Three minutes before my lesson starts last night, my sister texts me.  Kraa died.  I couldn't cancel my lesson.  I had practiced all week.  I was nailing the songs.  Then he calls.  My hands were shaking.  I could see him wince a couple times as I played.  I mixed up the two Joy Division songs I was playing.  I couldn't tell him why.  What does he care? By the end of the half hour, I felt a bit better, but sad.

I immediately went upstairs to get the next record I needed to practice to.  I just tried to play without the music while sitting on the sofa.  I had to go to the bathroom to take a break.  I am really sad.  A lot of who I am is a result of high school.  Kraa was part of it.  Not all, but a part.

When I transferred to that high school, it was because the art program was way better than the parochial school I was in.  Her name was Mrs. D'Adezzio.  By the end of the year, we were to call her Kraa.  By the time I was a senior, we all called her Kiki.  I found out from a former student of hers that she had gone through a nasty divorce prior to my class's arrival.  When I had her, she had finally been able to shed her old name.

She was a working artist who showed us her work and where she exhibited and what collections it was in.  Her father had been an artist.  They were Scandinavian and she never lost the accent.  She would exclaim "I don't vant crvap!"  Sue and Julie locked her in the storage closet once.  I would never have done it. but we all giggled when she yelled to let her out.  And she laughed when they let her out.  By senior year, I spent the last three periods of every day in that room at the end of Shop Hall.  

I sat at the back table, all alone, to work on my art.  Mat would sidle up next to me, beg me to braid his hair - smelling of milk and fart - and I said only if he would wash his hair.  Daryl - an upperclassman - stopped farting in class once I sprayed his ass with Lysol.  Kiki had no problem with that.  John and whats-his-name stopped harassing me and Julie after we all got to know each other hanging out in the art room at lunch.  I still see John once in a blue moon around Morris County.

There were lots of burnouts in the art classes.  They commandeered the radio.  I went from non-stop Led Zeppelin on repeat on the cafeteria jukebox to 102.7 classic rock in the art room.  Trust me when I say I hate classic rock.  I know it well.  She let us use the largest guillotine trimmer I have ever seen in my life.  She trusted us.  Even after we would dip our fingers in the melted wax pot used for batik.

When I found out John was stealing the jars of Liquitex Acrylic paint, I squealed like a banshee.  How dare anyone steal from Kraa.  But we busted her chops and called her name - Kraa! Kraa! - like screaming crows.  We laughed that she only ate lunch with Dudy Schindler, the librarian's assistant on the softball bleachers across from the room, but as a teacher, I now know why Kiki never bothered with anyone else.  She couldn't mix well with the others there.  I don't mix well with the other teachers here.  

She didn't guide me to art school much.  She tried, then it dropped off.  I have a hunch my mother made a phone call.  But she was cool, fun, knew her shit, was tough, snarky, and did the best she could considering what she must have been dealing with at that time.  

I guess a lot of what I do is from her, now that I think about it.  I began seeing her at high school art shows.  She joked that my sister and I were her competition because our students' work was now winning awards too.  I couldn't believe the compliment!  I felt cool.  At the Ringwood show one year, the host was calling me for something and I didn't hear.  Kraa yells "Melanie!" and I was snapped back to that room at the end of Shop Hall, circa 1990.  If COVID had not hit, I would have seen her this year at one show or another.  But I didn't.  I didn't get to see her and her man (lurking in the background).  I'm sorry.  And now a part of me is gone.  

 When growing up, we didn't have enough money to go away to fancy places.  We went to DC a lot, and other places that did not cost a ton.  I didn't get to leave the country until I was 35.  I have left every year since, even up to twice a year.  I still go to DC every year.  It is the single place I feel truly at home.  

We have not gone anywhere since our November DC jaunt.  The coronavirus has put a halt to that.   

When growing up, my parents - or maybe just mother - liked to move a lot.  The family called them "the gypsies".  They had live four different places by the time I was born.  I have not started my education in one place and ended it in the same place.  

When I started working at 14, I made a habit of doing my thing at a job, leaving when I got bored or felt I hit a plateau, and moving on.  I did go back to three different places - put two out of business! - but I never stayed a place longer than six years.  The place we lived when I was in fourth to college was the longest place my parents ever live in one house.  The current job I have is the longest I have ever worked in one place.  

My mother always told me I was too picky when finding friends.  As a result, I befriend people who are not compatible with me.  Even those never last long.  I get tired of the things that bother me - racism, stupidity, ignorance, poor treatment of me, and so on - and let the association dissipate.

Nothing in my life has lasted long, out of boredom or frustration, for the most part.

We have lived in our house since the early 2000s.  However, I have been getting restless.  Really restless.  Like, dying to get out and move.  I am looking at homes, looking at our finances and trying to figure out if we can get a really tiny place to try out a new area.  I am finding myself riding in the car and dying to leave.  And I don't really care if I see anyone here again, for the most part.  I mean, there are a couple of people I keep in touch with in other parts of the country, so if a connection is meant to last, it will.

I love the kids I teach.  I love my house and yard.  I love the town I live in.  I love the places I can go hiking and bike riding.  And, once the pandemic is over, I will love going back to the club and seeing all the friends there.  So why do I need to get out so badly?

I realized a couple of days ago that my traveling satisfied a need to get away.  When I go away, I immerse myself in where I am.  I rarely go online.  For that duration, I sever all connections.  This place in New Jersey and the people here do not exist for me.   And I am myself, enjoying the wholeness of the place - art, music, pubs, food, architecture, hikes, gardens.  Yeah, I have no friendships there, but there doesn't seem to be much missing when that happens.  It's not like I have any truly trusting, deep friendships here.   But that loneliness doesn't matter when I am away.  The miles negate the sadness.  I am in my element and no one treats me badly.  I am not expected to do for others who will not give back in return, or if they do, there are strings attached.  And that satisfies my restlessness.  

If everyone keeps doing the things that keep this virus spreading in this godforsaken country and keeps my passport useless, there might just be a "for sale" sign in the front and no more Vasa in NJ.  I need out.