Blessed box

 Destructive forces —a.k.a. anxieties, fantasy relationships, worldly pursuits —hang out like outlaws split seconds

from a showdown circling the corral of my mind.

Emotions gather like cluster flies on the window ledge

taking up valuable real estate anticipating self-made wishful game plans branded for failure.

An empty tan cardboard box weighing- in under one-half pound

is biding its time— its usefulness yet to be determined.

A giant release latch, the key to the ranch interior,

unlocks my brain pouring out unwanted harmful thoughts before permanent damage results.

Like an overflowing stream flooding Noah’s land, it fills the box to capacity two by two. Tumultuous seas are calmed as if the dove of peace has descended.

Closing the brown flaps, I let go control. Energy is released.

I observe my tightened fingers unfold sealing the edges securely.

I am no longer in charge.

Grateful sigh!

Unshackling freedom from rattling chains spreads lightness.

Hence my heart has room for creativity once again.

Mothers come from different molds

     There were two sides to my mother. One stayed tucked away waiting. When the moment came, it would explode like a battery surge. That aspect alone made for an intriguing woman somewhat out of sync with June Cleaver in “Leave it to Beaver.”

     When I looked out the window there was mom in her white sneakers and embroidered apron tinkering under the hood of our car in the driveway. She wanted to see how the wires were connected before she took them apart. Often the neighborhood boys would pull up on their bikes. They would hang out with her in animated conversation putting in their two cents worth of advice all the while staring at the engine like a group of high schoolers preparing to dissect a frog. 

     It wasn’t in my nature to be mechanical, and looking back I missed opportunities to appreciate my mother for her skills way beyond the normal domestic engineer’s duties. She could handle a hammer like a pro, put in a new toilet and rewire the kitchen.

     Dad admitted to having no ability for fixing things so he wisely left tinkering and repairs to mom. You might say that there was a little role-reversal in my childhood home.

      If an appliance was “acting up”, mom’s term for a faulty piece of equipment, she would mutter to herself as she problem solved. She told me that she wished that she could have become an engineer like her brother and father. Her requests had fallen on deaf ears, and she was sent to a proper female college for a degree in Home Economics. She often mused that her father would have been happier having a second son.     

     “What are you doing that for?” That was dad’s classic question.

     Dad shook his head and left mom humming a brisk tune in full concentration. He knew that she was happy. Later, he would call the auto service dealer to make an appointment to finish up what she couldn’t master. Never do I remember the mechanics at the garage complaining that they had to undo mom’s original work. Apparently, she was right on.

     Certainly, my mom had all those lovely qualities of a homemaker in the 1950’s. She worked at her housework with a vengeance. She prided herself in running a tight operation with no detail left undone. And she was good at it, too.     

      Mom embraced the little box of Jell-O™ when it came on the supermarket shelf in the 50’s, and I often referred to her as the “Jell-O queen.” Every night there would be another a colorful dish coming to the table at the last moment once mom had performed her unmolding magic. We were served our fruits and vegetables concocted in this gelatin powder.

     Mom lived on nervous energy. She was charged and ready to go dusting and cleaning from early morning until evening, Her slim body floated along with the vacuum. She ate voraciously without gaining an ounce. In fact, she stayed at 100 pounds her entire life and able to fit into her wedding outfit fifty years later, a feat neither of her daughters could replicate.

     However, the more unique aspect of my mother was how she spent the rest of her day. Here is where she departed from the conservative, typical mothers of my friends.

     Mom assembled my two-wheeler from looking at the diagram. It took her all afternoon while I was at school. She couldn’t wait to tell the storeowner that she done it on her own. Somehow, I doubt he was surprised.

      Mom relished the conversations when the men in the family acknowledged her latest mechanical feat. It gave her a sense of worth that I could see all over her face, more so than cooking a delicious meal, or winning a prize for a pie at the fair.

     Local electricians and plumbers didn’t get much business from our household. Even if she did call them, she asked the plumber a million questions as she looked on while he worked, because you knew that the next time she had a similar problem, she would take care of it herself.

     “The light fuse has just blown.” Mom was annoyed that she had to stop her baking to go to the cellar and put in a new fuse in the box.

     “Power out!” she yelled up from the basement while everything ground to a halt. That was my cue. I was her low-level assistant and not useful for much more in-depth work. I ran down the steps to hold the flashlight and screwdriver while she fiddled with the fuse box.

    Mom was raised around tools so the second thing that she did when she got married after purchasing kitchen supplies, was to outfit herself with a toolbox filled with equipment.

    When I saw mom daydreaming out the window, I believed that she wanted to be somewhere else. There was a little restless nature to her. She loved new gadgets and her curiosity for how things worked fascinated her up into older age.

     I am grateful that I had an unconventional mother, one that pushed me to explore all the possibilities for my generation. My mom was a good role model. Now my job is to pass it on to the younger women in my family.

        

Your coffee mug tells your story

      Stay, or go quietly? There comes a time when I must evaluate each coffee mug resting on my cupboard shelf.

     Basically, it is a matter of necessity. There are lone coffee mugs hanging out on my counter for lack of shelf space. Trouble could be brewing right in front of me. Lonely and bored mugs are prime targets for retooling as pencil and spare change containers.   

     I force myself to be rational and admit that there is no longer a useful life for a chipped mug, although I did pay an arm and a leg for it on a trip to California. No nagging tears. Gone.

      Why on earth would I keep a cup stained from lingering coffee for hours on end when I place it down somewhere never to be found for three days? Good riddance. It will save me from scouring it clean. (I could do the chore out of boredom, I suppose.)

      There is the green mug that has a rim not designed correctly in the first place. I dribble liquid every time I put it to my lips like a sloppy person that I never wish to become. It’s not my fault. Toss it out. Hopefully, the potter has learned better techniques in the investigative process.

     All this is fine and dandy until sentimentality grabs hold of me. Decisions take more effort—yes, you guessed it, another pot of freshly pressed coffee.

     Not only am I particular about my mugs, the coffee that I select is of equal important. There is no difference in the way I treat the common plain Jane mug and the most elegant mug I own—neither deserve cheap coffee, or tea.

     Naturally, the most popular ceramic mugs are right in the front row lined up like toy cars in their colorful splendor—those thrown on a potter’s wheel and others hand built by artist friends.  

     “Choose me, choose me,” they cry, as if they need to demand attention early in the morning. They are the ones selected when it is a matter of pulling from the shelf the closest responder for the first cuppa before the sun rises. It becomes part of my routine, and frankly, I don’t notice them. They get taken for granted and serve well.

     My collection is gathered from all over the country, mostly at festivals or at artist studios where the conversation with the maker is part of the enjoyment of purchasing the special mug.

      In our house, no two mugs are a like, and I do that on purpose. Then again, every piece of pottery we buy is put to use as it is meant to be functional. If a mug gets broken we place it in our rock garden.

     I can tell if a mug speaks to me almost immediately when I see it, too. I put my fingers around it for a comfortable fit and it is light to my hands—the sign of a well-thrown mug by a skilled potter.

     Then too, the color of the glaze has to work in my scheme in life. Size is important to hold the more than enough coffee to get through the first morning awakening period. Smaller mugs are best for tea in the late afternoon.

     There’s my mug I use when I have serious heavy-duty writing and a deadline looming —like right now. It’s motto, “You can’t make this stuff up,” keeps me focused on the task at hand. I would much prefer to be wandering around outside doing a little weed tending. Later.

     When I reach to the very back of one shelf I discover a couple of my favorites hidden away. They have fallen into that "out of sight, out of mind," category, but I can’t bear giving away those handcrafted pieces. Many a predawn I have sipped warm coffee from them meditating on my plans for the day. It’s time to shift those oldies to the front row for a little more attention.

     One mug remains from my husband’s bachelor days that sums up his life before me quite well—”What’s her name?”

     I first noticed this white mug years ago when we were co-mingling our kitchen supplies. I was ready to throw it out because of its anti-femininist statement. No, that wouldn’t be fair, and besides, I have come to understand that my new husband was only joking anyhow. I took it lightly. Frankly, it is never a mug I use. It sits resting reminding us to be ever mindful of women’s rights.

     How wonderful I feel when I use my dedicated Christmas mug on the hottest day in July. It is like the mug and I are conspiring together to toss life up a bit for a smile.

     I still have the stained cup from my teaching days, battle worn and trusty, and although I never use it, it has its rightful place on the shelf for historical purposes. A student gave it to me, and it means something to both of us. He would no doubt be surprised that it has remained in my possession long after he has grown up.

     You can be sure that I’ll never forget which mug I was using while watching the Boston Marathon— and how many fill-ups I needed to make it through the week emotionally.

     Spend a little time with each of your mugs, and listen for their stories. 

Decluttering life to an extreme

     What’s here today is gone tomorrow. There’s more to life than plastic, disposable and temporary.

     Environmentally responsible living—that’s not what I mean. People are catching on to grabbing the canvas shopping bags before leaving for the supermarket, and consolidating errands down to a single trip.

     Nor am I against streamlining accumulated stuff with heave -outs to charities and extra cash from online sales.

     My beef is with the folks who take de-cluttering to a higher level. The past is thrown away in a flash.

     I am referring to people who dispose of family albums, portraits and heirlooms with little regard for the deceased. Obviously, the individual has released himself of his earthly possessions, and the items themselves are not to be coveted.  However, it’s the shared stories that will not get passed along to the younger generation rooting them in family traditions.

     There is such rich history to be cherished, and I am saddened when I come upon such items at a flea market. I pick up a portrait and examine the eyes staring back at me. I stop to thank the unknown person for his or her life on earth. Surely, it was a worthy existence.

     What is it teaching our children about valuing old items and loving dented, bruised and stained objects?  It is so easy to get into the tossing away habit when something is useless to us—in some cases throwing away people that no longer can help us. It is rather selfish.

     Two antique dealers went to a house sale that literally broke their hearts. They noticed a handmade cherry hope chest. The beautifully designed piece was made early in the 20th century by someone in the family with skilled woodworking abilities. Apparently, there was to be a move to a new location. The chest belonged among assorted unwanted possessions tagged useless.

     The dealers were shocked when they opened the chest and there on the inside cover was a carved plaque that gave personal meaning to the piece. It had a name, date and reason for making it in the first place. When they asked what was to become of it, the owner said that the chest would go to the curb free for the taking at the end of the sale day.

     The two looked at each other— glad that they had brought their truck, and took away the chest to give to a newly married son as a gift. Local history was preserved for the very small amount of money offered. The dealers were certain that they had saved an antique that was destined for unknown waters.

     I know a woman who purposely goes to yard sales and flea markets with the intent of buying family Bibles that leave behind a genealogy that may never be documented otherwise. Those musty Bibles are sold cheaply, too, —the truth be known, dealers would no doubt gladly give these books away. Her money goes a long way on a morning’s adventure. She keeps the Bibles on the shelves in her family room as a reminder of the past, present and future connecting together in the unknown stories of strangers. I should ask her what she tells her grandchildren about her collection.

     A lady regularly watches out her picture window on trash day for her neighbors to unload unwanted goodies on the curb. Last week she spied a pair of lamps. She decided to pass them on to a young couple new to the area without a lot of furniture. She played it forward I suppose you could say.

      What memories are hidden in the spoon now a silver ring on my finger? Creative artists make jewelry and mobiles from the mismatched silver they find discarded. I imagine the daily conversations while eating from that silverware collecting assorted joys and sorrows.

     Those clever artists that design fabric purses and shawls out of clothing they pick up at the Salvation Army or out of grandma’s attic are passing on reconstructed items with life flowing through them. The threads of a beautiful life are now woven into a new existence.

     It is wonderful when older folks realistically take stock of their valuables and give away a collectible specifically to a family member or friend—someone who shows interest and love for the particular piece. Together they can share in the joy right now. One by one as items are let go, the new owner hears how it came to be in the owner’s possession in the first place. At least the recipient will house it with pride, and it won’t be in a yard sale any time soon.

     Others label their valuables with the sole purpose of declaring where each piece will reside when their estate is divided. It might cause a lot less friction between siblings, too, to have those emotional decisions made for them.

     An old postcard links someone to a particular place at a certain time. Collectors have got to be in heaven when they unearth a treasure trove of writings in a series of correspondence back in the day. Texting is not the same breed as down to earth old-fashioned letter writing recorded for posterity in cursive handwriting no less.

     New is great; old is classic. Give an heirloom a chance to be included in the future, too. Save the pieces of the puzzle before they scatter lost forever.    

     

Dump the bucket list of goals

     I powerwalked at a brisk pace in a 5k on Saturday. Sunday I took three laps in the passenger seat on the Watkins Glen International Raceway. That's pretty good for one weekend I would think. 

     People congratulated me. They were curious if I was crossing them off on my "bucket list". 

     No such deal.

    I have no bucket list. I will never have a bucket list. Need I write it a third time?

   The Endless Bucket List is trying to submerse me. I will not take the plunge.

     I fear that I am having a virtual panic attack  (note, the word, “virtual”).  I am being bombarded on Twitter and Facebook with postings. One or other of my acquaintances proudly is crossing off another item on their list to do before they croak. (They are a little more polite about their choice of wording and dance around the thought of life’s end, but truthfully, that’s what they mean.)

     I am going to yell and scream making a dreadful scene before I permit someone else to dictate what I should or shouldn’t do in life before I die. There is no one size fits all to life.

     Here is my warning before things turn ugly: You need to rely on your own inner resources and remain an individual thinker. It may be the harder path, but trust me, it is the more rewarding.       

    Like every other trend, the “followers” of the world allow culture to make the rules. Frequently, they join what they think is an exclusive club, “herd mentality.” I want no parts of it.

Living through Boston

All the live streaming of news kept me part of unfolding Boston events from my armchair. I got the best news from Twitter without the speculation for hours upon end by journalists that were talking to fill time. 

I am so grateful. A complicated situation is over, the professionals did their jobs well and the people in the Watertown neighborhood were steadfast. May those who are suffering find hope. And may the rest of us find a better today and tomorrow.

Lessons to be learned from the tooth fairy

     The going rate for a visit from the tooth fairy can be as much as twenty dollars.

     Parenting decisions are tricky. Gun control and political affiliation are downright pale in comparison.

     Lesson No. 1—Raising children requires a fine balancing act. You swing and sway like wiggling free of a loose tooth. You hope you get it right.

    There is no training manual. Sick to your personal belief system. You won’t lose control of Christmas if you set your parameters. Likewise, you won’t permit the tooth fairy to worm her way into your financial budget either.

     (For the record, the results are still out on the tooth fairy’s gender— she, he or neutral?)

     Realistic parents express overwhelming shock at the twenty- dollar tooth. They wonder if inflation has risen sharply since their own childhoods?

     Lesson No. 2—There are things in life that can be controlled and maintained at a consistent level, and tooth fairy expenditure is one of them.

     Could it be that the tooth fairy instinctively knows to hit deeper into the pockets of suburbanites? I suppose if you look up into the sky you will see more control tower landings and take-offs per hour per fairy with a larger haul of loot closer to a populated area.

     Still, I firmly believe that the tooth fairy enjoys the uncrowded sky of rural areas. She can practice her skills, and float into a single bedroom window without requiring extra holding time.

      Lesson No. 3—Not everything is equal.

     On average, an undercover night fairy operation ranges anywhere from five dollars down to fifty cents, which leaves the amount to personal discretion.

     Starting at a young age, kids talk with one another. They make comparisons. That old saying, “the grass is greener…” should remind parents to reply, “If so, then move to your friend’s house, and tell us how you like it after a week.” 

      Lesson No. 4— Life is more about the anticipation of events than the actual event itself. It’s a process.

     In the case of a tooth fairy visit, obtaining money should not be the objective at hand. If that’s the motive, there will never be enough money to satisfy.

     Often a girl will make elaborate preparations for a visit by sprinkling glitter on her own pillow and positioning her stuffed animals for the grand event. She leaves a note for the fairy, and not surprisingly, she receives a precious handwritten note in return. There has been creativity put in of a personal nature.

     It’s not only girls. A second grade boy came up to me in the classroom one year after a sleepless night under the influence of the tooth fairy. He pulled out of his pocket a tiny enamel tooth attached to a new GI Joe figure left for him.

     A 2011 study found that American children receive $2.60 per tooth on average. It’s rather a get in and get out sort of event. No mess. No fuss. You don’t have to serve a snack, or stop for idle chatter.

     Many moms and dads tell me that it is popular to give out a gold coin (Susan B. Anthony), and they do make a distinction between the first tooth and the rest on an equal sliding scale.

     Lesson No. 5—Grandmas and grandpas can trump anything, including tooth fairy payout. Need any more be said on that topic.    Leave relatives a little slack to put additional wisdom and spoiling into the raising of your kids.  

     Lesson No. 6—You should always prepare for the inevitable. Life is not predictable.

     Teeth fall out twice in one week. A mom stocks up on quarters by making more frequent trips through the carwash during tooth season.

     Another mom says that her kids are fine with I.O.Y. notes within a day or two since they have never known any differently. She felt like a terrible mother the first time. After that, her kids go along with the game of waiting for the perfect night filled with stars and a bright moon.

     Lesson No. 7—Collecting and saving is a good life habit that begins in childhood.

     A mother labels and saves her children’s teeth in plastic bags. It is a rite of passage for mom, too, and perhaps, a sentimental one.

     A child collects her own teeth in a gift box bedded on a fluffy cotton ball lining. She doesn’t want a tooth fairy stopover.

     Multiply twenty baby, or primary teeth, by the amount per tooth, and a child could start a special savings account.      

     Lesson No. 8—Spreading love in starting new family traditions is a forever memory.

     Above all, bring on the smile-o-meter and have family bonding with the loss of teeth. It calls for a celebration. More importantly, you are providing comfort as part of growing up.    

     Lesson No. 9—While parents are often unsure of themselves when promoting the fiction of the tooth fairy, children are resilient by nature and come to their own conclusions all in due time. It’s no different than the Santa Claus and Easter bunny myths.

     Lesson No. 10—No matter what your age, love the simple innocence on a child’s face when one comes up to you jumping up and down waiting to show you their new toothless grin—You could be stopped on a ski slop to explore this wonder with a little kid. It could be in the dentist’s office waiting room.

De-cluttering life to an extreme

De-cluttering life to an extreme

the last time

I came back in from my last snowshoeing exercise of this season. I think so. No, I am positive.

The deep snow is melting inch by inch, hour by hour. It will no longer be there at my disposal for making  tracks like the deer and rabbits—we all leave behind something of ourselves on the path for others to notice if they truly see what's ahead.

 I need the fresh outdoor air to clear out the cobwebs, stretch tight limbs and bring clean air to my lungs. One benefits the other. It's the spontaneous wonder of dropping what I am doing, and taking a break.

The sun's rays overhead are not to be diminished either. They put a positive spin on even the worst of the problems I am facing. ( I can't say that any pressing issues hindered the pure joy of the moment today.)

I won't do it today. Tomorrow, I will pack away the snowshoes, poles and assorted hats, scarves and mittens that I keep ready near the backdoor. I am not going to check The Farmer's Almanac for their opinion either.

The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Eating habits become the focal point for a modern multi-generational Jewish family. How they are able to cope with each other makes for a heartfelt narrative that will leave you laughing, crying, and yes, snacking behind closed doors.

take it from me: spring is arriving on schedule

     I thought that I had spotted it, although it seemed too good to be true.

      Last week I was driving to Canandaigua through the Bristol Hills when I felt something was different around me. Could it be that the sun's rays were at a different angle? There was a brighter hue to the ground's spotty showing of brownish grass. I did roll down my windows —all four of them for good measure, and take in the smells as well. It hit me all at once. Spring was in the air. The rest of the drive, which became less a chore and more delightful, put me at my destination in no time flat. I was overjoyed and liberated at the same time as I hopped out of my car giddy as a young schoolgirl celebrating her first day of spring vacation.

     As if that one shot of a new season on the horizon wasn't enough, I had dinner with a new friend, a dairy farmer in the Southern Tier, and she verified my results. She told me that signs of spring were evident last week, and by mid March it would be fine maple sugaring in her woods. She went on to inform me that the traditional winter season, so different than last year's wimpy show, was putting moisture back into the soil and giving plants time to be dormant. "One huge snowstorm, and that would be it for winter," she said as her final comment on the subject.

     My adivce to myself: don't hesitate and trust the cycle of the seasons to perform its wonders. 

choosing sides

     The doctor was waiting. A decision was necessary, and it was up to me.

     It was time to take my mother off the medicine prolonging her life. The kindly doctor, who had assisted me the entire time she had lived in the nursing home with her dementia, told me that if it were his mother, that is what he would do.

     The pneumonia would keep returning, and mom’s lungs would fill up more and more frequently. This dosage would keep her going for about three weeks. The next time the medicine would work for half that time and continue to shorten. I could read from the doctor's face what he was trying to say— Let her die gracefully. But, could I accept this?

     “Put it in God’s hands. It is time,” he said with compassion in his eyes.

     I screamed out, “No. No. I don’t want her to die. I don’t want my mother to leave me.”

      I jumped up from the chair and paraded around the small office space with anger trying to walk away from this discussion pretending that it wasn’t happening.

     Almost immediately I thought about what had come out of my mouth. I wasn’t meaning that, and I returned to my seat regaining my composure and listening again as the doctor explained what would be the course of action.

     “ Her body will shut down gently and she will go into a coma. She will feel no pain.”

     “When? How much time?”

     “It will take a week, and then she will be at peace, both her body and mind.”

     There was a lot to take in and I nodded in agreement tears pouring down my cheeks. This seemed like the right path. I must not second-guess myself.

     I made the choice and left it in the hands of God.