How did I get here? I didn’t ask to join this club. I don’t like the membership requirements and I sure as hell am not going to let this define me as a “Hurricane Harvey Flood Victim”.
It’s been almost one month. The 29th will mark 4 weeks to the day that our life turned upside down. My husband was out of town and both of us were watching the “tropical storm” as it started to hammer the Gulf Coast. His flights back home to Houston kept getting canceled, but I kept telling myself I would be okay.
My brother in law and family from SugarLand in SW Houston had a mandatory evacuation so they drove up to Kingwood – to “safety”. So much for safety.
In a matter of hours, the pounding rain backed up the storm sewers and the water started rising in the culdesac. I watched my neighbor build a makeshift dam to keep the water out of his house and I started to do the same. Donning my wellies, a long raincoat, rain pants and rubber gloves, I waded out in the floodwaters and started to create a barrier against the front stoop. I still can’t shake the acrid stench of the floodwater from my memory.
As the water started to seep under the walls of our house and the pool overflowed into our home, it was time to shut off the electricity at the main and retreat upstairs. We gathered what we could from downstairs, lifting furniture onto blocks – thinking we’d only get an inch or two – and headed up to the 2nd floor. For a split second I debated using a push broom and towels to “sweep” the water out of the house. Seriously. Sweeping out the flood water. The brain does crazy things.
Maggie my 16 year old dog was unsure what all the activity was about and decided to ignore the activity and sleep through it all. My inlaws tried to get some rest and I sat up in a chair at the top of the stairs, listening to the water move throughout my house, crashing into cabinets, breaking glass, knocking large pieces of furniture over, moving a heavy leather sofa and a chair across the room. Little did I know that at 2:30 a.m. water was being released from a dam north of us, dooming all of us in its path.
As the water crept up to the 3rd step towards the second floor, a moment of panic set in. We needed rescue and we needed it soon. Social media was all about the flooding in Kingwood and people told me to hang a white sheet out my front second story window signaling for help. I didn’t have a window in the front of my second story. We were stuck and I was scared – but I kept my cool. I put a post on my Broker’s Realty private Facebook page pleading for help and within minutes, I had numerous replies. The father of a colleague of mine was in the Cajun Navy and he put me in touch with him. At first light, our rescuers came, pushing a boat INTO my house. We gathered few belongings into black trash bags, including some dog food and important documents, and into the boats we climbed-me hoisting a 52# terrorized and soaking wet dog into the boat with me.
The water was almost 4′ – chest high in some areas. The life jackets I put in the house days prior “just in case” proved to be a very smart move. As the boat carried us to safety down our street, the current got stronger as we turned the corner. It was – and still is – surreal to think my beautiful street was a raging river.
The clean up is well underway and we are now starting the process to rebuild our home. I guess one of the comforting things in all this is knowing that we are not alone. Every single person on my street and in our neighborhood experienced the same terror, and we are all getting stronger from this experience. I still hate you Harvey. #Iamstrongerthanfloodwaters #Harveydestroyedmyhomebutnotmyspirit
Yep, I know it’s Father’s Day this weekend, the time we recognize our Father’s for being a part of our lives – some good, some not so good. I am definitely blessed with one of the good ones. My Dad, is a GREAT Father, to 6 of us. He’s 94 years young and still has an impact on my life.
But I also want to honor another Dad – my husband of 32 years, partner for 34. He has made me a better person and for that I am forever grateful. Oh we’ve hit some speedbumps along the way, but that’s what has enabled me to morph into who I am today. With every relocation (thank you oil and gas industry), I’ve changed jobs and that has actually been a highlight for me. So I want to thank him, the father of our kids –
this man: who taught 3 year old Nathan how to fish in Galveston, and then recognized the importance in allowing him to “help” dig a ditch at our house. This guy: who created very cool, terrifying haunted houses on our front porch in Lakewood-one week after Jenn was born. This Handyman: who built an awesome skateboard ramp in our front yard for neighborhood kids right after we moved to Slidell. This Dad: who endured sitting for hours – usually in the sun – to watch Jenn swim for a 2 minute race…My other half, who took his family all over the world with his job but always put his family first, and continues to this day, to put family first. So grateful Happy Father’s Day Weekend DSS.
Blame the groundhog. That poor misunderstood creature who every February is manhandled out of his cozy confines amidst men wearing top hats and throngs of eager people and ratings-weary reporters watching…and waiting…will Phil see his shadow? Will we have 6 more weeks of winter?
Does it truly matter? We can’t change the seasons but we can change our surroundings. Now is the time to plan that trip to sunny warm temps, or for those yearning to really dig into winter, a getaway to some snow-capped mountainous resort. Whatever is on your bucketlist – make it happen.
There are plenty of memories to be made traveling around the world but even more can be made right in your own backyard. Since I’ve repatriated, I’ve made a committment to vacation right here in the USA and explore places I’ve yet to see, and do things I’ve talked about for years. Discover the National Parks. Take a tour of a winery, brewery or distillery –(with transportation provided of course). Rent a beach house. Go fishing with friends. Kayak with companions. Take a cooking class. Head to an antique fair. Discover the best hole in the wall restaurants. Hit the casinos in Vegas. Go for a hike. Traverse the countryside. Be a tourist in your own town. Delve into the little known secrets of the city – Houston has an amazing tunnel system of shops and restaurants…yep…I’ve never been. Make that bucket list of places to travel, but remember that oftentimes adventures lie just beyond your back door. Click those heels friends. There’s no place like home.
Couldn’t resist the theatrical verbiage. Anyone who knows me or who pays attention to my lengthy email address gets a glimpse into my “other side”. It was a 10-year old me, who, not knowing the importance of reading a script prior to an audition, showed up at “Gypsy” open call wearing a bandana and hoop earrings. Yep I had rookie stamped on my forehead, but I didn’t let a rejection get me down. I was bitten by the acting bug and it never left. Thus, fourty-achoo-six-years later I still carry the actress persona. But this time, my second act is a new career.
When I think about it, my entire professional life actually had me “on stage”. When you work in Public Relations and deal with so many different types of people – and egos – you are bound to put on your best acting face to get the job done. Check that box.
Or when you are teaching a class of pubescent middle schoolers and a wide eyed 12 year-old boy, who’s crushing on the cute girl in Language Arts class, asks you, “Ms. Sturgis- do you like my new cologne?” On goes the actress hat “Yes (insert name here)-you smell very nice”. You don’t tell him that he apparently showered with said cologne after PE, but that it was better than the alternative…trust me. Any middle school teacher can relate. Am I right?
So here I am, after 3 1/2 years in Russia, back home in our house in the USA. (Big Woohoo here). After careers in public relations, education and being a full time mom and an oil patch gypsy (without the bandana and earrings) I am starting yet another career as a real estate agent. Just passed my test (GRUELING so BIG happy dance!) and I am now fully licensed to find the perfect abode for people. With 13 moves in 31 years, multiple contracts signed, and too many house-hunts to count, I’d say I’m pretty well qualified.
I haven’t been this excited about something in a long time. I’ve got a nice office in one of the upstairs bedrooms (thanks to Doug the Handyman) and a dear friend has helped me organize and strategize for my business start up (shout out to Rosemary Costello http://www.rosemarypcostello.com/).
There have been so many occasions when people ask me “Now that you’re back, why do you want to work?” Ummmm. How much time do you have? I have SO much to give..so much knowledge to share, experiences to draw upon. I just want to work..to give back. I am ever so grateful for a husband and sister-in-law who nudged me to get my Real Estate License and here I am, waiting for the State of Texas to mark me “Active” so I can embark on my Second Act. No more Intermissions for me. It’s going to be a long, and hopefully very productive show.
I’m sitting here trying to think of something to write. I’m not even sure what to say. It’s March 20th here and although spring starts in Russia on March 1st, I don’t think Sakhalin got the memo. The wind is howling and the temps are below freezing. Maggie, our 13 year old dog keeps going into her crate, making a nest to escape from the wind whistling through the windows.
It’s been over three years since we moved to Russia’s Far East, and now our life as expats is coming to a close. I’ve lived over a quarter of my 30 years of married life as an oil patch gypsy. Nine years at countless airport check in counters, too many times photographing our luggage in case it gets lost, reams of colored curling ribbon tied to our suitcases so they stand out, and hours of holding our tempers at bay when filling out mounds of paperwork for a specific country’s visa.
Will I miss Russia? Of course. I will miss the friendships, the Sakhalin sunsets, hosting parties for 60 people in our house, the feeling of accomplishment when I pronounced something correctly in Russian and garnered a smile from the Russian cashier behind the counter, the pristine snow when it blankets the trees.
But it’s time. Time to leave expat life behind. Time to sort our household belongings into piles: things to move home, items to sell, stuff to donate. It has been an incredibly emotional relocation process this time, partially because it marks the end of our expat life and because of the rollercoaster of emotions being so far away from family when loved ones are seriously ill. The love and support we have felt from our neighbors and friends is immeasurable. These are true friendships and memories to treasure, and will carry us through as we journey home to Texas.
Well…I guess I figured out what to write after all.
It’s been over 30 years since Doug and I said “I Do”in front of my Uncle Bill, Fr. William Bichl, SJ (may he rest in peace–he passed away suddenly just before Christmas 2015). Living an oil patch life is not easy – contrary to what many people believe. It’s definitely not glamorous, nor is it “pampered”. I don’t “do lunch” every day and shopping is not my past time. Since 1985, I’ve willingly sacrificed my career to move with my other half, and our children (now grown) have changed schools many times to follow our oil patch life.
But now, as I sit here listening to waves crash on the Oahu shore, I realize some may think I am “out of touch” with reality for taking a vacation to Hawaii. But please absorb this for a moment: I’ve been living in frigid Far East Siberia for 3 years now and the flight to Hawaii is the easiest and shortest getaway to sunshine; I can’t drive in Sakhalin and I depend on dispatch sending a car when one is available when I have to go grocery shopping which entails going to 3-4 different stores to get my regular grocery supplies; for 8 years I have lived overseas so my hubby could do his job – painfully away from both our families. We’ve missed weddings, births, and a funeral – which rips at the very soul of our being.
I have yet to see the National Parks in the USA except for the Grand Canyon. I’ve never seen a concert at the Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavillion in The Woodlands. Austin, Texas is a stranger to me. I have never been to Put-In-Bay, Kelly’s Island, Cuyahoga Valley Recreation Center or….Mackinaw Island in Michigan.
My 30 years in the oil patch have sent me to exotic places and carried me through the ups and downs of the the price of oil – but we still yearn for home. For family dinners with extended family – inlaws and grandparents and cousins around a table saying grace and swapping stories like the Reagans in “Blue Bloods”. For now, we get that semblance of home when we read texts from our kids who are deeply ensconced in their own worlds–one on a business trip to “nowhere Texas” researching oil and gas leases for his company for whom he is a contractor, and our daughter who is beginning her last semester of nursing school at one of the best programs in the country—I take a breath and realize we did okay. As guilty as I sometimes feel for uprooting the kids—we did okay. They are fine. The trials and tribulations of their teenage years – the moves – the worries – the school issues – —- it turned out okay.
My office the past umpteem years may not have had a nameplate and I may not have been employee of the month, but I know deep down I still had an important job – and I think I did just fine.
It’s part of expat life–saying the goodbyes, the good luck in your next assignment, the I’m sure we will meet again. But it’s the other goodbyes, when people leave on extended holidays that are sometimes just as hard. Knowing someone is going home, or enjoying a nice getaway while you remain behind–that’s tough. Saying goodbye to pets for weeks or months at a time – that can be excruciating. I’ve been the one leaving for 4+ weeks and it’s an emotional roller coaster. Knowing those temporary goodbyes to friends are difficult just proves what good friendships are made here in this assignment in far east Siberia.
One of my friends left today for 5 weeks at home…and we already miss them. Maggie was peeking out the window as they piled their luggage in the back of the LandCruiser, probably wondering if their dogs were going too. Tail wagging as she was whining, I reassured Maggie we would have playdates with Lucas and Chad–that their “parents” would be back, and I promised we would send photos of doggie playdates. (Yes I do talk to my dog, dog owners will understand)
It’s hard to describe to people back home how much we expats depend on each other here in Yuzhno. This is like no other overseas assignment we’ve had-despite being on a compound in Kerteh Malaysia, because there we could drive. We had some semblance of freedom. This is so different. We cannot drive for safety reasons and that’s okay with me. But sometimes we stay-at-home spouses feel trapped. We don’t have an office to go to every day, so we fill our days with grocery shopping at multiple stores to get everything we need, walking our dogs several times a day, volunteering somewhere if possible and researching for hours on end how to get the best price for airfare off the island, whether going home or on vacation. This in itself is the biggest frustration for me. Booking trips that coordinate with the few flights on and off Sakhalin so we’re not panicking when we get stuck on the slooooow bus from the airplane to the proper terminal seemingly miles away, and end up running through an airport trying to make a connection. I can only imagine how difficult it is for the young families carting children and backpacks as they dash to the gate.
I know these may seem like petty things but this is a glimpse into my empty nester expat life here in Russia. And while Maggie and I will look forward to our daily playdates with Lucas and Chad, we will be keeping a little countdown calendar until their “parents” return to their Russian home,
That itch is happening again. The unsettled feeling. The wandering thoughts that pop into my mind at the most random moments of the day. The transfer. The reassignment. The next posting.
Every three years. Like clockwork. New assignments. New places. New friends.
Inventorying every item you own and putting things in nicely organized digital piles: storage, move, donate.
We’re edging closer to our three-year mark here in Far East Siberia so naturally, my mind wanders. Will we extend? Will we be reassigned elsewhere? Where else can we go? The questions put me in memory-mode, thinking about how things have changed the past 28 months.
Of our 3 foreign assignments, this one, hands-down, is the most transient of all. People move in and move out throughout the year. They come for a rotation, and leave before you get the chance to learn their name. What used to be a community of empty nesters has morphed into a playground of pre-schoolers. Many people go on extended trips home and when they come back, it’s like meeting new friends all over again.
Activities we used to look forward to have come to a halt. Priorities have changed. Timing is a challenge.
But that’s okay. Change is good, right? It forces us to come up with new ways to entertain ourselves – even if that means going back to school and taking a class online that challenges and pushes us; hauling out a sewing machine and re-learning skills you left behind 21 years ago and finally digging into investment research.
With so many of my friends moving on or retiring, I’ll still be here. I’ll be the one online in the wee hours participating in “real-time class discussion”, with the fabric and sewing supplies strewn about the dining room and the half-highlighted financial newsletters on the floor. Change is good, right?
Cambodia. Not exactly on my list of must see places, but now that I spent 6 days here, I am so glad we had this opportunity. Growing up in the 60’s and 70’s all I knew of Cambodia was from TV newscasts and the pictures in the paper.
It is a country of contrasts: a beautiful place, yet so dirty. Cambodians are a resilient people who smile through intense poverty. A country where there is no infrastructure and driving here is a free for all: No stoplights. No stop signs. No lane markings – it’s one great big game of chicken.
Families of five on motor scooters weave their way between trucks and cars and I cringe when I see “Dad” the only one wearing a helmet. Mom sits sidesaddle holding her infant while two toddlers squeeze between the adults, holding onto nothing but the thin fabric of a shirt. It’s their culture. It’s what they know, but I still shudder.
On our first full day to ruins, our driver Khey told us he lost his father to the Khmer Rouge when he was only 3 months old. His Dad was educated and considered an “Intellectual” so he was killed. Khey also “lost” 4 of his siblings—lost is not the appropriate word but it paints a better picture than slaughtered. Khey wasn’t able to go to school, so as a grown man, he makes his living as a tour guide.
The day we arrived, we took a river cruise on a boat that probably wouldn’t be legal in the USA. A young man and his 8-year-old son captained the vessel and although the water was very low, we managed to have 3 hours of sight seeing on the chocolate colored water. It was a holiday for Buddhists that day so the fishermen were at home, making for tight passageways down the river. We were the metal ball in the pinball alley of boats and debris. Our young deckhand stood on the bow with a giant piece of wood in his hand and pushed us away from other boats so we could pass. On far too many occasions, he had to climb out on the metal contraption that held the “propeller” at the stern, stand on the blades and tear at the plastic bags and fishing nets that got tangled around the propellers. If the water were higher this wouldn’t have been such an issue.
We passed a shirtless man in water to his waist, painstakingly worked on repairing his wooden boat using tree sap to make the seams watertight. Women of all ages sat in the boats repairing fishing nets by hand, with no light other than from the various fires burning near the houses. Children ran back and forth across the makeshift wooden bridge spanning the river, made from small tree limbs with at least 18” between each rung. Seeing them effortlessly walk across the bridge reminded me of the fear-inducing trek across the monkey bars at Hayes School back in my day. I can still smell the metal on my hands as I gripped the rungs, the burning sensation from twisting my hands across the monkey bars, swinging my lanky legs back and forth to make it to the next rung. But me walk across the top of the monkey bars? No way.
The smallest child I saw walk across this makeshift bridge must have been no older than 4. He held the hand of his “big” sister (she looked to be about 6 years old) and together they negotiated the gaps with ease.
It was a memorable first day in Cambodia. We saw floating villages of fisherman, sipped an Angkhor beer at a “dockside” restaurant as we watched the sun set and then continued our “cruise” until we managed to run out of gas just shy of the parking lot. Fortunately our young deckhand was able to squeeze the last bit of gasoline out of the 2 liter plastic Sprite bottle sitting in the boat. We puttered along for the last 15 minutes, making our way down the river – in the dark – with no lights.
The highpoint of that evening was the excitement shared by both our driver Khey and the young deckhand on the boat when they saw the contrails from a jet in the sky. Neither had seen it before and the look of wonder on their face was something I will always remember. Convinced it was “otherworldly” they turned to us and asked if we knew what were the strange markings in the sky. “Those are from a jet, a big airplane”, said Doug. Khey and the boy continued to look quizzically at us, unsure what we meant. Days later, we still talk of this being a highpoint in the trip. Something so simple to us was a magical moment for 2 people in this far away place. As I grow older it seems the simplest things we encounter become the most magical, memorable moments. And that’s just fine with me.