Owning Stuff

Well, I guess I've gotten this weekend's Stupid out of the way. I was preparing my breakfast a while ago and managed to drop a whole, freshly-cracked-but-not-in-the-frying-pan-yet egg right in that very slender crack between the sink counter and the stove. I wiped down the topside of the mess, cracked open another egg and cooked it, ate it, and soon I will have to tug the stove out from the wall to clean the raw egg from the floor. First I will write this.

Recently YO (Youngest Offspring) found himself a landowner. It wasn't unexpected, but it didn't happen quickly, either. For years it had been his plan that when it became his he would simply sell it and be done with it. But that's not what happened. He went out to survey what had become his - the treasure of the land as well as the responsibilities and obligations that came with being a landowner. He could see it rise and fall before him, smell the dew in the morning, the dirt, the intermittent flowers, some which promise fruit and some not. I suspect it has become a part of him now, a part which challenges him and fills him up like nothing but owning something can do. I only have an inkling of how that must feel. We (Us and the Bank) owned a house in Ohio for several years. It felt good to dig up the yard and build a vegetable garden, to plant daisies and black eyed Susans along the fence, even to mow the lawn or shovel the snow. It was OUR house, so much different from renting, even though we were not there long enough to pay off the mortgage to get the bank out of the equation, to own it completely, free and clear.

But YO doesn't have to wait - he can claim complete ownership and take even more pride in that land of his than even the most domestic day I'd enjoyed in Ohio. Fortunately, YO is of the nature to enjoy this. We all know some folks who aren't even partly aware of the value of the things they own. There is so much more to value than cash. I suspect this is the lesson his father wanted him to learn, although his father didn't even even enjoy it so much as YO. YO will put his land to work for him in whichever way(s) his very creative mind takes him. One day, perhaps, YO will build his home and live on his own land; perhaps he will bring home a wife, have children there. Or not.

So now I will go and pull my rented stove out from the wall of my rented apartment wall, clean up the dropped egg, and most likely keep going, washing down the kitchen and dining area floors. My place may be rented, but it is my home. There is a certain pride in that, too. )

Resignation, of Sorts ....

There comes a time in a person’s life when she has to resign herself to the fact that the younger folks really are smarter than she is about some things. For me, it is the technical things. Yeah, well - I may know the geography of this country, and I may even be able to point to the general direction on a globe when asked where a certain country is; I can use proper grammar in spite of the drive to be politically correct; I can cook most anything from scratch, apply basic first aid, amuse a child for a day for under $3; I can change the oil in my car if I have to, change the clock for Daylight Savings Time, and change a tire. I can tell time on an analog clock, wind a watch, write a legible letter in longhand and mail it, catch a fish, be quiet for hours on end, mend with a needle and thread and replace a button, read a chart, read a grid and read a book. I cannot figure out an MP3 player or much in technology since then. I do not pretend to understand these things, even though it would certainly be to my benefit to do so. My mind is full. If new information does not twine gracefully around what I already know or replace something I already have stashed up there in the darkened attic, I cannot grasp it. There is no room.

And I guess that’s okay. I try my best to live by the Desiderata – well spoken advice written by Max Ehrmann in 1927. In part, Mr. Ehrmann says, “...Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth ...” And I suppose that is really about the best way to have birthdays over, say, the age of 60.

I have no problem with surrendering bubble gum, though I still blow soap bubbles from a bottle. I do not miss skipping rope, though I would ride a bicycle if I had one. And my memory seems to have gone south, but I still remember how to research and find information I may have forgotten.

It’s the new stuff I can’t seem to get. I spoke to the Verizon guy this week and told him I’ve had Verizon’s fastest DSL for five years now, and I love it – but what is this FIOS stuff? He was a wise man and gave me the simplest answer he could. “Oh,” he said. “FIOS is ...um... the next generation!”

I am saying this now so my kids and grandkids will know I am woefully uninformed about the latest in technology. They should, before thinking they can bring me into the latest technology, speak to YO (my Youngest Offspring) who is quite in tune with the modernest of the modern. He has tried to drag me, kicking and screaming, into the latest (or at least more recent than I own!) technology and it has left him very low on patience. It does not become the man.

I am saying this because I am perfectly content with the technology I do own, and while I do appreciate so many of the wonderful changes recent technology has wrought, I am fine. I often find myself wondering what the cost of such technology has been to humankind, and every now and then I will question it out loud, but be unwilling to part with my own microwave or computer or bottle of soap bubbles.

I’m not saying I am stupid about these things. I probably could catch on to a lot more technological advances than it appears, but I am not convinced I want to. The space upstairs is limited, and there are so many other things I want to know.

A Voice from the Middle

I don’t just say I am politically independent to ward off arguments or to hear myself talk. I really am. I regret that the Republican party has narrowed its candidates for nomination for president down to one person already. It is much too soon.




Looking on the Democratic side, I see one candidate hurt and confused that the other candidate is leaping ahead in number of delegates and popularity of the masses. Senator Clinton, you have shown clearly why independent voters like me wait to make our choices. Let me explain.

The highest office in the land is no place for a shrewd shrew. Watching your behavior, I try to imagine the leader of my country treating world leaders or even everyday contacts the way you have treated your opponent, the press and the public. You may have experience as a Senator of your adopted state, but the work there didn’t (though it should have) teach you much about diplomacy, niceness, public relations or people skills.





It is unfortunate that those in the public eye are going to hear negative things said about themselves and even their children. Unfortunate, but frequent. To shrug off all dignity and reply with fury when you felt your child was wounded was not a good thing, Senator. She is a big girl; it was herself whose reply, if any, should have been heard. I look into an imaginary future and see that same reaction happening if someone somewhere in the world angers you, and what would you do when entertainers and political columnists and cartoonists do what they have always done, and make you and your imaginary White House a pillory? See, Senator, not everyone in the world is going to like you. Saying “Shame on you ... “ makes no points in the diplomatic or good manners circles, not even the polite corner. Acting a shrew is not going to work with world leaders, either.

Neither did you learn about keeping the spirit of your word, not diving through the loopholes. When the delegates were removed from Florida, your party decided not to campaign there. I believe all Democrats campaigning signed something to that effect, agreeing to the party edict. The day before the Florida primary election it was all the news that you were in Florida – though not campaigning. Yep. All the news. Very Shrewd. Marketing people will tell you that any publicity is good publicity, and that said, it appears to me (and most likely others) that you broke the spirit of your word, your signature, visiting Florida and making news in Florida the day before that state's primary .

I could go on.

This is why I stay in the middle. Nominees and candidates will eliminate themselves; if given enough time, real personalities will emerge and thinking people will give serious thought to how we want our country represented in the world. I am certainly not against having a woman as president, but she must be presidential material.


We still have a bit over eight months before our presidential election. Who’s next?

Small Talk

Youngest Offspring (YO) has been writing lately of things people say, things people ask. I read these and offered a rather glib comment – I told him that this was small talk, that nobody really cared about his answers. I’ve thought about it a lot since I wrote it, and I think maybe I made a sweeping statement that nobody cares – when there are definitely important exceptions. “Nobody’ is a pretty big word to use, saying anything, much less talking about who cares.

I know I care – but most of the things YO wrote in response to those who asked - I already know. I mean – this is my kid, and he is writing about the facts of his life. Yet I read with interest these answers to the questions, curiously wanting to know how he described some of these events. After all, he is a grown man. There are some things he mentioned in his response that I didn’t know.

Beside me, I’m sure there are others in his life who do not consider it small talk to ask what he does or who he is. Who among us has not found someone fascinating, and wanted to know all about that person, purely because we are interested and care to know? It happens a lot, not just when we become infatuated or begin to love someone, but whenever we notice a person and decide to ourselves, “Hmm – this is someone I would really like to know better!”

Many people do not answer when someone asks personal questions, or we give non-answers, glib throwaway lines that are often funny, but definitely evasive. Maybe there is a distrustfulness, or maybe we don’t want to let the asker into our private selves for our own reasons. Not answering – or giving a small talk answer – conveniently stops the inquisitions, and we are safe unto ourselves again.

I live in a place that seems to run on small talk. There are some among us who walk around the place with our heads down, not acknowledging anyone else, but the rest of us greet those we pass in the hallways and in the courtyard. We say, “Hey, how’s it going?” or “How are ya?” or “How’re ya doing?” which translates into “Hello. I see you. I don’t know you well, but I see you every day and we live in the same place, so I want to be polite. I want you to think I am friendly. I hope you are well.” It’s a short exchange, lasting only the few seconds it takes to pass one another. Same thing happens in grocery stores and pet stores and department stores and drug stores and it means about the same.

Just for fun, I decided to answer anyone who asked me how I am with, “I’m crazy as a loon!” just to see if anyone really paid attention. I was surprised how many actually did – and how many “Huh?”s I got. I do it still, sometimes. One of my friends hates it. He reminds me of something I told him several years ago, something I learned from a very smart man. The smart man told me to listen to what things I say most often. He said it is the things one says most often that indicate how we really feel about ourselves.

I am going to leave the computer now and go tell that woman in the mirror that she is bright, funny and kinda cute...

Today's Topic is ...

Yep -- today I am writing about toilet paper.

I don't know anything about its history, and I have no idea what folks did before it came along - it's just always been there for me. Those of us who have enjoyed it all our lives consider it a necessity, right up there with bread and water and soap.

I remember reacting to a large jump in the price of toilet paper, I think it was somewhere around 20 - 25 years ago, by writing to the company of the brand I used. I told them not to forget that they were selling a "one-use throw-away product."

Enter the 1990s and the creation of the double roll. I clearly see the attempt of the industry to hold down costs in making these, and they were handier than ever. It held the price to minimal changes for some time.

Now the Toilet Paper Industry is trying its best again to keep the price the same for a longer period of time. The rolls aren't getting smaller. In fact, I have seen one company go to triple rolls, even offering an extension to fit over the standard rod in the toilet paper holder so the larger size would fit. No - many, many companies have reduced the size of each sheet of toilet paper. It varies now from 4.27 X 4.0 inches to a larger 4.5 X 4.0 inches. I don't know when this started. Early on changes, if there were any, were far more subtle than now. I noticed. There is currently a whole inch of play room in the rod of my toilet paper holder.

Much depends on the brand, of course, and the size of each sheet is on the package, usually on the lower right of the front of the wrapper.

File this in the "In case you were wondering" file.

Just Another Valentine's Day

Those who have known me for more than a year know how I feel about February 14 - otherwise known as "Heart Day," "Cupid's Day," "Love Day," or "(St.)Valentine's Day." You know the background of this "holiday." (Or if you don't and want to, check it out here ) No -- this isn't about the history or the around-the-world traditions regarding today's celebrations. This is about people looking out for people. I write about how, for every other holiday, we look out for the unfortunate folk that have less than we do, and see that they at least have dinner on Thanksgiving, something in their socks for Christmas, a chick or an egg or some such on Easter. In general, we are a charitable people - except when it comes to Valentine's Day.

When was the last time you were reveling in the glorious feeling of being loved on Valentine's day and gave even a half-thought to your friend, your sister or brother, or - yes, in the spirit of the other holidays, even a stranger! - who was not romantically attached to anyone; someone you know who has no significant other with whom to share this day ? Have you once thought of looking after these folks who go it alone? See what I mean? We have ALWAYS been neglected on Valentine's Day.



Well - this year is different. Someone remembered those of us who are unattached, who have no one to send or recieve flowers to or from. Today we have (Ta Da!)

Unconditional Chocolate!

The kind people who make Dove (r) Ice Cream have, whether unwittingly or not, created exactly what we need on a day like today. Let all the lovers have their Unconditional Love -- we have our Unconditional Chocolate (tm)! Chocolate is, after all, "The Great Sublimator" - the "instead-of" savior for so many of us- and all done done so tastefully , thank you , with no overt labels or advertising to embarass us or anything. At last! Something for the solo folk among us!

I was introduced to this marvel by a friend with whom I shared dinner the other night. He asked what he could bring, so I left dessert up to him. It was outrageous! My friend, also a singleton, bought chocolate-on-chocolate-in- chocolate-cake, and brought this ice cream as an added touch.

Omigoodness.

So to the makers of Dove(r) Unconditional Love ice cream, thank you - thank you - thank you! To those who know an unattached person, consider gifting him or her with this delight for Valentine's Day to show he/she is not forgotten!

To those who recieve this as a gift from your friend or family member today, bear in mind this is an entire pint of Unconditional Chocolate(tm) and it contains 4 (four) individual servings. (Yeah, right!) But I have heard (and this is purely a rumor) that chocolate has no calories for the whole of Valentine's Day.

Enjoy!

When did THIS happen?

I remember some years ago -- let's see, Taran was about 18, so it was about 18 years ago - I was talking to him when he suddenly said, looking at my chin, "Why don't you pull that hair OUT?"

*Sigh* I had never noticed a hair on my chin.

"So pull it out," I told him. He did - and showed it to me. It was long and dark and a bit crinkly, not at all like the awful peach fuzzy type hair that had decorated my cheeks for the previous ten years or so. It was then that I realized something rather kind about getting older: As changes happen to us, like the growth of hair on chins, we become oblivious to them by another means - in this case, my eyes were going just enough where I could not see the hair (okay - I never really looked for it before then) in the mirror. And as we get older, we adapt. Now I feel for hairs on my chin and pluck each little dickens out by touch - whenever I remember.

My first reaction, of course, was to go find a magnifying mirror. I figured I really needed to keep an eye on my face and chin and such, if it was going to sprout hairs that looked like they belonged elsewhere. I found one on e-Bay - lighted, with 8 times magnification! I won the auction, got it for under $20 including shipping, and set it up for a good look at my face. I gathered together tissues, 2 sizes of tweezers, a nice warm and damp washcloth and settled down to have a look-see.

Omigoodness.

Let me tell you, NOBODY needs 8 times magnification to look at her face. There are some things you really don't want to know, and in real life no one else is EVER going to get so close as 8 times magnification! I packed away the magnifying mirror. I take it out only when my eyebrows grow over a half inch long and need to be rearranged and plucked.

In the eighteen years or so that has passed since I discovered I do grow hair on my chinny chin chin, other indications of age have crept in while I wasn't looking. My hair is full of platinum blonde streaks. People pay good money to get these cool streaks in their hair - and here come mine, free for nothing. I've tried several times to cover it with L'Oreal 5A, which is a nice medium ash brown, but when it starts to grow out, I find I probably should have used a darker shade, after all, regardless of the helpful hints I've gotten over the years that as one gets older, she should color her hair a bit lighter. I've even started cutting it short now and then, when I think of it, so it doesn't look like I am younger than I really am...

And then -- and then, one morning last summer, I woke up and discovered I had turned 60 (sixty) years old. I have no idea how I got here. That I did becomes obvious, when I stop and think about it. My joints are worn out. They call it "Degenerative Joint Disease" - which is just another way of saying arthritis, I suppose. Two by two my joints, starting at the bottom and moving up, have lost all their cartilage. Getting around is difficult, but at least I can. Some of my friends cannot. And I am having more and more "Senior Moments," which come over a person with no warning and yet there is still enough thinking going on upstairs where one is aware of it and embarassed, uncomfortable. I suppose in time that will pass. I do expect to be developing a more jaded vision of myself as well as a wider sense of humor as time goes by.

But I was startled when looking at some of the photos one of my grandaughters posted on Flickr.com . I was in this picture with some other folks and I did not recognize myself. I know, I know -- we are not supposed to think of ourselves being our body image - but I honestly did not recognize myself. I know I need to lose weight, but I had no idea I am so fat. I know my smile has undergone some changes, but I did not recognize it as mine, as me.

*Sigh*

I thought I was smaller. I thought my smile was prettier. I thought I was younger.

Accumulations

Ah -- Youngest Offspring writes about sorting and packing - in his case, a garbage bag a day. He's hit on the hardest part about packing: the sorting. Especially when the sorting involves things accumulated by another, it is, at best, a difficult task. Yet at the same time, it is an enlightening thing, if it is done thoughtfully, over time, as Youngest Offspring ("YO") has been doing. A person wants to know the whys and wherefores for some of these items, and the sorter is left with no clues, save for other items and whatever he can remember about the accumulator. Some things explain away some of the mysteries of relationships and attitudes - others simply leave the sorter even more baffled.

I'm packing, too. I have been packing mentally for a long time, but that is as different from the real thing as mustard from grapes. Now I am figuring what I can sell and how much I can get for what I sell, and trying to let that amount be enough to get the rest of me, the cat and our stuff from here to there. My packing is not the same as YO's. I am older, I have far more things to pack than he does. YO travels light and sorts his own belongings accordingly. Off the top of my head I can only think of one item (of the many he has been offered) that YO has kept: a small goblet made of some sort of light wood. I remember when it was given to him, but not the circumstance. YO remembers the circumstance, and as far as I know, still counts it among the keepers in his life.

I have some of those. Keepers. But once I am gone, who will realize that the beat up old stapler that has survived sortings for over 30 years is the only thing I have left from my marriage to a red-headed man in the mid to late 1960s? I have a collection of records (vinyl!) that can take me, in a matter of seconds, back in my mind to various years of significance in my life. Who, but me, really cares? And what about the record player/stereo (complete with speakers!) to play them on? I bought that piece of clutter about nine years ago at the flea market for $35. The belt had slipped off the turntable (it is there, just not functioning) and it has been on the top shelf in my closet (complete with speakers!) for the past 9 years.

"Dump it," I can hear YO tell me. "Get rid of it. Get another one after you move." Easy for HIM to say. He doesn't have a vinyl collection (as a matter of fact, I cannot think of any item he does collect, aside from his photos, and he keeps those on line and probably elsewhere. ) But I say to myself, stereos like that (complete with speakers!) are not so easily found these days in the condition this one boasts. I just have to find someone who can put the belt back on the turntable and it will be just fine and I can listen to my old vinyl. Here's the thing: this item has value for me. To YO, it holds no value at all, and, in fact, it is taking up valuable space when moving is calculated in linear feet.

That I have owned anything as long as I've owned my beat-up old stapler surprises me. I have moved and started over again so many times I have nearly forgotten what my original purpose was. That stapler has survived countless sortings over the years. On the outside, it has no value, not really. I have a hand held stapler, a full length pink stapler, a mini stapler that uses teeny tiny staples - so I know I have not kept that old stapler to use to attach one paper to another. Yet I have kept it.

So I am going to tell you a secret. Sometimes keeping a particular item that appears to have no value actually holds the value of remembrance. I look at that stapler - not as an item, whether it is useful or not, whether it works or not, whether or not a replacement does the job better. Each time I see it I am reminded where it came from. I am reminded of the good times, the silly, playful times shared with its previous owner. The value of that stapler, then, lies in its ability to act as a bridge across the years, from now back to thoughts I otherwise might have lost. I have other items, from other times. I have items that, were my kids to sort my belongings, would certainly end up in the trash.

There is, in one of my jewelry cases, somewhere in my apartment, a single golden knot cuff link. Looking at it reminds me of the afternoon YO was born. His Pop had been spending the day helping the downstairs neighbor with a project, having a beer or several, when I called down to him that it was time to get to the hospital. Well, he stopped what he was doing, excused himself, and came upstairs. He showered, changed into his dress slacks and a coffee brown shirt with those golden knot cuff links. He then proceeded to become ill; the nearest receptacle was the kitchen sink. Somewhere during that healthy cleansing, Pop lost a cuff link. That the one I still have has no value is clear - Pop could have gone into the pipes to find the lost one in the trap - but he didn't. I still keep the remaining cuff link. It reminds me of the day my Youngest Offspring was born.

If only all the strange things people keep would come with a history, an explanation. Going through the items in your house frustrates my YO, I'm sure - but the things that have no value to him may well have held the value of remembrance for their previous owner.

It's okay to throw them away now. Their usefulness has ended.