The Leaf Turning

by Arlene Cherwin

I stood on the sidewalk and watched the 18-wheeler back out of the cul-de-sac and slowly wind its way down the hilly, S-curved street of the neighborhood where I had lived for 27 years. The moving van held everything I owned, everything I was taking on my 3,000-mile journey, and everything that I cherished, from my precious photo albums to my treasured dime-store key chain. That van held more than five decades of my life. Next stop: Seattle.

About three years ago, my son, Leeron, who lives in Seattle, began calling more frequently and casually weaving into the conversation comments that suggested I should move. We had brief dialogues in which he posited that I didn’t need the house anymore. I, of course, refuted that. It wasn’t a large house; it was easy to maintain; I loved my neighborhood; my friends were nearby; it was my home. I had an answer for every approach he attempted. To me, our dialogues were as ordinary as saying, "How are you?"

"Besides," I asked one day, "where would I move?" His answer came so quickly that I realized I had inhaled his bait.

"Seattle."

I gasped with surprise. Was my younger son, who for years touted his self-sufficiency and independence, suggesting I move near him? This didn’t make sense to me, so I meekly answered, "Oh," and steered the conversation to another topic. For many months, I ignored his innuendos about my moving. I, a steadfast Bostonian, was not going to traipse across the country to the wild, Wild West. Why would I move to Seattle? Sure, Leeron lived there and most assuredly would not return to the East coast. I enjoyed visiting the city, but move there? After many months of tickling the topic, I decided to probe why he was suggesting that I move. He told me he thought I would like it, that he suspected his older brother would someday move westward from the East coast, and that I should also come west to be nearer the children. If that didn’t strum my heartstrings, nothing would, and of course, my son knew that. Family is very important to me, and my bond as a mother to my children transcends all other family relationships. After more telephone conversations, I told him we would talk about it during my upcoming visit to Seattle. It was autumn, and the leaves were turning.

I visited. We talked. He explained himself; I explained myself. Although I was flattered that he wanted me to live nearby, it was a major change for me. I liked visiting Seattle, but if I moved, it had to be because I really wanted to live there and believed I could build a life for myself. After all, Leeron was a single fellow and potentially might move elsewhere. He patiently reminded me that since he had just started his own mortgage brokerage business, there was a strong likelihood he would stay in Seattle. He drove me around various neighborhoods in the city and through several towns that he thought I’d like because they mirrored the town near Boston where I was living at the time. When I left Seattle, I promised him I would think seriously about moving. On my flight back to Boston, I reflected on our many conversations during the past four days and realized that my younger son, with his handsome face and imposing stature (his weight-lifting has made him seem taller than his actual height,) was a full-fledged adult. He was no longer my baby boy.

I went into the house and stood in the empty living room. The walls and hardwood floor were bare, but my footsteps didn’t echo and regrets didn’t flood my mind. Slowly I walked through the rest of the house reflecting, reliving. I took a piece of paper out of my pocket and reviewed the list:
Spend a weekend with Ann at the Cape. Check.
Visit the New York and Connecticut contingents. Check.
Spend a day in Cambridge. Check.
Meet various friends for farewell gatherings. Check.
Keep multiple doctor appointments. Check.
Enjoy several days in Vermont. Check.

Ah yes, I shall miss Vermont, I wistfully mused. Before the brilliant, intense spectrum of autumn colors in New England diminished, I went to Vermont to infuse every atom of my body with the memory of those electrifying fire engine reds, deep sunflower golds, and dazzling yellows that I had taken for granted all my life. Yes, the leaves in Seattle change colors, but they aren’t New England colors. The cool nights and warm days of August and September in New England combine to create colors that climates in other parts of the country cannot replicate. I would miss that, but I would adjust.

My life was about to undergo its most dramatic metamorphosis ever. I was born and raised in Boston; Boston was home, and I shall probably consider myself a Bostonian forever. I would miss my family and friends in Newton, Brookline, and Wellesley, and I would miss trundling around Cambridge. Boston, the Cradle of Liberty, with abundant historical sites like Bunker Hill Monument, the U.S.S. Constitution, and Faneuil Hall, was not going to be part of my everyday life anymore. I would no longer watch the Boston Marathon from the sidelines, which I had done since childhood, or attend the Fourth of July concert by the Boston Pops at the Hatch Memorial Shell along the banks of the Charles River. I would no longer be able to enjoy the First Night celebration on New Year’s Eve. Visiting my very dear friends in Connecticut, New York, and Philadelphia would be difficult and a real psychological shift for me. My life was rooted in the Northeast.

I considered and reconsidered the possibility of moving to Seattle. I weighed leaving my familiar life in Boston against living near my son and embarking on an adventure. In February 2004, I decided to make the move. That April, my older son and his wife announced that they were moving to California. Yes, I would miss my friends and family, but as a parent, the bond to my children and the opportunity to live near them was irresistible. In addition, I welcomed the opportunity to experience another city and another part of the country, since I had spent all of my life in Massachusetts. I didn’t have a job waiting for me in Seattle, but I was confident I would find one. I didn’t know anyone there except my son, but I was confident I would meet people. I didn’t know my way around well, but I welcomed the opportunity to explore and discover. I didn’t drink coffee, but–well, I’d see.

In the eight months since I’ve been in Seattle, I’ve found a job, bought a home, and begun to savor soy lattes. I’m gradually meeting people and becoming familiar with the city. Twice while I was out walking last week, people approached me for directions, and I was able to assist them. I wasn’t even in my own neighborhood. I was so proud of myself that I stood up straight, re-aligned my entire skeletal system, and strutted down the street. I, a newcomer, actually gave people directions—correct directions. As I continued my strut, I pondered whether that meant I was becoming a Seattleite. No, I reflected, I’m still a Bostonian.

I think like a Bostonian, I talk like a Bostonian (no comment), and I dress like a Bostonian. I still have three winter coats, six scarves, and four pairs of mittens, although I don’t need them here. I do, however, have difficulty selecting the correct combination of clothes for the more temperate Seattle climate. People here tell me to layer. I layer, but I am always too warm. I am realizing that "layering" in Seattle is different than "layering" in Boston, where a heavy cotton turtleneck under a woolen sweater is just right for indoor wear in autumn. Now that the leaves are turning here, I’m learning to layer a T-shirt with a long-sleeved shirt, and a vest or fleece, just like a Seattleite. Selecting proper shoes still baffles me, though. In Seattle, people wear boots as a fashion statement on days when I’m still debating whether it’s too chilly to wear sandals. So far, I’m not changing my shoe selection to emulate Seattle style. Like my winter outerwear, my boots sit in the front hall closet gathering dust bunnies, and I think that is just fine.

Although I haven’t perfected dressing comfortably for the temperatures, I enjoy my new city. I certainly don’t miss the blizzards. More importantly, I like being near my younger son and visiting my other children who are only a short flight away. The psychological component of knowing we can all get together easily is satisfying and comforting. Now that we are in the same time zone, calling to chat is easy, and in the short time I’ve been here, we have shared several holidays and life-cycle occasions. I see my Seattle son regularly and spontaneously, and getting together for dinner with him is a common event. Outside and within, the leaves are turning.

Arlene Cherwin is a writer, copy editor, and desktop publisher who lives in Seattle. She held management positions in health care and education, and worked as a litigation paralegal prior to moving to Seattle. She can be reached at a.cherwin@post.harvard.edu.