Light in the Tunnel of Change

Change was an overheated radiator, chips of tire tread charging my windshield like kamikaze bugs, and a tire jack sinking in soft soil under the weight of almost everything we owned.

What I didn't leave on the side of the road with my husband and his truck, I towed along behind my car on a roller coaster ride over the secondary mountain roads of Pennsylvania, searching for a place to air up the spare. As if my nerves weren't stretched enough already, monstrous over-filled dump trucks loomed in my rearview mirror. In regular intervals they barreled down on me at such speeds that I was convinced they would ride right over me and never know the difference. Instead they would speed around me in great showers of gravel, and the gushing wake that followed swayed my trailer with such force that it was a fight to stay on the road. I had never been so frightened or so angry. Not even four weeks before when I learned how drastically my life was about to change, and how powerless I was to stop it.

This move was as expected, and as welcome, as a mugging. I knew my carpenter husband of 18 months was looking for steadier work. I was even braced for a move to a nearby state, but figured such a step would require months of planning, as it had when my father moved our family from Pennsylvania to Oklahoma. However, I was no longer living with my father, and I had a lot to learn about the way my new husband made decisions. He weighed factors more quickly than I could think of them, and once he was settled on the best course he saw no point in waiting to carry it out. That, coupled with his "I can make anything work" attitude had us scouting out Connecticut one week, back in Oklahoma the next, packed the third weed and on the road to a new home the fourth.

Did we hire a van to move like the average family does? No. Since he felt it was a waste of money to rent anything, he bought a 30-year-old two-ton truck from a friend so he could sell it when we were finished using it. Between that truck and six-foot plywood sides on his work trailer, we had room to haul everything we needed to set up house thousands of miles away from the people who had always been part of my life.

After more than a week of coping with every minor vehicular problem imaginable and a few major ones on top of those, we came to the end of the physical journey. We arrived in unseasonable 90-degree heat. Doors and windows were thrown open everywhere to welcome any breeze, should one decide to blow. For all those people passing the sweltering evening on porches or neighborhood sidewalks, we provided pre-breeze entertainment, driving in Beverly-Hillbilly fashion to our new blue house perched on top of the highest hill in the neighborhood. No missing the new folks in town!

After sleeping that night on the floor--or at least trying to between the heat and the coupling of freight cars at the train station across the street at two in the morning--we swallowed breakfast at a nearby diner in the morning. From the pay phone there we made arrangements for power and a telephone, trash service, all that essential stuff that sucks down money like a greedy child slurps a malt, all those things that meant we weren't going to turn around and go back home after all. We went back to unload furniture and argue about where to put it. At noon we stopped to watch the weather forecast through the fuzz on our black and white RCA. Cooler weather and rain were due by evening.

The next day, and for the next couple weeks, the sky cried with me. I muddled through boxes, learned our new phone number and how to spell the impossible name of our street--Pahquioque. We asked around about things like supermarkets and discount department stores. My husband scoured the newspapers for work. He finally decided to go downtown to look at building permit records in search of employment leads.

That was my first day alone in the house. I wandered about, focusing on my familiar things, and tried not to think about tomorrow, or the day after that, or the loneliness that gripped me so hard it hurt. My friends were gone, my family was gone, the sun was gone. For better or worse. This was definitely worse. For richer or poorer. I knew which direction we were heading. In sickness... Did that include homesickness?

I stared out the kitchen window, the view blurred by the soft diminishing rain. On a distant hill blotches of red caught my eye. Because power lines, tree limbs and chimneys crisscrossed the view, it was impossible to tell what gave off such striking color. I climbed to the attic for a better look.

From there, above everything, I had my first view of the autumn show that makes New England famous. Thanks to the deep blue of retreating storm clouds, the red trees stood out like pop-up figures in a storybook. They were flanked by colors more subdued, but playing a symphony that took my breath. The hills rimmed my world as far as I could see. I stood for some time, mesmerized by the colorworks, the likes of which I had never seen on the prairie land of Oklahoma.

My husband's voice seemed frantic when I heard him call my name. He probably half-expected that I'd left him. I yelled, "Coming!" then clamored down two flights of stairs to reassure him I wasn't trying to hang myself from the rafters. The smile on his face meant good news. So did mine.

"Get your coat. You have to see this. I'll tell you about the job on the way."

He drove me out to see the trees. He asked around until we found all the best views. We took our time, hand in hand, and savored the glory. After it got dark, we finished the day at a tiny Hungarian place. I had never had authentic Hungarian stew before. It was delicious.

I came home to find a letter from my father. His writing was so vivid and detailed that within minutes it felt like my family had come to my new home for a visit.

So change became autumn leaves, Hungarian stew and fat newsy letters from home. I guess sometimes turning points just happen. Maybe it's because we are finally ready to move on. Or maybe it's because we are jolted into noticing what is going on around us instead of within us.

Now when changes are difficult, I look for beauty to light the way. After all, on that one day when Connecticut became a better place, all that had really changed was the trees.