November 26, 2001
The white car was still there on Spring Lane this morning. The doors shut and some of the objects on the grass exchanged for other objects. It was early and I didn’t cycle by the doors to see if she was sleeping in there; I had the feeling that she was. It was a foggy morning and there was condensation on the inside of the windows. I had had misgivings about my romanticizing of the old lady who might have lived in a car. On the first day I saw her she was a rune of solitude, today when I saw the car she was a warning. Perhaps she is not a voluntary nomad but a woman who never found a place or a way to make a living. A woman without friends or family, without income or savings. Without access to heat, healthcare or home. Someone who had lived carelessly without any tenacity of purpose or the ability to subdue her pride in order to hold down a job. Someone who had gambled on never being old and had lived life as if there was perhaps a tomorrow, but little beyond that. Perhaps, when younger, her contemporaries had tried to help her. To get her jobs, encourage her in her skills, to advise her to be a little more prudent in her approach. She balked at their advice, held onto the idea that one day she would settle down and make a great deal of money very easily. It became more difficult as she got older; she was alone in her stubbornness and her disbelief in the future. By the time she saw where she stood it was too late for reform. What could she do? At fifty, with her husband fled, train to be a nurse? The rooms got smaller. Eventually they had no kitchens. The bathrooms moved to the hall, always shared now. Her daughter gave her a lump sum and she bought a car. She drove the car to a lane. She picked the lane with great care. For its appearance, its lack of other people and its name: spring.
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The white car was still there on Spring Lane this morning. The doors shut and some of the objects on the grass exchanged for other objects. It was early and I didn’t cycle by the doors to see if she was sleeping in there; I had the feeling that she was. It was a foggy morning and there was condensation on the inside of the windows. I had had misgivings about my romanticizing of the old lady who might have lived in a car. On the first day I saw her she was a rune of solitude, today when I saw the car she was a warning. Perhaps she is not a voluntary nomad but a woman who never found a place or a way to make a living. A woman without friends or family, without income or savings. Without access to heat, healthcare or home. Someone who had lived carelessly without any tenacity of purpose or the ability to subdue her pride in order to hold down a job. Someone who had gambled on never being old and had lived life as if there was perhaps a tomorrow, but little beyond that. Perhaps, when younger, her contemporaries had tried to help her. To get her jobs, encourage her in her skills, to advise her to be a little more prudent in her approach. She balked at their advice, held onto the idea that one day she would settle down and make a great deal of money very easily. It became more difficult as she got older; she was alone in her stubbornness and her disbelief in the future. By the time she saw where she stood it was too late for reform. What could she do? At fifty, with her husband fled, train to be a nurse? The rooms got smaller. Eventually they had no kitchens. The bathrooms moved to the hall, always shared now. Her daughter gave her a lump sum and she bought a car. She drove the car to a lane. She picked the lane with great care. For its appearance, its lack of other people and its name: spring.
- rachael 11-27-2001 12:16 am