Video Camera

Day 134: Video Camera

That quarter ought to give you an idea
of the scale of this machine

Rich understands this video camera far better than I do. It's definitely not like a smart phone video camera, which fits in your pocket and can be accessed with an upward swipe.

We purchased it after Emma Jane and before Sam was born. It is the technology that produced those early EmmaVision VCR tapes. A couple I especially remember: dancing around with Emma in my arms. She was dressed in red all-in-one jammies and laughing; I was wearing a red fleece robe. The Talking Heads are singing: "He's so cute in his little red suit!" Gramma and Pappa and Richie are dancing too. Or my personal favorite: my voice behind the camera googoo'ing as Emma Jane crawls toward a light socket and sticks her finger in; I fail to notice. It's a miracle she survived long enough to get admitted to college.

Rich used this thing to film the G-rated aspects of Sam's birth. Despite the G-rating, Sam and I share an aversion to watching that particular video. My favorite footage: Sam screaming bloody murder, covered in waxy muck while being swabbed off by a nurse in rubber gloves, while Dr. Gay sews up my episiotomy in the background. Just what every new mother wants to see.

This device involves special tapes with acronyms I don't understand, fancy plugs, computers and transfers to other special tapes with other acronyms. When we bought it, we thought of it as sleek, small and high tech. Now it seems as awkward and outsized as the cliched chubby kid in a Disney flick. Maybe a passionate retro Community High freshman would be interested in using it to make passionate retro videos.

Otherwise, at sixteen years old, this bit of technology is utterly, completely obsolete.

Bee Stuff

Day 133: Bee Stuff
For sale:

1 smoker, slightly used
2 bee veils with white plastic hats
1 hive tool
1 telescoping cover
1 inner cover
1 screened bottom board
1 spacer
1 winter moisture board
8 medium Langstroth hive bodies
80 frames
80 pieces of foundation

All offers considered.

Have I mentioned how much I love bee stuff? Its simplicity? Its function? Its elegance? I even like the way it smells.

Sigh.

Boomer Hive

Goodbye, boomer. You were awesome.
Thanks, Meghan, for adopting them.

Day 132: Boomer Hive
I've gotten rid of my boomer hive, and the little nuc I made to relieve crowding and prevent a swarm. Of all the things I've gotten rid of, this is the hardest. I love my bees and wouldn't choose to give them up. But I've said goodbye to the girls.

From a distance.

Even the nicest hive stings sometimes. This boomer hive has so many bees, I couldn't help but kill one or two each time I worked it, which sends off an alarm pheromone, which causes them to ping (fly into the veil) and sting. And each time I've been stung, the reaction has been more intense.

I already had a brood chamber (a boxful of larvae and eggs along with some pollen and nectar) and four supers of pure capped honey, 400 pounds of bees, and it was only mid-July. That's why I decided to turn my boomer hive into two hives, which I thought would lighten the weight on the stand and give me a better chance of having at least one hive survive the winter. The bees were a bit disturbed by my reorganization of their home. One of the girls stung my thumb...through the glove.

Ouch! And it got even worse than this!

The sting was surprisingly painful and the swelling set in immediately. I've always thought that a severe allergy caused instant death, so I was uncomfortable, but unworried. I am so fortunate to have more than one kind and passionate bee mentors. Richard Mendel is one of these. When I called him to ask for advice on the "dirty split" (creating a second queen-less hive), he dropped everything and came right over. When he saw my hand, he delicately suggested that such a reaction is not the norm among beekeepers. "You might want to have a doctor take a look at that."

Well, the doctor took one look, gave me an Epipen prescription and suggested I take up another hobby. She said my arm was swollen past the elbow, my airways were restricted, and I might not be so lucky the next time.

I didn't feel lucky in that moment, itchy, uncomfortable and facing the prospect of saying goodbye to the girls. Some of my fellow beekeepers talked about visiting an allergist to diminish the reaction, or wearing the beekeeper equivalent of a spacesuit.

There are many things I've loved about beekeeping. I love how it heightens my awareness of the weather, the seasons, what's in bloom. It makes me look at plants and flowers in new ways, with greater awareness of the creatures in and around them. I've loved learning about the science of bees, beginning to master this great body of knowledge, having responsibility for these foreign creatures. I've loved crouching by the hive for long stretches, watching their dance, watching their light and lively descent, their return laden with nectar and pollen. Livestock, yet alien and wild.

I've loved the discipline of bringing my mind and body to a place of peace and calm from which to work the bees. I can't bring fear to the beehive; the bees will know and react. My movements are slow and deliberate. My breathing is even. I can feel my heartbeat, slow and steady. Fearing stings - fearing death - would bring the spiritual practice of beekeeping to a different level, one I'm not ready for.

And wearing the spacesuit to separate myself from the outdoors: no way. It just doesn't sound like fun any more.

Emma's Odd Socks

Day 131: Emma's Odd Socks
It's a cliche, but I do wonder what happens to all the mismatched socks. Now that we've emptied every drawer and cupboard, and washed every article of clothing, I can't help but wonder where the dozens of odd socks have gone. Emma enjoys wearing mismatched socks, as long as they feel the same, so I only threw away half of these.

There was another equal pile of Sam's odd socks, but I won't toss those until we finish his thorough room-cleaning. That will come in a little over two weeks, as he prepares to vacate his room and move into Emma's.

Middle School and High School Handouts

Day 130: Middle School and High School Handouts and Worksheets

It takes a lot of trees to graduate from high school. An entire 50-gallon container's worth, in fact. And this isn't all the paperwork Emma generated on the path to a high school diploma. Prior to middle school, I helped clean out her room every year. I'd pick out a few especially cute pieces of art and ditch the rest. Even more recently, I've tried to sneak in and ditch most everything most years.

I was surprised to find as much old paperwork as I did. It was everywhere. In the hidden space above the built-in in her closet. Down underneath her tiny desk. In drawers, on shelves, and tucked away in paper bags.

It's my belief that all this paperwork did very little to contribute to her learning (or Sam's, for that matter). It didn't make her a more critical thinker, unless she worked the worksheets while thinking about what a stupid waste of time they were. Two weeks in Montreal, in my opinion, does more for your French than two years' worth of worksheets. It didn't solidify her knowledge of history, or literature, or art. Math, maybe, but, who uses calculus in their day-to-day professional life outside of certain scientists?

What it does do, I suppose, is turn us into obedient workers who can take in information and follow directions. Ideal low level (if unskilled) employees. That's where a good solid liberal arts education can take you to the next level, one hopes. Teaching us to use our brains for more than just filling in a worksheet.

Girl Clothes

Day 129: Girl Clothes

Finally, finally, we are beginning to pack and organize for college, with only 18 days until move-in. I've washed four giant loads of laundry over the past 24 hours. Almost every article of Emma's clothing was on her floor. That which is still hanging up or neatly folded on a shelf almost certainly is prime for getting rid of. If it wasn't on the floor, then it hasn't been worn in two years. A good portion of the stuff on the floor also hasn't been worn in two years, but ended up on the floor because it was on top of some other more desirable item.

I've folded everything and divided it into "You can probably give this away" and "You probably want to keep this" piles. This giant stack of t-shirts, unstylish dresses and outgrown jeans is bound for the Salvation Army. (If you'll recall, the Salvation Army is the only thrift shop in town that's accepting donations.)

Once the laundry was in process, we spent an hour making a list of items she'd need for her dorm room, prepping for the much-anticipated dorm shopping ritual. She was inclined to start with the list published by Bed, Bath & Beyond, sort of like getting car advice from your local Ford dealer. In the end, she agreed to start with the Ball State list with just a BB&B final check.

We did an excellent job compromising. We purchased a few items I don't think she'll need (as if a kid who won't throw away an apple core is really going to use Clorox wipes), and didn't purchase a few items she wanted (like a vacuum cleaner - hah!). She's still advocating for renting a dorm refrigerator (why would a kid who's getting 21 meals a week from food service need a refrigerator?) and I'm beginning to unbend about the new backpack (this will really, truly be the last one I buy).

What is stressing her out is that her roommate has decided to defer enrollment. (She's having a baby! OMG!) So, while I'm happy because now I can picture Emma Jane in her new room, with the blue comforter and blue rag rug and blue towels, neither of us knows now whether the other bed will be occupied at all, and if so, by whom. For once, I'm glad she decided to go for this BFA Acting program, with its tiny class and individualized attention. Even if she gets the worst roommate in the world, I know she won't be completely lost.

Meanwhile, I agreed to buy a wastepaper basket, although her usual habit is to throw trash down wherever (and often within six inches of the can). She's got Aleve and tampons and coffee and plastic cups and power cables and extra long twin sheets and BandAids and a desk lamp and a bike lock and plenty of clean underwear. What more does a kid need? Anyway, if we forgot something, there's always the Post Office.

Kids' Shoes

Day 128: Kids' Shoes

Sam's shoes

At last, we are getting organized and planning for Emma's departure nineteen days from now. Step one: bringing four very full baskets of dirty clothes to the basement laundry. The dozen pairs of shoes that revealed themselves under the layers of textiles went right into a box for the Salvation Army. Some are too small, some too worn out and some just not in favor any more. Also headed for the Salvation Army: Sam's most recent pair of soccer cleats and a pair of his sneakers.

Emma's shoes

The Salvation Army is not my favorite charity - you and what army? the salvation army? - but the Salvation Army is the only charity in Ann Arbor accepting donations until the end of August. The others are all too full. While some people are shoeless and starving, we in my home town literally can't give our stuff away. The Salvation Army puts our Ann Arbor goods in a truck and drives them to our local third world country (i.e., Detroit). Yes, that's a true statement.

Meanwhile, back at the home front, did you know that it is SOP for younger siblings to get the older siblings' awesome room? What is now Sam's dark, tiny room will soon be Emma's. She mostly won't be living in it; why waste all these built-ins and bright windows? For now, she and I have agreed just to wash and sort the clothes, get rid of the obvious unused items, and leave the cleaning and organizing to me for after she's gone. I won't shed tears as I remove layers of dust from the shelves, scrape chewing gum off the wood floor and collect stray coins and spoons from between the wall and the bedpost.

Or maybe I will.

Today, for the first time in many, many weeks, I didn't need to have my cell phone in my pocket, because everyone I really want to talk to - Rich, Sam, Emma - was at home.

But not for long.

Landscape Edging

Day 127: Landscape Edging

"The average American household contains more than 300,000 possessions." So states a recent blog posting by the Minimalists.

I read this with the same irritable suspicion I feel whenever I read such statistics. How do they know this? Did they take a random sample of American households and then count the objects within them? Seems unlikely. Did they combine aggregated retail sales data with census data and obsolescence assumptions? Seems complicated and fraught with distortion.

Furthermore, what counts as a possession? Every book on the shelf? Each sock in a pair? Every Band-Aid in a box of 100? Every nail in a box of 1,000?

And how do I know that Joshua Fields Millburn didn't just read a statistic somewhere, misremember it and type it into his blog, to be read and repeated by people like me?

With all these limitations, how can we ever really know anything outside of our immediate sphere?

One thing I do know: with the disposal of this landscape edging, there are no objects left behind my potting shed.

One hundred twenty-seven down, 299,873 to go.

Soap-on-a-Rope

Day 126: Soap-on-a-Rope

Last night, I was alone in the house. It was the third evening I'd spent alone there. Rich left on Sunday for his last minute work trip to Marquette.

The house seemed large. Very large. It was hot, too, and humid. At one point I went out to the studio, where the climate control is better, to cool off and play music. It occurred to me that I could stay out there and sleep on the floor, or on the sofa. I might sleep better - cool and dry! - or worse - lumpy sofa! - but either way, who except me would care?

I know the kids still live in the house because when I came home, I found a bottle of spoiled milk on the counter, a cereal box open on the table, and dirty dishes in the sink. Earlier, I'd gone up to the attic to make a baby blanket for our almost-daughter Ina's new baby on the sewing machine. More evidence of co-habitation: air conditioner on and windows open; dirty clothes belonging to both kids; three food-encrusted bowls, a plate and spoons; empty Gatorade bottles and mega-Styrofoam cups with "Polar Ice" logos on them; unmade beds.

You might think all this would make me eager for peace and quiet. What I really want, though, is titration. I want company and quiet, responsibility and rest, purpose and order. I'm dropping Emma off to college three weeks from today. After she's gone, I'll have a lot more quiet, rest and order, and a lot less company, responsibility and purpose.

They aren't really kids any more, which is why they're out with friends or at work every night. They are ready to let go of these soaps-on-a-rope, stocking stuffers from their elementary school years. I distinctly remember having a Fuzzy Wuzzy soap-on-a-rope when I was a child. It looked like a little bear carved out of soap. When I got it wet, it grew a layer of mold that looked like fur. Was it intentional? Was it really Fuzzy Wuzzy? I don't know, but I loved scrubbing off the mold, washing, and seeing the layer of fuzz again the next time I took a bath. My kids didn't want to get these guys wet. They thought of them as bathroom decorations, and objected when I suggested they use them to bathe. The soaps have been hanging on cupboard knobs all this time, losing their scent and becoming slightly slimy. The bear hasn't held up as well as the owl; it's gotten moldy and soft.

For years, when I've gotten up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I've knocked toiletries off the tiny countertop onto the floor or into the toilet, or cursed the lack of soap in the dish or the missing water cup or the empty toilet paper role. I haven't been able to close the door because of the damp towels and dirty clothes on the floor. A few days ago, I announced that I was going to assume that anything left on the counter or on the floor was not valued: I would get rid of it. I figured I'd get rid of something Emma cared about, have a huge shouting fight, blog about it, and in the end, be delighted because at last, the shared bathroom was under control. Instead, we skipped the first three steps and went right to my being delighted because the bathroom is under control. No need to get rid of anything, no big fight. Out of chaos, order.

But still, I'm alone in our great big house. Can't wait til Rich gets home.

Hedge Shears

Day 125: Hedge Shears

I understand the reason to purchase higher cost, higher quality goods: invest in quality, and you'll save money and time in the long run. These hedge shears are an excellent example of going cheap in the short run, and wasting money in the long run. I got them at Meijer's. Even fresh out of the package, they weren't sharp or powerful enough to do the job well. The high quality pair I got for my birthday this year has convinced me that these aren't even good for back-up.

Theoretically, I would show Amish thoughtfulness with regard to introducing new objects into my home. I'd make careful decisions about what objects are truly going to improve my quality of life, and careful decisions about which specific brand of object to purchase. Hedge shears vs. pruning shears? Fiskars vs. Meijer's?

There are many barriers to this kind of careful decisionmaking. I'm simply not willing to devote the time and energy needed to figure out which items I need, and which are better. The connection between price and quality is tenuous. There are some exceptions, like nutrition information, but generally the package itself is the last place you want to look for information about your purchase. Consumer Reports can't evaluate everything, and it's not easy to connect what you're trying to decide to Consumer Reports research anyway.

Our system is not at all what Adam Smith had in mind when he wrote about the invisible hand. His whole premise for the capitalist system was predicated on the idea that citizens would have access to perfect information about the products they were choosing, and that they would use that perfect information to make rational choices. Two obvious flaws with that thinking. First, advertising is the opposite of perfect information - it's a high cost, concentrated and focused attempt to fool us all into choosing one product over another based on emotion. And second, nobody makes rational decisions. We are creatures of emotion.

So I bought these cheap shears, not based on data but based on emotion. I looked at the packaging. They looked fine. Maybe there were exclamation points, or a gold star. Maybe there was a testimonial. Maybe they were on sale.

Off they go, to the reuse center, where the next sucker will only spend $2 instead of $20. Meanwhile, I can only hope the Fiskars will last a lifetime. They were certainly pricier.

Compostable Flowerpots

Day 124: Compostable Flowerpots

I spent part of Sunday cleaning out behind the garden shed. My conclusion: compostable flowerpots, good. Plastic flowerpots, bad.

Many of the plastic pots are broken and unusable. Some can be recycled, but I know from previous research that recycled plastic doesn't have great integrity. Compostable pots, same, but they go into the composter and disappear from the face of the earth. The metal hooks go into the recycling.

Square Foot Gardens

Day 123: Square Foot Gardens

These square foot gardens are a testament to how even the most eco-friendly intentions can end up in the landfill. I bought these two as kits from the botanical gardens' plant sale eight years ago, in part to benefit Growing Hope (whose volunteers made the kits) and in part because I thought the $20 was a good deal for something I was wanting to try anyhow.

And the thing is, it worked! I put them up in our large concrete driveway, and even though they contained only six inches of soil resting on bare concrete, I had tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, beans, carrots, beets, radishes, basil, parsley, rosemary and a little cut flower garden. They were easy to weed in the summer and easy to dismantle in the winter. Believe it or not, the gardens actually cleaned the concrete: you could see the stark white 4'x4' squares outlined in the winter against the grayer, duller background.

When we got rid of Sam's soccer goal (way too big for our tiny yard) and put up the basketball hoop instead (the giant concrete driveway is a perfect ball court), I thought I'd just stow the frames behind the shed and reinstall them in a few years, after he got tired of b'ball or went off to college, whichever came first.

What actually came first was the rotting of the square foot gardens. The sides that are resting on the ground are completely disintegrated. Even the parts that are leaning against the shed have lost their integrity. They are full of nails and screws. Most likely, the wood is treated. Disintegrated treated wood full of hardware: neither recyclable nor compostable nor usable. No longer usable.

Into the trash. Into the landfill. Let's hear it for old-fashioned sowing right into the ground. No purchase necessary.

Flute Music

Day 122: Flute Music
This flute music represents a significant investment of time (on my part) and money (on my parents' part). I can hardly make sense of it now. The music is so complex, so far beyond anything I can imagine doing or ever having done. Yet, this is really my music and I was once the master of it.

Those days are long gone. Early in our marriage, Rich had my flute adjusted as a birthday gift, extremely thoughtful of him, but the technician didn't replace the pads: the core maintenance work that makes the instrument playable, the equivalent of replacing strings on a guitar. The fact that I never pursued having the instrument made truly playable says volumes about my adult commitment to it. It has been decades since I've had sufficient abdominal strength and dexterity to play even the simplest tunes contained in these books.

Nevertheless, it was such an important part of who I was in middle school, high school and college, so I have been carting these books from abode to abode for the past 35 years. Even now, I can't get rid of all of them. I am keeping a few of my most favorite, my most familiar. Even this stack is hard to let go; I wish I could match them up with a girl who would treasure them. But every musician and every teacher has specific preferences. These are exactly tailored to mine. They wouldn't fit anyone else half so well.

I've tried to imagine getting rid of the flute itself. How would I bring myself to part with it? I keep hoping one of my nieces will become a flutist (not a flautist). I can imagine passing it into the hands of someone I know and love.

Beyond that, imagination fails me.

Strength in What Remains

Day 121: Strength in What Remains and Other Books

How much is there to say about
giving away books?

The title of Tracy Kidder's latest stood out because of its relevance to this project. If it wasn't already taken, it could be the title of a memoir.

Today I'm not writing about the books I'm giving away, but about the stuff project itself. There's only so much to say about giving away books. Today, I picked out six or so - good reads as usual - and added them to the box I'm saving for the AAUW book sale. (I left my phone - with the photo - at home and will upload later.)

If we do decide to shift houses in a couple years or so, the stuff project will have served me in good stead, or so I tell myself. I won't be scrambling to figure out what I need and don't need under pressure of a deadline. I can feel good about making careful decisions about how best to get rid of stuff, and I won't end up making poor decisions that result in my getting rid of stuff I regret, or paying to move stuff I don't really need. If I end up staying where I am, I'll be living in a more serene and useful environment.

It turns out, though, that getting rid of stuff in a thoughtful and methodical way, and writing about it every day, is a monumental undertaking. I've done a good job of identifying something to get rid of every day (although it gets harder each time), and I've kept up with documenting the effort. What's lagging behind is the logistics.

Here's the list of things I've "gotten rid of" that are still hanging around, waiting to be gotten rid of:

• The canoe. No takers on my Craig's List ad - no one's come to see it, much less buy it - although I reposted at a lower price. Ditto the outboard motor. There are dozens of canoes for sale on Craig's List in our area. No idea how to get rid of it. Lower the price? How low will we accept? Give it away? To whom?
• Eyeglasses. This requires a separate trip to the mall. I hate the mall. LensCrafters has a program to distribute them to impoverished countries. Having seen extreme vision problems among the Masai in Kenya, I'm not willing just to throw them in the Goodwill pile. Will turn them in the next time I have a reason to go to the mall.
• Bookshelf for Karl's classroom at Summers Knoll School. Requires two people to move it down from the attic and load it into the car. Errand must be completed while Karl is at school. Karl is at school when I am at work.
• Marbles for my cousin's son. Requires finding a box, wrapping it up and addressing it, and taking a trip to the post office. Post office only open when I am at work.
• Wicker chaise longue. Probably should just be loaded into the car and driven to the PTO Thrift Shop. Note to self: ask Sam to do this in exchange for his use of the car.
• Crutches. No one wants them, even for free. Guess they will just go to the PTO Thrift Shop.

Meanwhile, Emma's departure date creeps nearer: she will move into the dorm 26 days from now. I've offered to help clean her room or do her laundry, or whatever she needs to get ready. So far, she hasn't taken me up on it. The clock is ticking. She has no clean clothes (again yesterday she was wearing one of my clean t-shirts). Her future roommate has already bought the matching bedding they decided on together. Her suitcase is still full from the last trip she took, by no means ready and waiting to be packed for college.

At work, I'm sprinting along behind the organizational changes that have been mandated centrally, and which have significantly changed my daily life. At home in the evening, I'm homed in on electronic games and web surfing instead of outside in the garden as has been my custom. The web creates mental white noise to block out rumination; weeding brings out the worrier in me. So I probably won't make the post office, or the mall, or the PTO Thrift Shop a priority. Taking it one day at a time.

Shower Puff

Day 120: Shower Puff

Ah, gifts. Where to start? One could probably have a blog entitled "Gifts: Getting Rid of One Gift, Every Day for a Year" and have something new to write about each day.

What is altruism, anyway? Did you know that gift giving - birthday presents, Christmas - exists only in highly differentiated commercial economies? That our concept of gift giving arose only when money was invented?

A gift is a transfer of property from one entity to another. Property is not itself an object but a social or regulatory relationship to an object or idea. Which makes gift-giving a social or political act, not just a change of address for a particular thing. We all know that intellectually, right? But when you put it that way, it's not surprising that many of us have mixed feelings about Christmas and birthdays.

Anthropologist Bronislaw Malinowski says that reciprocity is implicit in all gift giving. Don't believe it? Test the theory by not saying thank you to someone who's given you a gift. And how do you feel if you put that gift directly into the give-away pile? How do you feel if you re-gift it? How do you feel if someone else gives away a gift you gave them? How long do you need to keep a gift to acknowledge and honor the giver?

I'm reminded of a time when my sister discovered that my father had regifted an iPod to me. By the time he (re)gave it to me, such iPods were selling on Craig's List for $25, worth a little but not a lot. The technology is elegant but not transparent, and my father never found it easy to use. When my sister discovered I had it, she wanted it back. The whole thing felt like a big social snafu.

I've read and reread the last paragraph, afraid I might be publishing something hurtful. How big a taboo is it to admit that a gift was difficult for the recipient to use? That a gift lost value? That a giver still felt ownership after a gift was given? If gift-giving is an uncomplicated, pure expression of love, why would these be delicate topics? Because, giving gifts is more than an expression of love. It is a social and political act.

As I'm sure you've guessed, this shower puff was a gift. From Emma, whose gifts I cherish more than almost anyone else's. I don't use this shower puff, and it's made of my nemesis, plastic, and it smells a bit moldy. While searching for it on Google this morning (another thing I didn't know the name of), I felt relieved when I saw that its price ranges from $.79 to $1.99. But why should that matter? Is it possible still to love and honor one another, yet step outside of the pure gift economy, with all its hidden power plays, environmental waste and good intentions?

It's a challenge. I don't have answers, but I do have a houseful of gifts. Some, I love. Others, not so much.

Ginormous Water Dish

Day 119: Ginormous Water Dish for 100-Pound Dog
I guess Chester is not coming back. It is time to give away his water dish.

The only downside to dogs is that their lifespan is shorter than ours.

Travel Game Set

Day 118: Travel Game Set

It's not even magnetized

There's no earthly reason why this travel game set should be so hard to give away. Most of the plastic game pieces are still in their little plastic bags, and the plastic cribbage board has never been opened. It's been lying unused in the game cupboard for years, along with Star Wars Trivial Pursuit, Simpsons Monopoly, Othello, Clue, two (yes two!) backgammon sets, a family game set (mancala included), an unopened 1,000 piece puzzle, an inlay cribbage board that my grandma and I used to play cribbage on, a dozen packs of cards, and a laminated presidential election game that Sam and I invented together when he was in fifth grade.

The only things in this cupboard that I really want to give away are the Star Wars Trivial Pursuit game and Simpsons Monopoly. Those concepts just don't go together in my mind. The rest I kind of want to keep. I might work the Thomas Kincaid landscape puzzle some day, after the kids leave for college. I might want to give one of those backgammon sets to Emma, when she gets her own apartment. Sam might want to play Othello with me. Not surprisingly, Sam does not want me to give any games away, consistent with his plan to prevent me from getting rid of his stuff so he can give his old toys to his own boy some day.

I remember when every winter evening was consumed with playing board games with Sam. Chess, backgammon, Monopoly, Crazy Eights, Chinese checkers, checkers, hangman, tic-tac-toe, Othello, Connect 4. His appetite for games, and company, was endless. Now he plays games with his friends remotely by iPhone. Or in person, at their houses. Although we do still play the occasional game of checkers, it is usually on my iPad. We never take the games out of the cupboard.

When we created the Presidential Election game - a sort of Chutes 'n' Ladders meets Trivial Pursuit - I was so proud I wanted to get it published. Sam was so self-effacing, he wouldn't even take it in to show his fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Pryce.

By the time I reach Day 300 of the stuff project, I'm sure those unopened playing cards will look a lot more expendable.

The Presidential Election game stays.

Forever.

Still More of Rich's Old Files

Day 117: Still More of Rich's Old Files (and a Few of Mine)
Rich told me that I could get rid of all the files in the basement file cabinets. I almost did it. I recycled about five reams of paper, including:

• Graded papers his old students never picked up
• Xerox copies of published research about adolescents and risky behaviors
• Other Xerox copies of AIDS research
• Fifteen-year-old bank statements, loan statements, phone bills, and credit card bills

We both stepped on a different career path when we left San Francisco and moved to Ann Arbor to raise our children. This file cabinet felt like his archive, a record of a time when he planned to be a professor and a researcher rather than a practitioner. I'm betting Rich could write an interesting blog post about that file cabinet.

I kept only two thin folders:

• A lovely letter of support from his department chair at the College of Notre Dame in Belmont, California
• Chords and lyrics to songs he wrote when we were living in San Francisco

At five pounds a ream, our house has lost 25 pounds.

More of Rich's Old Files

Day 116: More of Rich's Old Files

Someone asked me what has been the hardest thing to get rid of so far. The answer is, so far, nothing has been hard to get rid of, except logistically. This is, perhaps, a statement of itself. 

I know what will be hard to get rid of, though, because I keep thinking about it, dreading it, castigating myself for my irrationality for hanging on. What am I clinging to? 

Legal documents.

Who'd'a thunk?

I now know that the IRS audit window is three years. I know that the IRS recommends retaining home purchase records for one full tax year subsequent to the sale. And I know that I have tax returns dating back to 1978, when I was 14 years old and my father was still submitting mine for me (unbeknownst to me). I know that these tax records are bulging out of their file box, and that I either need a new file box, or I need to get rid of some of these old files.

I also know that I have all the documents pertaining to the purchase and sale of each of the three homes I've owned. I also have the complete documentation for the condominiumization of our tenancy-in-common in San Francisco, a flat which I know has sold at least two, maybe three times, since we lived there.

When Lisa suggested I get rid of my tax records, I responded by asking her what would happen if I wanted to become Hillary Clinton someday. I was only half-kidding. I'm sure everyone remembers how she was castigated for not being able to produce decades-old records in the Whitewater "scandal." I'll never be Hillary. But what if?

The documents I'm getting rid of today are just old resumes, and print-outs of claims policies by various insurance companies, and blank forms, and expired licenses. No problem. Tax returns and house sales, though. Can it really be true that I need keep those records for two or three years? 

I may need to call a lawyer, a tax accountant and a psychologist before I'm really able to let them go.

Jack Post

Day 115: Jack Post

I have it on good authority that we have the best basement in Burns Park. Bill Yadlosky, famous in our neighborhood for his basement expertise, told me so. Bill said that our house was built by a frugal university professor in the 1920s, who was the very first to build foundations from poured concrete. To save money, he built the concrete form from 4"x4" lumber, then reused the lumber to build the house frame. The frame is thus concrete infused, which is why we can't drive a nail into the supporting beams in the basement. The foundation is true, no bulges or odd angles. The reason water seeps in at times is simply because concrete is porous. You want that, he said.

I had three basement guys come out, just to be sure. Bill - the most well-known - said we really needed to do nothing. One - who struck me as a salesman rather than a workman - said that the entire surrounding area needed to be dug out, a sump pump installed, and waterproof surfaces needed to superimposed over the interior and exterior walls, at a cost of $25K. The third suggested that it would be a good idea to fill the long horizontal crack on the west wall with concrete expoxy to prevent further cracking. He suggested that we remove the smooth outer layer of concrete from the inside walls, which was spackled on at some point for aesthetic reasons and which risked trapping water against the foundation walls. He also suggested I put an extra jack post down the center wall to provide extra support because of the ballooon construction of this house. The cost for the epoxy treatment would be about $3K.

I chose the middle way, partly as a matter of philosophy (I believe in the middle way!) and partly because I find it intolerable to have a large crack in the basement wall. I spent months with a hammer and chisel, removing chunks of concrete spackle from the inner wall, cursing the former owners, from whom we bought the house. They were kind and well-meaning, but where one nail would do, they consistently chose three nails and superglue, thereby ensuring that all home repair projects are five times as difficult as they need to be.

As far as the $25K job is concerned, I was thankful to have eight years of managing the botanical gardens' historic buildings under my belt. I knew even as the salesman was giving me his pitch that applying a waterproof layer to my concrete walls was ill-advised. I felt no guilt about declining that option.

In the end, although I bought the jack post from Home Depot, I never installed it. We already have a jack post down there, and in my heart, I just don't believe we need another one. I'm wondering, will Home Depot take this one back, two years later, without a receipt?

I'll let you know.

  

Blank Insurance Claims Submissions

Stuff to enhance human health and prolong
lives: insurance claims forms from
when Rich was in private practice

Day 114: Blank Insurance Claims Submissions

Our lack of diversity in agricultural crops is a disaster waiting to happen, a set piece for death by starvation at rates comparable to the Irish potato famine, scaled up to encompass the entire world. That was the message of the keynote speaker at this year's American Public Gardens Association meeting, Simran Sethi. Perhaps genetic engineering isn't the worst of Monsanto's sins; its worst sin (along with other agro-conglomerates) is relentlessly narrowing crop diversity. Like the 19th century investor who put his whole fortune in the steam engine, we are headed for ruin.

The message that wasn't included - that is never included - that is too hot even to speak aloud - is that a reduction in world population (for whatever reason) would be good for the environment. Famine, virulent disease and contaminated water may be bad for people, but they are good for the ecosystems in which people live. While solar energy may be better for the environment than burning coal, it won't really solve the problem. And the Affordable Care Act, while good for the average Joe, may have the side effect of increasing our lifespans yet again - and thus increasing the human population size.

Whatever happened to the conversation about population control? I remember this topic being widely talked about in the '70s. Didn't my mother tell me that she and my father had originally wanted to have four children, but decided to stop at three after they started thinking about the population explosion and its impacts?

When a species becomes too dominant, nature reaches out a hand and gives that species a slap. Sometimes, she eliminates that species altogether. 

And life goes on. Not human life, necessarily, but life.

Human beings have the ability to understand, analyze and plan for changes in our environment. If we can act for the public good, we don't have to wait for nature to cut us down or wipe us out. Resolving that each couple will have only one child would result in an immediate, dramatic reduction in the environmental impact of our species. If we persisted in this practice for 100 years, the earth might have the ability to absorb reduced humanity's greedy consumption of resources. 

"If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population." Could it be that Scrooge, the epitome of selfish greed, had his finger on humanity's best interests?

Expensive Habits, Rattlebone and Other Books

Day 113: Expensive Habits, Rattlebone and Other Books

The strange thing about books is that once you start giving them away, you stop wanting to own most of them. Oh, sure, there are still a few that I pulled back out of the give-away carton. If it tugs my heartstrings, I'm keeping it. But so few of them do any more.

Most of this stack I brought here from San Francisco sixteen years ago. I probably moved them several times in the City, and I've moved them once in Ann Arbor. They are high quality reads. But I've read each of them only once, and I'm certain I'll never read them again.

I still love to read. I'm just not sure about owning books any more. Which got me thinking about the publishing industry, and the idea that if I want to keep reading books, I should contribute to that economy. Which got me wondering something else: has the book economy declined because of eBooks? Has it declined because people like me spend more time surfing the web and playing Words with Friends and Clash of Clans...and less time reading novels?

Well, according to the Association of American Publishers, the answer is "No." Our appetite for buying books is undiminished: the eBook industry is growing and the traditional book format is holding steady. But I've been using my library card more, and my credit card less, to sate my appetite for books. This may not be good for the publishing industry - libraries accounted for only 1.3% of total book sales last year - but it's definitely good for the level of clutter in my house, and for my pocketbook.

Outboard Motor, Anchor and Charger

Day 112: Outboard Motor, Anchor and Charger

The boat of my dreams

Rich says he loves things with strings: relationships, fishing and guitar-family instruments. This outboard motor and anchor turned our canoe into a fishing vehicle. Now that we are getting rid of the canoe (no bites on Craig's List yet!), we have no need of these.

What I didn't say yesterday: we have and are keeping the world's most awesome boat, a Native Watercraft Ultimate 12. Twenty pounds lighter than the Mohawk and four feet shorter, so stable you can stand in it, so comfortable you can sleep in it. If I can sell the canoe, I might just buy one for myself.

Canoe

Day 111: Canoe, Paddles and Seat Cushions
Rich purchased this canoe ten years ago in Orlando, Florida from a Craig's List ad. We were visiting his parents in St. Augustine. For some reason, Rich preferred not to join his parents, the kids and me on a day trip to SeaWorld (imagine skipping SeaWorld!), so the five of us picked the canoe up from the seller without him. My father-in-law Bill and I had to figure out how to strap it on top of Bill's minivan with only half-remembered instructions; smart phones were still in the future. The result was the boat buzzed and wobbled all the way from Orlando to St. Augustine. Miraculously, it did not slide off and cause a multi-car pile-up on the freeway.

My memories of childhood are rich with family activities. A trip to the orange grove in Fort Lauderdale; I was jealous of the coconut my sister scavenged, so I ran outside to get one of my own. Underneath, a nest of red ants; my father rescued me by hosing me off. Weekends at the cottage on Pleasant Lake, crewing for my father as he sailed our little two-man boat, or jumping off the top deck of the pontoon, or paddling the canoe down the St. Joseph river in Kalamazoo. Long car-rides to Mount Rushmore, or Banff, or the Lake of the Ozarks, or Washington D.C., reading, looking out the window, singing along to John Denver, all five of us in a single hotel room, Karl on a folding cot and Hostess powdered sugar donuts for breakfast.

I wonder sometimes if I have given my children this rich store of memories, because the trips I've taken with them are much vaguer in my mind. But I suspect this is because time rushes forward so quickly in adulthood, and car trips and camping and bike rides and hotel rooms and paddling all run together like an impressionist painting.

My chosen family - my husband, my children - has paddled this canoe on the Huron and the Metanzas and the Au Sable. We've canoed on Lake Michigan and Pickerel Lake. On the Au Sable, we tried to fit our 100-pound black lab, Chester, in the boat with the four of us. He jumped out and and then I fell out trying to pull him in. Emma, aged ten, jumped out to rescue me: such a strong swimmer and she does so love to help. In the end, we had to paddle a mile upstream calling "Chester" and whistling, while the dog ran along the shore as best he could. We all survived.

I wonder, is that trip imprinted on their minds, a Dutch master memory? Or is it already forgotten?

Just over seven years ago, we already had the canoe strapped on top of the car and were getting ready to head for the river when the phone call came that Bill had died from complications resulting from surgery. Stunned, we went ahead with the trip. The four of us paddled lazily down the Huron, remembering Papa, taking it in. The next day, we piled into the car and headed down to St. Augustine to say goodbye.

We can't fit the four of us in the canoe any more, and no one is willing to sit in a puddle in the bottom of the boat with their knees around their ears. Very soon, there will be only three of us living in our house, and then, only two. Rich and I are thinking of kayaks, or sailboats, or scampers, or... or... who knows what?

The canoe has been hanging from its hooks in the garage for three years. It's time to let go.

Interpreter of Maladies and Other Books

Day 110: Interpreter of Maladies, a Suitable Boy and Other Books Not About India

After what feels like an eternity sitting in the sun in a non-air-conditioned car driving back from Gros Cap (how peaceful it is there!), I only have enough energy to pick out a few books for the giveaway pile. Two about India, one about China, one about ancient Britain, E.L. Doctorow's fictionalized biography of two brothers/hoarders, a fantasy novel (come on Jasper Fforde, you can do better!) and a mystery novel (about the U.P. where I've just been). 

Also I found five books to move to the "future reads" shelf. "A year of..." memoir of the ilk that has inspired me to do this year of getting rid of one thing a day (about meat!), a Susan Sontag book (haven't you always wanted to read her and never quite gotten around to it?), another one about India (is there a theme here?), one about Niagara Falls and one with a really cool retro cover (and Herman Wouk wrote one of the stories!).

Last week I unearthed popsicle makers from the cupboard and elected to make popsicles instead of giving them away. A trend?

Scarves

Day 109: Scarves

If I could take a sabbatical every seven years, I could keep working until the day I die. Unfortunately, the price for that is obtaining a PhD, followed by a tenure track faculty position. My theory is that it's hard to emerge with a tenured position and your community-mindedness intact, owing to the relentless individualism required first to get the PhD and then to get tenure. Which is why it is practically impossible (or perhaps just very rare) for tenured faculty to be good managers. What is a good manager except a person who uplifts and empowers staff? And what relentless individualist devotes effort and study to bringing out the best in others?

It takes courage to allow your direct reports to do better than you would. Perhaps even more courage to allow them to do not quite as well. 

Hidden away as I am at the Arb & Gardens, these realities are removed. I'm fortunate enough to have a former Eagle Scout and pillar of the community as a boss. That's part of the reason why there hasn't been a necktie or a pair of nylons sighted at my workplace in several years. The other reason, of course, is that so many of the staff here spend their days digging in the dirt, firing up power tools, setting fires, climbing trees, and pulling weeds. The rest of us labor in un-air-conditioned offices (I send staff home when indoor temps exceed ninety degrees), where neckties and nylons are unbearable. 

All this means that the very large scarf wardrobe I collected to dress up my management consulting and finance manager attire is getting pretty dusty. It was easy to pull out a handful that I haven't worn in over a year. 

Meanwhile, my four day sabbatical in the UP is drawing to a close. If only it were four months, I'd be ready for anything. 

Boots and Knee Guards

Day 108: Boots and Knee Guards

My mother is still taking care of me, although I am fifty and she is 74. These boots are proof. This January, the rubber disintegrated, fully and irrevocably, on my 15-year-old Columbia ultra-warm ultra-comfortable snow boots. It was the winter of 2014, the Snowpacolypse, the coldest, snowiest, nastiest, no-boots-left-on-the-shelf worst winter of all time. 

"Take these," my mom said. "I haven't worn them in three years. Really. " So I did. Sadly, they were extremely uncomfortable, binding across the tops of my very high arches. But the intention was there. 

Right beside my mother's old snow boots out in the garage were these old knee pads, which came with the Bell helmet we got for Emma Jane's little head and knees 13 years ago, when we were teaching her to ride a bike and just getting into the swing of what it feels like to be fully responsible for the mental and physical health and well-being of another human being (or two). One that you love absolutely. 

Fully responsible. 

So here we are, up north at my parents' UP getaway while that other human being is staying all by herself for the very first time, with no one but a couple of chickens for company. As my brother says, "College is coming, you know? She can manage."

Will I still feel fully responsible thirty plus years from now, when she is fifty? Perhaps. Can she manage? I believe so. Otherwise, I wouldn't have left her. 

Chaise Longue

Day 107: Chaise Longue

Life is about compromise. So, rather than giving away this old-fashioned armless rocking chair, which no one sits in nor ever has, we are moving it to the front porch and giving away the wicker chaise longue, whose cushion the squirrels have begun to disembowel to steal the cotton for their nests. I hate the chaise longue even more than I hate the rocking chair, because it is uncomfortable for your neck and, even more important, some undergraduate slept off a drunken stupor on it a couple years ago, which makes me fear that it's an invitation to every homeless person and partier in the neighborhood, located as it is on the front porch in plain view. We just need to find another spot for the hidden key. 

The antique armless rocking chair is theoretically perfect for sitting in to play the guitar, although it can't be used for that purpose stored beneath the studio stairwell as it is. So it's destined for the front porch, and the chaise longue is destined for the Goodwill.  

Speaking of compromise and playing music, we've been doing a lot of both this weekend in the U.P. Rich has been playing the guitar and I have been playing the mandolin, he beautifully and I with supreme mediocrity. Compromise plays into it: I'm playing the melodies at double my comfortable speed, and Rich has been teaching me chords and strum patterns, if not exactly with patience, then at least with good humor. And yesterday, when we caught me weeping with frustration over changing a string, he kissed me on the cheek, took  the kinks out and coached me through. We're going to perfect Whiskey Before Breakast  and Soldier's Joy before the weekend is out. 

No phone, no texting, no internet. Just music (I'm getting better!), good food, the sound of the surf and midnight sunsets. Except for worrying about Emma Jane (is she okay by herself in the house?), I am having a terrific time.

Sam's School Work

Day 106: Sam's School Work

My COC village. Peaceful, innit?

Sam is out of the house for two weeks visiting his grandma in Florida. I'm trying to stay in touch with him by playing his favorite game, Clash of Clans. I am a member of his clan. I never actually go to battle except when Sam starts a clan war and it's my duty to take one for the team. Even though my warriors are really just binary code, I hate that they all get killed every time I go to battle. I'm totally incompetent as a warrior; the only time "I" win is when Sam is physically sitting next to me to coach me through it; sometimes he has to take the helm (ie, grab my iPad and finish playing for me). However, as in life, Clash of Clans awards the Chief who waits patiently for the gold mines and elixir drills to accumulate wealth, then spends wisely on infrastructure. I'm ranked third in our clan.

I took Sam's absence as an opportunity to clean out his cubby, which is really just square in our living room IKEA bookshelf. The cubby was filled with reams of notes, handouts, tests, study guides, used spiral notebooks, drafts of essays, Spanish language vocabulary sheets, English language vocabulary sheets, and science lab results. Our 50-gallon recycling bin is over half full with a single year's worth of school work. 

Here it is, empty binders and new
spiral notebooks all ready for next year

I personally remember very little of what I learned in high school, so I doubt whether this weight of busy work has actually added much to Sam's store of knowledge. There are over a million words in the English language, with a new word being invented every couple hours. The average high school educated English-speaking person knows about 45,000 words (60,000 including proper nouns). So what's the point of learning 15 words a week for an English vocab test? 

I suspect that the real point of a high school education - maybe even a college education - is to prove that a person can follow instructions and meet deadlines. Neither of my kids certainly seems to be learning much critical thinking and teamwork at school.

I did find some valuable things in the cubby: a Spanish textbook and a novel from his English class, both property of the Ann Arbor Public School system. If he does not return these books before June of 2016, he will not be permitted to graduate. I've therefore put them in a prominent place, with a note telling him to return the books the minute he gets back from Florida.

Little Bo Peep's Cane

Day 105: Little Bo Peep's Cane
Can I be an old codger, now that I'm fifty? When I was a kid, our approach to Halloween costumes was completely different. I remember putting significant thought and creativity into the stuff we had at home, and how it could be transformed into a costume. A couple of costumes I particularly remember: a snowman out of a white terrycloth robe with pillows tied around my body, lumps of charcoal for buttons and an actual carrot tied around my nose. A cereal box out of a giant cardboard box, carefully papier mache'ed and painted to replicate Rice Krispies exactly, except larger and with holes for my head, legs and arms. My friend Shelly Tuer went as Frosted Flakes.

Little Bo Peep probably actually
had a shepherd's crook. I hate to
imagine Emma, a shepherd's crook
and Joe and Sam all together in the
same room at that age.

When the kids were really little, my mom made awesome themed costumes each year for all the grandkids. One year, it was Little Bo Peep. There are advantages to being the oldest grandchild: Emma was Little Bo Peep, Joe and Sam were sheep. Then there was the Wizard of Oz. Emma was Dorothy. Little Red Riding Hood - guess who Emma was? The only vestige of the costumes I have is Little Bo Peep's cane.

My own children focus on buying the right thing rather than making the right thing. I tried to resist. I tried to get their creative juices flowing. I tried to suggest fabrics and objects that might turn into something exciting and original. One year, it worked. Emma and I crafted a giant Pepsi can using a two-foot diameter metal ring that used to hold our dog food pail shut, plus a lot of blue, red and white felt and Elmer's glue. She even won an award.

But in general, most of their Halloween costuming has involved Fantasy Attic or eBay. And in truth, everybody else's costumes are store bought. Forcing them to wear handmade costumes is like sending children of the 1950's to school with homemade bread: embarrassing.

I can only hope that after fifty more years, homemade costumes will be cool again. Just like home baking.

Tablecloths

Day 104: Tablecloths

I don't know why I have stacks of tablecloths. I have not used a tablecloth in at least ten years. They are not pretty. They don't match my dishes. They don't fit the table. Why do I keep them?

Just in case.

Reminds me of bedsheets somehow.