move to the country. Still not my dream, but I would have followed him anywhere. Our first house together was east of Austin in a tiny farming community. (That was where the FBI came knocking at our front door one day, asking probing questions about one of the neighbors.) Over the three years we lived there, we managed to keep up a semblance of city life, driving to Austin daily for all errands and fun excursions. We were much younger then. We could maintain the pace. When we moved back into Austin again, though, we chose an area removed from the city’s heart, which was fast becoming a hotbed attracting throngs of residents. And over time, we found ourselves moving farther and farther into the outskirts. Turns out it was just one short step from that to owning cows.

Some people will always thrive on the lively turmoil of city dwelling. Glen, on the other hand, came to need the serenity of quieter surroundings, with great dollops of nature to nourish his soul. It came as a surprise when I found I needed these things too.

Now we have a place with great neighbors, who live more than fifteen yards away. We can watch a bald eagle standing tall in a treetop as it observes its youngster’s awkward swoops and glides. Or note the predictable daily habits of black cattle who retreat beneath the shade trees each morning, then emerge to bathe in the stock tanks each afternoon. The simplicity of such routines brings focus to our minds, as well as a measure of comfort and reassurance. And a sense, however illusory, that all will continue just the same when we’re gone.

This time, unlike thirty-five years ago, we share the same dream. Thank heavens. After too much noise for too many years, I think I needed the emptiness of days spent watching the changeable, eloquent face of the sky.

Glen asks me every week if I’m happy here. I try to reassure him, but he still remembers the girl with the straight hair who wanted to go out and have fun. I remember her too. She would have thought this place was lovely, but living here would have been hard for her. I’m not that girl anymore, Glen. I have to tell you, though, even then, it was just as it is now. All I really ever need for happiness is to be with you.

However. I’m obligated to point out that it wasn’t just me who wasn’t being entirely honest when we married.

I only surprised you with curly hair. You surprised me with . . . cows.

A huge thank-you to everyone who’s been reading The Space Between! If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review on Amazon!

Blog, country living, cows, Featured Post, moving, The Space Between

The Sewing Basket

July 6, 2017

Posted by Susan Rooke

14 Comments

Do you remember the days when virtually every household had a sewing basket? How many of you out there still have one in your house? Not a travel-size sewing kit with itsy scissors, three or four colors of thread, replacement buttons and a small pack of needles. A basket. It could be the capacious, old-fashioned kind that stands on four legs like an end table. Or the more portable plastic kind with a handle, plus compartmented storage for sewing notions and a lid that’s padded on the underside so you can pincushion the needles you’ve used.

That’s the kind I have.

And boy, am I a fraud.

At least three times in my life I’ve tried to learn the art of sewing. The mother of a childhood friend (“Long thread, lazy girl,” she’d tell me with a meaningful smile). A professional seamstress holding classes at a local department store. My first mother-in-law. All of them tried to teach me. Each time, with a lot of hands-on guidance, I managed to make some article of clothing. I also learned I have no patience for sewing. You can’t Wite-Out, cross through, type over, or delete your mistakes. You can’t decide they taste flat and punch them up with a splash of lemon juice or a spoonful of pesto. You have to painstakingly cut and pull out the threads of your mistakes and then resew them. Hopefully, this time in the right place. I have enormous admiration for people who can sew. But I’d rather suck on old pennies.

Nevertheless, I own a sewing basket.

I have no idea when I bought this thing. I’m not even sure I did. I’ve had it so many decades that its origins are sunk in the cold, turbid bog of time. It’s possible my mother gave it to me in my late teens, when I first set up housekeeping on my own.

My mother knew a few basics, like sewing on buttons, simple hem repair, or even how to darn socks. Her mother had tried to teach her more, but crafting a garment with zippers or buttonholes or darts remained forever beyond her skills. When I was a little girl, my mother made me two capes: one to wear when I pretended to be a spy (it doubled as a witch cape), one for playing fairytale prince. (I never wanted to be a fairytale princess. Their lives seemed boring: just a lot of sitting around—doubtless passing the time by sewing—and waiting for the prince to show up.) It was so far outside her comfort zone to make these things that I treasured them deeply, and still have them . . . somewhere . . . packed in a moving box in the garage.

Nowadays, since virtually any kind of repair to our clothing can be taken care of cheaply (button replacement is free!) at our cleaners’, I don’t pull out the sewing basket more than two or three times a year. Today, though, I needed it for the first time since moving into our forever home in late February. I had to search in several places before I finally found it.

And it was like opening a time capsule.

Note the cigarette in the bow-tied gentleman’s hand.

It’s been ages since I last looked through the contents. I was kind of shocked to see how old many of the buttons are—at least 60 to 70 years. Once upon a time they probably lived in my grandmother’s sewing basket. The St. Peter’s patch is from a school my big brothers attended when they were little boys. (I think. I’m not sure I was even born yet.) The ornate-looking crown patch is a leftover from the fairytale prince cape.

I can’t foresee a need for those weensy pearl buttons in the last photo. (And good lord, that man’s got a cigarette too!) I don’t do any sort of craftwork, and at this point in my life, can’t really spare the time to learn. In fact, I can’t foresee a need—ever—for nearly all the basket holds. So why do I still box it up and lug it from house to house? What does this basket do for me that a travel-sized sewing kit can’t? Is twice a year enough use to justify keeping it?

Probably not. But I’m not ready to let it go, especially after picking through it today. The upside is, since we’re living in what’s meant to be our last home, at least I shouldn’t have to move it again.

Sometimes we leave a keepsake to our children so they’ll have a cherished item to remember us by. And sometimes we do it so that it’ll be the child’s job to throw the damn thing out.

Lucky Katie. You’ll get a sewing basket some day!

On another note, I hope everyone had a safe and happy 4th of July! I want to say a huge thank-you to all who’ve downloaded Chapter One of The Space Between! If you haven’t yet, but you’d like to, you’ll find the option to download on the Novels page (go to the Works tab in the Menu bar at the top of the page and choose Novels). Publication is just a little over two months away!

Blog, childhood, Featured Post, memoir, moving

The Space Between: A Taste

March 2, 2017

Posted by Susan Rooke

4 Comments

Before I begin I’d like to say how grateful I am for all my readers. To everyone, whether you’ve been here from the start, or whether you’ve joined us more recently, I appreciate your support! Thank you for discovering this page, and for reading!

This week marks the event that Glen and I have been anticipating for the last two years: We’re moving into our “forever home.” I’ve written about that subject several times before, once devoting an entire post to it (find it here). Living in a small farmhouse for all that time brought consequences I hadn’t intended or foreseen. Probably the most harmful one was that, in 550 square feet, neither humans nor pets moved around as much as we were accustomed to, and as a result, we all gained weight. Some of us *ahem* more than others. Phoebe alone seemed quite comfortable with her increased heft, earning herself a new nickname: “Jabba the Catt.”

In retrospect, though, I think she may have been more “Marlon Brando, the later years.”

So the move, for all our sakes, couldn’t have come sooner. And I’m ecstatic that the day has finally arrived. Honest. I’m just not sure how I developed a limp, a hitch, a hunch and a slouch all in the space of three days. I feel 1,009 years old. (That would make Glen a mere pup of only 1,004.)

We used to move from city to city, from house to house, all the time. On a whim. Just for fun. But now when I walk out to the garage of the forever house and face this (and trust me; this isn’t all of it) . . .

. . . I feel like a whoopee cushion that’s been sat on too many times. (I just googled “whoopee cushion” to be certain I was spelling “whoopee” correctly, and was somewhat astonished to see the zillions of entries that popped up—a Wikipedia entry??—along with the “related searches” of such imponderables as “whoopee cushion terraria,” “whoopee cushion costume” and “self inflating [sic] whoopee cushion.” And why are most whoopee cushions so pink? If I didn’t have six rail cars full of boxes to unpack, I’d have to investigate “whoopee cushion history” further.)

Clearly, I have enough unpacking to keep me busy for some time. So while I’m working on that, what I’d like to do here today is share with you the prologue from The Space Between, the forthcoming first book in my fantasy series. Its publication is drawing closer each day. In fact, by the time you read this, the final copy edit should be complete, and I’ll be considering cover designs. (Eep!) I intend to share more of the book here in the future, but for now, just a little taste.

First, however, a little background on the story, without giving anything away:

As my “Works” page describes, the books are based on the folk legend that faeries are the descendants of fallen angels. The Space Between tells the story of Mellis, a courageous and resourceful young woman stolen from the human world by a tribe of faeries known as Penitents. Of all the faery tribes, the Penitents are the only ones who regret their fall from grace, and out of a profound sense of guilt, they’ve cursed themselves with afflictions, some quite terrible. They kidnap Mellis because they believe she can help them return to their ancestors’ state of divinity. Living beside them, Mellis comes to appreciate their kindness and humility, but then is deeply alarmed to be drawn into a deadly conflict between the Penitents and a former member of their tribe: a murderer who takes Satan as his lover and ally.

From The Space Between:

Prologue: Before the Beginning

The fall seemed to go on forever. Sometimes plunging through clouds of icy shards, his flesh burning, scraped raw. Slowing sometimes, or seeming to, in the firmament’s cold hollows. Once he thought he glimpsed the rim of eternity. A fiery radiance shimmered there, crackling at the farthest reaches of his sight. So empty were the heavens. Nothing to cling to. And thus he continued to fall—faster, slower—until he thought he would fall for the rest of time.

He understood the emptiness was not complete. The only true void had existed in an age before his own. But in these infinite distances, the few bodies were a sparse scattering of tiny specks of light, so removed as to have no relevance. Like his shattered heart, a vast emptiness dotted with rocky, sterile hopes. The darkness he saw upon the face of the deep frightened him. It was like the darkness growing within himself.

As he fell he had time to ponder. Why such fury, this ultimate punishment?

He had acted boldly, with imagination and daring, and for that he should have been rewarded. Instead he had come to this. Great and manifold his blessings had been—and then were stripped away. How far he had come from the first light of morning, the light that brought day out of night!

Ice crystals flayed him, searing with a chill fire. His single comfort as he fell was the thought he held close to him in the measureless universe.

I did not fall alone.

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