The first anniversary passed by with hardly any notice. In fact July 30 was all over and done with before I’d realized it had been a year.
And that’s just not like me. Why I’ve observed far less significant circumstances with an awful lot more pomp. This one though was different. For months before I’d quelled frustration upon frustration, bridled an anger that I knew if it were ever allowed out would surely consume me and the rest of my world. Oh the anxiety of it all. It – and “it” was quite complicated – had me in constant turmoil.
Shake my fist at the heavens? I could do that righteously.
Stomp my feet against hell? Hell’s ceiling tiles must have trembled some.
I didn’t know what I was going to do and so long had I stewed and fretted, I had come to the conclusion there was nothing I could do.
So there.
It was the end of July, 2012. The weather wasn’t getting any cooler. My situation wasn’t getting any better.
Except there was my friend.
We met for lunch once a week, dinner if we couldn’t squeeze in lunch. And it wasn’t all bad or sad. We talked of the many things women talk about over salad and flavored ice tea – jobs, grown children, grown children’s young children (our grandchildren), our aging parents.
But since everything had started to go south for me, I mostly like to keep the focus on my situation. We’ve been friends for a long time, so, she accommodates me with a sort of might as well since we’re here indulgence. Besides, get me behind a full-blown fury and my rapier wit really shines through.
And that day had been a rough day. I was close to defeat with the whole job thing, as close as I’d ever been. My wit must have been through the roof, my sarcasm unequalled in all lunch conversations in the universe.
As we were sitting there, waiting for the waitress to bring “to go” cups for our tea, my friend told me about her cousin, how he’d been able to quit his job that was driving him crazy; how he collected a small pension because his former wife had died; how he did “other” things that he liked to do, in his own way, in his own time. How he was happier, calmer and as well off as he’d ever been.
Well, it wasn’t a ton of bricks revelation, just a soft little feather flutter of hope. And I carried that hope with me the rest of the day. That night, it was part of my prayer, “If it be Your will Lord…”
I fed that little hope feather like it was a half-starved dog. What if? How about? Maybe I could…
I made some preliminary phone calls. Ordered a copy of the death certificate, pulled the final decree of divorce from the file where it had languished for nearly 20 years. Found my birth certificate, made an inquiry about an apartment in San Angelo.
My mama used to talk about good things with faithful anticipation. “As God meant them to be,” she always said.
With August came my birthday. I was old enough to apply, but not too old to try. September I made my application and, in the middle of October, with my final approval, I drove to San Angelo and put a deposit down on the apartment. Then I drove back to Brownwood and gave my two-week notice.
Some applauded my courage for setting out “at my age” armed with what it seemed was nothing more than hope and faith, but those two elements have always served me well. Truth is, it would have taken more courage to stay. Reminds me of a line of a poem I wrote once.
“Leavin’s not for sissies / Stayin’s not for strong / and neither understands / the other one’s just trying to get along.”
EDITOR’S NOTE: The original version of this column was published in the San Angelo Standard-Times, Thursday, Aug. 8, 2013, and is published here with permission. Candace Cooksey Fulton, formerly of Brownwood, is a freelance writer living in San Angelo. She may be contacted at ccfulton2002@yahoo.com.
