Topic 50: Second Thoughts

Carol:

Second Thoughts About Everybody’s Hometown

When it comes to decisions, Marc and I shake out at the “slow and cautious” end of the spectrum. We waited four years before getting married, 8 years before having kids, and 25 years before  thinking about cleaning the basement.  Most people consider “second thoughts” in terms of regret over hasty decisions or sudden impulses; we Hammonds talk ourselves to death before our first, second or third thoughts get acted upon. 

We weren’t unhappy  when we started talking about moving in 1982.  Our Leucadia home was a perfect fit for our Pre-Kids lifestyle.  We were a block from the ocean bluffs, so a few huffs and puffs of staircase and we were on the beach.  Two blocks in the other direction, we could have dinner and great music at the Old Time Café. We loved our jobs despite the 60-mile round-trip to San Diego, and we had great friends ready for dinner and a movie 5 nights a week. Pre-kids.

When Megan was born, we just plugged her into our routine. Sunday mornings, we would head off to the La Costa Resort for our favorite lox and bagels. We would put the baby seat in the corner of the booth, linger over the Sunday LA Times and our third cup of coffee.  All that worked pretty well while I was on maternity leave. Once I went back to work, the commute, the frustrations of childcare, and the growing drug culture gave us second thoughts.  Right after I found the coke spoon in the dryer at the laundromat, we started talking about moving to a family-friendly, smaller community, even out of state.

Jerome, 1982

We planned a scouting trip to Arizona for spring break, a loop that would take us through Prescott, Jerome, Sedona, Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon. We arrived in Prescott on a dreary, gray misty morning and checked into the Hassayampa Hotel. We poked around, but the weather was pretty miserable and so was our first impression of the area. We headed north out of town unimpressed, mentally ticking off Prescott as a future home.

The rest of the trip was documented through photos: Megan sitting on a picnic table in Jerome; Megan on the floor of our Sedona hotel, the window framing its distinctive red rocks; Megan on a snow-covered trail near El Tovar. We were loving Arizona, just not Prescott.

While unpacking at Bright Angel Lodge at the Canyon’s south rim, Marc made a discovery. He didn’t have any clean underwear. No problem, a trip to Babbitt’s at the Canyon would take care of that. But, wait, no clean socks. This was getting expensive. Then, Marc’s favorite—and very expensive— boots were missing. He called the Hassayampa Hotel back in Prescott, and sure enough, a suitcase had been left in the lobby, no ID but a lot of underwear and good-looking boots. No loop, no drive along I-40 through Kingman, which I had so looked forward to. We had to go back and get those darn boots.

We arrived back in Prescott exactly a week after our first visit. The sun was shining, and the sky was an incredible vibrant blue with just a few thick and cottony clouds for interest. The Courthouse Plaza was alive with activity, families picnicking on the grass, happy sounds everywhere. What a perfect spring day! What a great place to raise a family!  

Marshall, Courthouse Plaza, 1988

Exactly a year later we settled into our 1.5 acre “spread” in Williamson Valley, 5 miles from the center of “Everybody’s Hometown.” Regrets? Second thoughts? Look out my window. The blue sky behind Granite Mountain is clear except for a little puff of white cloud  off to the left. What a perfect autumn morning! What a great place to be retired!

Megan:

 Oops I did it again. 

Cambridge, 2006.

Just after this picture was taken, I got food poisoning from some bad mussels and had to throw up in a public restroom. That was not the first time that happened to me.

Sometimes when I’m driving and I realize I went the wrong way I just keep going because I don’t like to retrace my steps. That’s why it once took me 2 hours to get to Birmingham for a meeting and 6 hours to get back. And why a 30 mile trip to Cambridge became a 200 mile tour of the East Anglian country side. England is so small that I always figured it wouldn’t really matter if I missed a turn and wound up on the other side of the country – it would only take a few hours to get back again. It’s not like that in the US, if you make a wrong turn you can keep driving for days. So it’s good that I now have GPS navigation on my cell phone, which finds alternate routes when I don’t want to turn around.

This attitude carries over in other ways too. I justify mistakes and errors in judgment with ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’ and then I carry on. Sometimes it seems like a good idea to make that mistake again (and again), just to confirm that the first time wasn’t a fluke, but eventually I figure it out and sort of course correct myself to avoid that situation in the future.

 I’ve moved back to the US from England twice before, both times believing I would never go back again. But this was the first time it was my choice, the first time I felt ready to go.  All my reasons were valid. I missed my family. I hated my job. Seven years seemed long enough. But now I’m stuck in limbo. And I know that I’ll find a new job eventually, and I’m having a good time right now, and leaving the prison still feels like the right choice. But there’s still a voice in my head that says I made a Big Mistake. I try not to hear that voice because I'm afraid it is true.  And I can’t turn around on this one, and I’m not sure about alternate routes. But I’ve found my way back before, and maybe I will again.

Ely Cathedral, Christmas, 2009.

I slipped and fell on the ice three times trying to get close enough to that horse to pet it.