Chained in Place

Dearest Rachel –

For all that I mention it (and for all that I try not to), you’re well aware of my newsfeed, and the fact that I still read it on a daily basis. You might remember that I used to read certain articles of interest to you, partly as practice at reading scripts, but also as jumping points for certain discussions that we would have. As with me and my dad, you and I tend to be on the same page on those topics, but tend to have a slightly different perspective, which was fun to banter back-and-forth about. All of which is one more reason out of many why I miss you, and wish you were still around.

These days, I will often throw in a comment in the discussion section of an article, and sometimes get answers back, which I often can turn into a conversation. It’s not quite as satisfying (if you’ll pardon the expression), but it tides me over.

I will occasionally leave behind certain breadcrumbs about my location, since my residence in this particular place will give me a unique perspective on certain topics that have captured wider attention. Granted, despite living less than twenty miles from the city center (as the crow flies, at least), I don’t feel qualified to comment much about Chicago itself; however, there are the occasional news items that are even more local for me to speak about. To be sure, one of these seems to be going away, which is a mild disappointment, but not utterly heartbreaking. It’s also one of the ones that would practically pinpoint my location, but thus far, the only result of the algorithm knowing my address has been to show me nearby restaurants and better learn what to (and what not to) try to sell me, which I have no objection to.

There are those who comment back who seem to consider me to be living ‘behind enemy lines,’ if you will; you can probably guess what they mean by that. Some have gone so far as to encourage me to move somewhere ‘safer,’ in fact. And while other places do rather call to me for one reason or another (Daniel, in particular, wishes that things like Waffle House and Buc-ees would come to our neighborhood, for instance, but knows full well that – and why – they never will), I’ve come to accept that this is where I’ve been planted and grown, and I’ll not be easily uprooted from where I am.

You know the sort of thing I mean, honey, despite having been transplanted here yourself. After all, we had the opportunity – albeit briefly – to consider a move out to the island when Jim talked about selling the cottage. We balked momentarily when he mentioned an asking price that was some two-and-a-half times what we’d paid for our home in the Chicago suburbs (although in fairness, that had been over two decades earlier. By now, I’ve actually gotten offers for the place that are roughly the same as he was asking), but our investment advisor thought that the idea of real estate in our portfolio – even if it was to be outside of his purview – was a good idea.

But at the same time, despite saying over and over about how it was your favorite place in the world, you couldn’t countenance the idea of living there, at such a remove from the semi-urban world you’d gotten yourself accustomed to. You had your friends and your church family, as well as my family who had grafted you in as a daughter in all but name. The idea of leaving all that behind, even for a place you considered a dream on earth, was just too much for you to go all-in on.

And in the end, it became a moot point, as Jim found another buyer, who had a home in the Toledo area that they weren’t leaving behind; they proceeded to use the place as both an occasional summer home and a rental property, allowing us to make a reservation and use the place during that year of quarantine, just as we had done in years previous. Essentially, for us, the situation had barely changed – and it wasn’t on us to maintain the property from the remove of a five-hour drive (and a forty-minute ferry ride). Of course, from then, the situation changed drastically, and apart from the one visit last year, we’ve not been back. So maybe it’s just as well that we missed out on that opportunity.

But as far as ‘getting out of Dodge,’ especially on a permanent basis, that’s been out of the question, for the most part. Sure, I have the wherewithal to purchase land (and I imagine our advisor would still recommend it in certain places as an investment) and build on it, and I mention to you from time to time about the possibilities that I wouldn’t mind considering. But because of many of the same constraints as there were before – family, church community, other commitments – I’m pretty much chained in place here, I think.

I can’t even bring myself to go on some kind of snap-decision trip at the moment; for a hot minute, there was a gap of two consecutive weekends in which I wasn’t assigned a turn in the booth, and I thought I might head out somewhere, if I could arrange it. But between trying to decide where and why, I got an urgent call assigning me one of those weekends (not this one, thankfully – they don’t generally function on that short of notice), and any thoughts of heading out went by the boards. I’m sure that, if I’d deliberately blocked out the time, it wouldn’t have happened, but since I hadn’t any plans yet, it never crossed my mind to do so. I figure it’s just a case of God closing a door for the minute; if He chooses to lock me in for the month, that’s fine.

It’s kind of weird to acknowledge that I’m locked in here by the calendar every bit as much as someone who still works for a living, or has kids in school, but these are the commitments I’ve made. At some point, that will be changed for a specific moment, but only for that moment. For now, though, I wouldn’t move away for anything, and I think you would understand.