Ypsi Facto

On Saturday, June 6, my 47th birthday, I flew to Michigan for a visit, my first time staying at my parents’ new house in Ypsilanti, just east of Ann Arbor. (Ypsilanti is pronounced ip-sil-AN-tee, if you must know.)

On Sunday, we went to my parents’ old house in Ann Arbor and did some gardening, along with my sister. It was wet and grey; most of the week it was at least overcast. It was startling to see the house in such disarray, most of the familiar objects gone and tarps spread here and there, but that was probably useful for the separation process.

On Monday, my mother and I argued about CFLs and then about 9/11. There aren’t as many places to sit in the new house so far, so instead of everyone having a wing of the house in which to sulk privately, we all sit in the same cozy little room, which naturally leads to bitter recriminations, proximity being a chief cause of discord.

My father made special birthday cookies, based on a recipe I found on the Internet and sent him months ago for chocolate-chip cookies made with oil instead of butter. It sounds not that great, but these cookies are extremely good, as good as cookies made with butter, in my opinion. My father, typically, has modified and improved the recipe. Among other things, he replaced some of the flour with cornstarch, and he put in a subtle hint of orange extract for an outstanding—I had 12 at a sitting—result.

I tried to make his recipe after I got home and the result was pretty good, but my oven changes temperature at random, which makes baking anything a hit-or-miss operation. Also, it appears I had at some point gotten rid of almost all of my 1/3 cup measuring cups—after all, how often does a recipe call for 1/3 of a cup of anything? Well, this recipe of my father’s calls for 1/3 or 2/3 of a cup of three different things. Fortunately, I do have one such measuring cup, because that happens to be the amount of water that gets added to Hammett’s food each day.

On Tuesday of my week in Michigan I went to Chelsea for a delicious birthday dinner at Amy’s house. She made pizza from scratch, crust and all, and a beautiful white cake with white frosting. We were joined by her boyfriend (Mark), her two sons (Mike and Chris), and the newish girlfriend of Chris. Now that I’m 47, I can say that Amy and I have been friends for FORTY YEARS, and we have never had the merest fight. She is an excellent, fabulous friend. My oldest friend.

On Wednesday, my Uncle Rick and my parents and I had lunch at Café Zola on W. Washington in Ann Arbor. (Streets to the west of Main are called West whatever, and streets to the east are called East whatever; similar arrangement for north and south of some other street. I lived in this town for 20 years, have been visiting it for 27 years since, and never noticed this until this visit.)

I had the roasted vegetable salad, which has lots of yummy eggplant in it and is studded with tangy feta and drenched in thick Turkish vinaigrette (if you upend your whole container of dressing over it).

After lunch, we went across the street to Sweetwaters Café for post-lunch refreshments, where it was quieter.

On Thursday, a very wet day, I took Amy out to lunch at Seva. I had a salad somewhat similar to the one I’d had at Café Zola, and orange cake with buttercream frosting for dessert, plus a scoop of green tea ice cream, a perfect combination.

After lunch, I went to say goodbye to the old house, starting my farewell tour in the garage, amid the safety flags Dad bought us long ago for our bikes, the orange life vests for sailing, an old Bell bike helmet with a rearview mirror, the ancient filing cabinet that once held various kinds of balls.

Before I went inside, I circumambulated the house; when I got to the front porch, Melvin, the very friendly lead painter of three, was on the porch, smoking. After he went inside, I sat down on the top step, one of my favorite things to do, even just for a moment now and then. It’s a nice place to observe the weather and get some fresh air. When I stood up and brushed off the seat of the raincoat Mom had lent me, there was grey goop on my hand—Melvin’s dampened cigarette ashes. I wouldn’t be sitting on those steps again, and so that was goodbye.

I went inside, into the little bathroom of the study, and heard the click of the door lock for the last time, reminding me of little girls chasing each other around the house decades ago and that feeling of relief when the lock clicked into place. From the bathroom, I could just hear Mom mock-berating Melvin about the carpeting, which saw its best days some decades ago: “You’ve ruined my lovely carpet!”

When I’d said I was planning to say farewell to the old house that day, my mother had politely inquired, “Are you going to keen?”

I was certainly planning to keen, and had brought my keening supplies: a fresh cloth handkerchief. I’d also decided to take one mindful breath in each room/area of the house, which turned out to be functionally incompatible with crying and thus cut down on the anticipated keening quite a bit, as did my mother standing behind me pretending to bawl loudly and uncontrollably while I reviewed my memories associated with the southwest bedroom.

The final phase of leavetaking was to lie in the side yard, erstwhile and occasional badminton court, on my back—happily, the sky was dull grey and it was pouring rain—to offer my thanks for the foliage that so sheltered me, the earth, the trees, the rain, the wind, the sun.