Classics, Closets and Celebrations

The first few months went fairly well; the Spirit of ’76 had moved down in June to attend school and aggravate her mother…I believe the ‘90s term was bonding.

My Only was attending college full time.  In between coursework, she worked to condense as many of her belongings into what had originally been regarded as a good size second bedroom.  As in many older homes built after the war, the room was designed for a bed no larger than “full”.  Once we crammed a bookcase unit, desk, chair and other assorted belongings into those four walls, we were left with a narrow, designated path to walk.  My Only desperately sought more closet space.

Not that there was any extra space to be had. My Rogue was unable to fit into most of the clothes hanging in his small closet, but he hadn’t yet decided to sort through them, believing as most men that he’d fit again into the size 36 slacks someday.  So, he wore what he could breathe in, worked real estate loans and sales, and for the most part, took living with two women in stride.  He was happy to have a life again.

I took over the open closet area that had been added to the main bedroom.  Never particularly neat, I promised myself that I could maintain a sense of order.  A few months into this and the attempts were futile; I was sloppy and would remain so, open closet or not.  Besides, I was too busy maintaining my closet republican persona in the non-profit workplace. (I was one of a very few employees that remained in any type of closet.)

Times had changed.  I said goodbye to my old ’63 Mercury Monterey.  I could no longer drop money into its renovation.  My Only cried with me as we watched the tow truck drive off.  That car had seen us through some tough years. The Merc was not the only classic that we lost.  Daddy had passed away a few months earlier.  Yes, times had changed.

The Rogue and I celebrated our first anniversary the following November.  We were very happy in our little cottage. My Only threatened to throw up from time to time when “the parental units” (her words) still behaved a bit too giddy for her comfort.  The Rogue took her commentary in stride.

As the maternal parental unit, I still had my doubts about this bonding thing…