welcome back, take 2

I suppose the first snag happened when I couldn’t find a ride home from the train station. “Oh, I can maybe come get you. Just call me a few days before you get back,” was what I got from a few people before I even left. But then none of them could pick me up. What to do? After some frantic calling from Kristen’s cell phone on the way to the Philadelphia train station, I lucked upon a willing participant: a new volunteer to the Farm, energetic and unfamiliar with the area. Tip off, the second.

So I was willing to wait at the station. And wait I did. “In 2.2 miles, turn left,” announced the automated voice of her electronic GPS. In 2.2 miles, I decided it was better to stay on the numbered roadway with a definite direction rather than turning onto ‘Bob’s Lane – No Outlet.’ Nonetheless, many thanks to that willing volunteer. We managed to find a cute surf-themed deli/café somewhere near the MA border in Connecticut, along one of the several, previously unexplored back roads that made up our journey. And the bastards wouldn’t tell me how they made their Jamaican Jerk Chicken wrap! It was tasty, but make no mistake: they were not making millions off their secret recipe.

I finally walked into my cute house to be wildly greeted by Luna, the shedding machine. I still haven’t found my furniture beneath the fur. I want to offer a big appreciating to Amos and Laura for keeping Luna alive while I was away—she did not develop rabies in my absence. I wouldn’t have wanted either of them to have to shoot her. And my dial tone has gone missing again. If you see it, please send it home and give Verizon the finger for me. Feel free to ask me for details about my occasional phone line; I’d be happy to complain for hours.

Patron’s death hit home when I walked into Main House and saw the empty cage. That parrot had been a bane to many an existence, but also a companion to as many, if not more, community members. He arrived from Africa 20ish years ago with a family that’s still here and has learned several phrases from the people who’ve passed through. ‘Cigarette!’ was a favorite, as well as the child-laugh of his owners’ now adult son. I used to have a whistling game with him when I would open the kitchen on lonely mornings, sending a tune across the empty dining room and getting a facsimile, or opposite sound pattern. He was one of three things that have always been here, and in my mind, should’ve still been here until long after my departure. The other two are Roma and the Red Barn, which defies the laws of physics.

Thankfully, work on Sunday was pretty uneventful, short of a few scheduling miscommunications that needed to be ironed out.

But Mondays must be Mondays, the world over, even if they’re the second day of one’s workweek. Mine started with a note: “Please replenish guest snack. Thank you.” And because I’m apparently too dense to understand that ill-defined request, there on the kitchen counter was the pile of empty cereal, bread, and jelly containers left from the previous night’s depleted snack. They don’t even belong in the kitchen! They live in their own cabinet, locked up in the dining room— the same cabinet I open and examine every morning when I REPLENISH GUEST SNACK. It’s one thing to be given a note to let me know about something I may have been unaware of. It’s an annoying thing to be given a note telling me to do my job. Sorry, Res. Team, this is how I feel.

But the best is yet to come, my friends. Yesterday will live on in the insular history of my life as The Day I Poisoned the Community. As is my custom when I open the kitchen, I brewed six pots of coffee. Monday’s roast: Café Phosphoric Acid. Apparently Sunday’s closing crew decided to clean the coffee maker, a noble chore. With industrial de-scaler. We’re talking for-the-removal-of-rust-calcium-and-mineral-deposits-caution-do-not-ingest-may-be-fatal-strength formula. Alright, so I didn’t actually poison the coffee machine. But I had to speak to the clinical director, call Poison Control, notify work leaders (without leaking to everybody else who may already have paranoia/hypochondria issues), rustle up a pH meter, and oversee the myriad flushings and subsequent pH tests of the coffee machine and pitchers. Thank you, Moo, for keeping me sane and helping me track down the Maintenance Team. Fortunately, very little of the chemical was actually used, and the closing team was thorough enough to rinse the machine so many times that it was detectable in the morning’s java by an off taste only; nobody experienced symptoms of mass poisoning.

So, if you’re reading this, you know that I can’t be trusted with your pet, car, or therapeutic community. I’m only human.

On the bright side, after these minor incidences, a couple more scheduling jumbles, team members spacing out, and a complete menu change for the next day’s lunch, everything was just swell.

I also experienced that interesting mix of greetings from people who were happy to see me back, those who didn’t know I was gone, and newbies who didn’t know who I was. My own feelings about being back are mixed. It’s nice to be home again—this is where my place is right now. And being away reminded me that there are other places out there.