Things I won’t miss about Spain:

Those days in Don Quijote class when the professor asks me a question and I have no idea how to answer.

The smell of Spanish ham.

Yup, that’s about it.

I’m passing through a place
where poppies grow like weeds
and better-tasting mountains grow
from mustard-sized black seeds.
It’s not that I’m on opium–
it’s really like a dream.
This place is much more beautiful
than words can make it seem.

This was the weekend of April 10-13. Imagine your county fair, except the fairgrounds are surrounded by residential highrises, the livestock exhibits are replaced with tents full of dancing people, the jeans are replaced with flamenco dresses, and the Bud Light is replaced with Cruzcampo and sherry.

The song is about a beautiful Andalucian woman with black eyes, black hair, a tense body, and a lingering look. It sounds sweeter in Spanish.

Goodbye to the garden, the orchard, the grapetree, the trickling septic tank overflow, the trees we planted, the nests we watched, the chicken coop, the shed roof, the oil pit, the pile of rocks, the mulberry trees, the spots on the yard we used for bases and goals, the cement slab where I put a dent in my forehead, the river rock and gravel where I scraped up my knees falling off the bikes that we stored in a row next to the long work table.

Goodbye to the bumpy bottomed basement with the spiders and the pole with the square notches in it, the spaces behind the filing cabinets and under the steps and on the other side of the furnace. Goodbye to the shinier cement that I remember Dad pouring, the mountain of craft supplies, and the pottery wheel I requested but hardly ever used, except to pile laundry.

Goodbye to the orange-carpeted bedroom that I always had the smaller half of, the blue-carpeted bedroom that used to have fluky gray and red carpet, and mom’s bedroom with the carpet that is really more like felt. Goodbye to the attic, and hello to deciding what to do with the stuff in my boxes. Is anything worth keeping?

Goodbye to the steps. I will never forget the sound of Nathan descending them, and the little string that used to run up and down the eastern side, next to the slide we used to try to ride. Goodbye to the bathroom, and the unique smell of sitting there, looking through the screen at corn growing, the trash burning, the apple trees blossoming, and the laundry drying in the breeze. Goodbye to the sink where I gagged on the horrible tastes of toothpaste and listerine. Goodbye to the spot on the floor where I cried.

Goodbye to the big window in the living room, and the beam where mom would command me to dance.

Goodbye to that curved line dividing carpet and linoleum, the corner where so many shoes gathered, and the ladybugs gathered in the tracks of the sliding door.

Goodbye to my kitchen. Oh, kitchen. You know how hard it is to cook in someone else’s kitchen, compared to your own. That kitchen is my kitchen. First cupboard: jars, bowls, folders, and medicine spinner. Second cupboard: mugs, glasses, bowls, and plates. Then there’s the window, where you can see the two oak trees, which are finally producing enough acorns to support a squirrel, and the pasture, and whatever cars might go bye on that gravel road. Third cupboard: glass casseroles, hot and cold cereal, a box of metamucil that probably felt unappreciated. Fourth cupboard: everything. Lot’s of baking stuff. Fifth and sixth cupboard: spices and cans and boxes of rice-a-roni and hamburger helper. Seventh cupboard: snacks and cookbooks. Well, the cookbooks are now below the microwave, because nothing ever stays the same.

Goodbye to hours experimenting in a kitchen I know like the backside of my front teeth, getting everything to feel and taste just right. Goodbye to that new stove that is so much better than the old stove. Goodbye to the countertop I recently realized was made to look like butcher block. Goodbye to the place I learned to make yeast bread and white sauce and spritz cookies and pancakes and aloo gobi. Goodbye to shoving that leg of the chair back into place and pulling off pieces of the table and the Bible we read at the end of each supper.

Goodbye to having Anita over on a Sunday afternoon, blasting Fiddler on the Roof from the speakers on top of the hutch, and cooking supper while dancing around the table. Could we do that one more time while I am ‘home’ between Sevilla and Sol Duc? Could we do it without crying when it came to the song ‘Anatevka?’

“A pot… a pan… a broom… a hat. Someone should have set a match to this place long ago. A bench… a tree… So what’s a stone, or a house?”

Eh. It’s just a place. Goodbye.

She lives alone.
She’s got her t.v. and her telephone.
Young ones come here but they always go home.
This place is just a place to stay.
I saw a man
holding her look-a-like by the hand.
Fifteen years past, perhaps I’d understand
this place is just a place to stay.

Here’s some footage from the trip that Bryna, Alaina, and I took to Rome. Yup, we got blessed by the Pope.