Going Gypsy: One Couple's Adventure from Empty Nest to No Nest at All

by David James

  We may never know what really happened out there in Noble County, but we genuinely hope that Mr. Nemechek has gathered some solace from his signs.

  Pushing on across the Kansas border, we were hoping that the strange might get dialed back a couple of notches. But no, this was, after all, the Land of Oz.

  Sticking to the back roads took us through the booming metropolis of Mulvane, a sleepy little burg that would be easy to drive right through without a second thought, but for a house on the edge of town.

  “Look! Check that out!” David was gesturing excitedly. His voice had a nervous edge and he was pointing at a house with:

  GOD IS ANGRY

  and

  WHO KILLED JESUS?

  emblazoned across the front in giant spray-painted letters.

  I started digging out the camera and announced, “I want to get some pictures.”

  My door was open before we even came to a stop.

  Veronica had obviously lost her mind. She was headed right up to the ramshackle house that had been completely covered with admonitions and revelations scrawled across every available surface. The roof, fence, porch, shed, garage, and even the truck in the driveway all served as canvases for these proclamations.

  I’m not sure where her sudden burst of bravery came from, because it was pretty clear to me that a person who would cover their entire house with incomprehensible end-times graffiti like:

  X-END-STOP-XX EVIL SIN DRUGS / SIN-> HELL EVER FIRE

  may not be the most stable dude in Mulvane, and perhaps was not safe for personal interaction. I guess the lack of gunfire at the Nemechek farm had her feeling bulletproof.

  “I’m gonna stay in BAMF with the engine running and the door open. If someone comes out, run back,” I cautioned her.

  “Okay, I’ll be really quick.”

  “Good idea.”

  Idling at the curb, I noticed someone coming out the front door. He looked disheveled, like a large gnome who had just rolled out of bed, but, even in my paranoid state, I wasn’t getting a threatening vibe. Ver­onica hadn’t seen him yet. She was still outside the dilapidated picket fence, and her vision was confined to whatever was within her camera’s lens. He was headed right for her.

  I was too far away to get a good feel for his mental state, and not in the mood for taking any chances, so I decided to make a move. I tried to pull up so I could nab her if need be, but the passenger door was flopping open and low-hanging limbs were scraping the roof above. Not wanting to lose a door, or the air conditioner off of the roof, I shut off BAMF and jumped out to pluck my wife out of the possible situation. Too late—the odd little oracle beat me to her.

  The spray-paint prophet didn’t seem agitated, though; in fact, he was smiling. He may have been unbalanced, but if so it looked to be a cheerful unbalance. I tried to slow my stride and approach in a calm, reasonable fashion. I didn’t want to spook the guy. Veronica was already engaged in conversation.

  “Hey, honey, this is Ronald Pollard,” she said as calmly as possible, but she was visibly shaking and wide-eyed. “Mr. Pollard, this is my husband, David.”

  Obviously her brave photo procurement plan hadn’t included contact with the inhabitant.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand while trying to size up the situation. What I wanted to do was say to Veronica, “Way to be quick and careful, honey.”

  Sporting a sunny disposition, stocking cap, and a Kansas City Chiefs sweatshirt, Mr. Pollard turned out to be a gentle, friendly fellow, very different from the impression we got from the angry rants he had festooned upon his home.

  I carefully inquired about his unique residence, and opened the floodgates to some serious stream of consciousness testimony. He who has ears, let him hear!

  As the creator and curator of this masterpiece, he insisted we see the work in its entirety and observe every detail. So we followed him all over his property while he proudly pointed out every inch of his painted prophecies and talked, and talked, and talked.

  He explained his mysterious calling and methods. For Mr. Pollard, it seemed perfectly normal that God awakened him in the middle of the night and commanded him to arise and go forth to spray messages on the side of his house. God had a lot to say.

  While his choice of media might have been unorthodox, and his messages mixed, I found myself wondering about other preachers and prophets. Did Mr. Pollard’s humble circumstances or lack of a wider audience make his inspiration any less authentic? I’d be inclined to think the opposite. There seemed almost no opening for ulterior motives with this guy. He certainly wasn’t in it for the money or fame, so his admonitions were likely heartfelt, his proclamations pure, and his motives genuine.

  When we were finally able to politely make our exit, Mr. Pollard asked if he could pray over us. Aware that it was the gracious thing to do after such a thorough tour, and always in need of any blessing we could get, we gladly accepted. So a petition was raised for our safe travels, our country’s leaders (“even the wicked ones”), and anything else that came to his mind, in a mishmash of invocations and supplications that eventually managed to end with amen.

  With some shared quizzical glances, Veronica and I listened, added our amens, expressed our thanks, and bid him adieu.

  Turns out Ronald had given me a gift—some good thinking material for whiling away the miles behind the wheel. One man’s crazy is another’s reality, and we shouldn’t be too quick to pick sides in that debate. Who’s to say where unconventional meets unhinged? I mean, look at us, we’ve chosen to live in a rolling tin can. There’s not much room in there to talk about other people’s quirks.

  18

  A Little-Talked-About Sign of Aging

  Being the homebody that I was, one would think that I would have been a what-the-hell-are-we-doing mess by this juncture. Not the case. I’d simply adopted BAMF as my burrowing-in, nesty place. Much to the surprise of the folks we’d been visiting, we preferred to sleep in BAMF rather than come inside a house to join the so-called real world. With a little explaining, “all of our stuff is there,” “it’s our own bed,” “it really is comfortable,” and the like, everyone understood. Until Kansas.

  David’s parents, traditional and Midwestern, would have none of those shenanigans. I was to pack up my things and get myself inside like a proper lady. Once I was settled in, cocktails would be served in the living room. I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that my in-laws think of me as a bit of a heathen, so I suppose my new affinity for sleeping in a gypsy wagon simply sealed the deal.

  Actually, I’m being a little unfair. My mother-in-law had gone to the trouble of having the maid fix up the guest room for us, so it really would have been rude not to take her up on it.

  The differences between the way David and I were raised are astounding. I’m the oldest of two, he’s the next to youngest of five. This meant our parents were from two different generations; mine were more Sonny and Cher than Ozzie and Harriet. I’m pretty sure his childhood was in black-and-white, and had a catchy theme song.

  His parents have been married for almost sixty years; I’d have to add all of my parents’ various unions together to come close to that figure. David’s mother was the traditional stay-at-home mom; mine went to work and college after the first divorce. She was very much the product of her times, a Southern California divorcée.

  I had by no means grown up poor. But there is a distinct economic difference between Southern California living and smack-dab in the middle of America living. I grew up in an outrageously overpriced three bedroom house; David lived in a gigantic six-bedroom, two-story home. I had ideal weather and the Pacific Ocean; he had a nanny and a summer home in the Colorado Rockies. You get more bang for your buck in the heartland.

  The funny thing is, I had no idea how David had grown up until well after we were married. The first time I saw the ol’ homestead in Kansas was almost a year after our wedding, when David’s parents threw a party for us. Entering Wichita, I laughed an
d said to David, “It looks like Leave It to Beaver.”

  I was not impressed—actually repressed would have been a better description. I felt like I had just entered a world that was thirty years behind the times.

  My jaw dropped when we entered his old neighborhood. Their house was huge! Wait. What?

  How could the guy who owned nothing but a couple of guitars and the old Sharkmobile in which we had driven to Nashville have grown up in this house? Maybe he had told me stories and I didn’t put two and two together, but there were absolutely no overt signs in his demeanor that led me to believe that he came from this.

  David has always said that the best thing his father did for him was to insist that he make it in the world on his own. His parents’ philosophy became ours. When you turn eighteen, you are an adult. If you chose to go to college, we will help you with tuition. If not, get a job and grow up.

  Almost thirty years later, I found myself sitting in my mother-in-law’s now scaled-down domicile, but one that was still complete with her signature all-white living room, sipping drinks.

  It’s been a wild ride for David’s mother and me. She’s known me since I was barely an adult. I can’t begin to imagine what she thought of me when we first met. I was eighteen and hadn’t bathed or slept after twenty-four hours of deadheading it from California to their summer home in Colorado on my way to shack up with her musician son in Nashville. Knowing me, I was probably wearing a long flowing skirt and flowers in my greasy hair. Yet, despite what had to be obvious reservations, she was more than gracious.

  I was welcomed into their eclectic little ranch house, a launching point from which their children spent summers hiking, camping, and enjoying a respite from the heat of Kansas. The closest town was about eight miles away and had a population of about five hundred hippie types—including a commune. I found the place fascinating; a place to kick off your shoes and run free.

  Things were different in Wichita. While the amazing graciousness remained, it was a world of customs I didn’t understand, roles I wasn’t used to playing, and expectations I, frankly, didn’t feel the need to meet. This led to quite a bit of head-butting between my mother-in-law and me.

  Sitting across from her in her beautifully decorated living room three decades later, I found myself impressed at how far we’d come. I’d learned to feel comfortable eating snacks over a white carpet, and she’d learned not to flinch when I wiped my cocktail-sauced face on her lace throw pillows.

  The next morning, I woke up in a nonmotorized bedroom for the first time in over a month. It took me a few disconcerting moments to figure out where I was, and a few more beats to pick out a mental path across the dark, shades-drawn room to the bathroom. Nature was groggily calling.

  Opening the bathroom door, I was instantly blinded by the morning sun streaming through an open window. I stumbled backward. It was more than the sun that was shining; there was an additional tangible, supernatural radiance. The bathroom was actually covered floor-to-ceiling with gleaming crucifixes.

  David’s mother, an avid collector, and the most devout, proud Irish Catholic on the planet, had really outdone herself. This was my first visit since the in-laws sold the home that David grew up in. In the downsizing, it looked as though every crucifix—and there were many—that had adorned the walls of their sprawling, five-kid-raising previous home had been hung lovingly in this tiny bathroom of their new pared-down empty nest house.

  I almost wet my jammies in the midst of all this God-glow. Luckily, I got to the toilet in time—though peeing, even in the proper receptacle, was a tad upsetting in this most holy of bathrooms. I closed my eyes for the duration.

  After I finished up the task at hand, I unclenched one eye and peeked at my surroundings. It felt like hundreds of suffering Jesuses were peering down upon me. There were crosses in every style imaginable, from shiny South American pounded metal to the more traditional old rugged wooden ones. I could feel the guilt of my Catholic upbringing welling up in me. The time had come to take stock of myself.

  All the crucifixes in the world couldn’t prepare me for what I found when I looked the mirror. I had an eyebrow on my eyelid! And it was a honker. Browbeating me, as it were.

  Let me clarify a bit. My newest brow tress was situated on the lid that covers my eye when I blink. This position gave the little devil the demonic advantage of not being visible when I had looked in the mirror with my eyelids open. I was blind, but now I saw. The perfect union of sleepiness and guiding light had allowed me to witness what must have been obvious to the rest of the world for Lord knows how long.

  Here’s the thing: my best features come from my Romanian roots. I’ve always enjoyed having dark hair and blue eyes. I am psyched that my “gray” hair is silver—some people pay big bucks for that. Dracula was Romanian, and by most accounts was a particularly handsome man-thing.

  That being said, we Romanians are a very hairy people. Not only did my beloved Grandpa have follicles growing out of his ears, but in his later years his lobes looked like small woodland creatures. My stunningly gorgeous mother had quite the collection of creams, bleaches, waxes, and other tortuous means of ripping hair out of unwanted locations. Luckily, I have a dash of the less hirsute Western European DNA in the mix, so I don’t look like Cousin Itt. Yet.

  Armed and ever aware of my Romanian hairy heritage, I remain on steadfast lookout for the inevitable mustache, the gratuitous nose whisker, or the stray fur–bearing mole. I’ve been beating back a unibrow since puberty. I am immune to the pain of tweezers. But as the years have passed, I’ve been forced to employ magnifying reading glasses to keep up my persistent plucking practice. Seeing is a top priority while I keep unruly outgrowths at bay.

  This particularly strong-willed stray had cleverly chosen an ­impossible-to-tweeze spot. This fact did not divert me from the task at hand though. The sucker had to be plucked, even if it took a miracle. I didn’t think it would come to that, but at least I was in the right bathroom should the need arise.

  In order to get close enough to the mirror for my assault, I donned my eyeglasses, hoisted one knee up on the vanity for hands-free support, and leaned in at a vertigo-inducing angle. I could feel the Jesuses wondering what I was up to. I silently beseeched them for a little guidance.

  With one eye closed, clutching the tweezers in my right hand, I used my left forefinger to gingerly reach behind the lens of my glasses whilst trying not to leave a view-obstructing smudge. I could therefore elevate my upper lid high enough to see the offending hair. Unfortunately, this feat prevented any light from coming in from above, divine or otherwise, seriously impeding my efforts. The thought of pinching even a teeny part of my eyelid with the tweezers during the yanking procedure promptly precipitated my aborting the mission. The danger of foul verbal discharges was just too great. If I cussed in this bathroom, I was likely to be smote.

  Three more eye-wateringly unsuccessful attempts and I had resigned myself to the fact that the obstinate sucker was never coming out. I was destined to go through the rest of my life with a marmot covering my left eye. Maybe I should just treat it as a pet and name it. Problem is, the only moniker I could come up with should not be repeated in mixed company.

  Especially not in front of all of these Sons of God.

  Or my in-laws.

  19

  Help! There’s No One to Eat the Leftovers

  Seeing so many folks over a fairly short time had confirmed the validity of our idea to get a motor home. Visiting the people we hadn’t had a chance to spend quality time with for ages, enjoying the cheesy diversions along the way, and dragging the comforts of home with us wherever we happened to be was working like a charm.

  So much so that after a few nights of sleeping in my parent’s house, Veronica actually said, “I’m so glad to be back on BAMF.”

  I must admit I was surprised by that. I half expected her to be longing for a stationary domicile after a taste of homelife.

  Maybe the adaptation to livi
ng in a miniature rolling house really wasn’t all that difficult. Seriously, how much space did we need? Perhaps our stint in the orange grease monster condo made the transition easier, since comparatively, BAMF was Buckingham Palace.

  Still, there were adjustments. One of the most vexing was something all empty nesters face, no matter where they live—cooking for two.

  Throughout our nearly three decades of marriage, I have gladly done the shopping and meal preparation, at least when I was home. I actually like it. Ever since they moved out, inevitably one of the kids will call every week to ask things like “how long do you bake a chicken?” or “what’s in that stroganoff you make?” or “what was that stuff you made that one time that was so good?”

  About an hour and a half, Worcestershire sauce, and spaghetti carbonara.

  I like to eat, so early in life I figured out how to cook the things that I wanted to consume. A natural offshoot of cooking was shopping, so I learned to do that too. I’m such a hunter-gatherer. With three kids, I had to be.

  A trip to the grocery store used to involve multiple shopping carts and severe wallet damage. By the time the cubs were teenagers, it required a small truck and a second mortgage. They were like bears awakening from hibernation, so if they chose to come along, only perfect weather, no traffic, fast driving, and sheer luck could get half of the provisions home prior to ingestion. One red light and there would be nothing left but paper products, canned goods, and empty wrappers. Even those wouldn’t have survived, except that they would only eat paper as a last resort—and I had learned to pat them down for can openers.

  On one of those homeward sprints, I’m pretty sure they were trying to start a fire in the back of The Whore of Babylon. It didn’t smell like any of the usual burning odors that emanated from that car on a fairly regular basis, so I knew it must have been them. Luckily I pulled into the driveway before smoke began to fill the interior. The little barbarians were behind the backseat tearing open a package of meat with their teeth.