Oak End Table

Day 165: Oak End Table

Day 165. I won't say it's exactly significant. But it does mean I have exactly 200 days to go. 

200 days. 

200 days of identifying stuff that has no utility and brings no joy. (Do I have 200 such items left?) 200 days of trying to come up with content that, if not interesting, is at least not embarrassing. 200 days of writing a few paragraphs, sometimes late at night when I'd rather be sleeping. Or in the middle of the day while I'm walking on a dock in Saugatuck, writing with my thumbs (as I am now). Or sitting at my desk instead of taking a lunch break. 200 days of taking photos, and composing Craig's List ads (only about 50% successful so far), or running to the post office or the Salvation Army. 200 days of composing little quips for Facebook and hoping someone will comment. 

And why? Because at this point, it's starting to feel like into Thin Air. Like, why would a guy with kids and money and a home keep on climbing that mountain, when it was ugly and strewn with litter and dead bodies and he could hardly breath? When he might have died and then where would his kids be? Was it just because he wanted to say he'd done it? Was it because, having invested so much in beginning the endeavor - the training, the gear, arranging it all, writing about it for publication no less - would it have been just too humiliating to call it quits? Who would he be, if having invested all that, he simply packed it in and went home?

I'm not self-satisfied enough to imagine that this endeavor is by any means on a par with climbing Mount Everest. And I do remember what I hoped to gain from it - a daily writer's prompt, a forum for thinking through letting my daughter go off to college with grace, an opportunity to clean house responsibly and thoughtfully, and perhaps, at the end, content for a thought-provoking memoir about stuff, society and letting go. And I even realize that deep learning involves effort. Even hardship. 

But today, sitting here on the dock with the sun shining and the wind at my back, with no photos of extraneous stuff in my photo archive, plumbing my memory for a thing or two that we don't need, I'm starting to feel the same way about the stuff project as I felt about Jon Krakauer's trip up Mount Everest. 

Like, seriously?

So. This end table. Water damage on the top. Not rickety. It made the cut when we moved to Ann Arbor from San Francisco. But it's in the basement now, getting more water damage and doing nobody any good. I don't have a photo, because I'm 150 miles away. And the Salvation Army errand will have to wait 'til Tuesday. 

165 down. 200 to go. 

Lumpy Pillows

Day 164: Lumpy Pillows

Bed sheets aren't the only domestics I have too much of. I also have an accumulation of lumpy pillows. They are stuffed with polyester, the kind of pillows I would never buy or use. I don't know how we came by them, but I do believe that each time a new pillow has come  into our household, the old pillows don't go away. 

Speaking of pillows, here it is ten o'clock at night. It's been a full day. I'm just about to put my head on down-filled keeper and close my eyes.

Pupil Desk

Day 163: Pupil Desk
Today's lesson: stuff does not change who you are. Therefore, you should refrain from obtaining things intended to make you fitter, more organized, more studious, more timely, cleaner or a better cook. If you are already fit, or organized, or studious, or timely, or clean, or a good cook, additional tools - yoga mats, date books, pupil desks, clocks, Ajax, or frying pans - can come in handy. But yoga mats, date books, pupil desks, clocks, Ajax and frying pans will not turn you into Superwoman.

This lesson is exponentially truer when you are obtaining things intended to make other people fitter, more organized, more studious, more timely, cleaner, or a better cook. That's why this pupil desk simply took up space, becoming a repository for miscellaneous random items. Far from doing anybody any good, the desk actually decreased the value of the miscellaneous items that ended up in its drawers and cupboards, since those items (not belonging there) left the stream of useful objects. Lost. This pupil desk became our Island of Misfit Goods, a sanctuary for defective and unwanted objects, with no King Moonracer to serve as their advocate.

When I bought this (used from Craig's List), I imagined that Emma Jane - or maybe Sam - would sit studiously in an office chair, books spread out on the little shelf, papers in order. The drawers would be filled with neatly organized school supplies. The textbooks would never be misplaced. Our kitchen table, miraculously free of clutter, would not need to be cleared off for dinner. We would be able to put our feet on the coffee table without knocking down a stack of spiral-bound notebooks.

Of course, that didn't happen. Sam likes to do his homework at the kitchen table. Emma likes to sit on the couch. No pupil desk is going to change that.

Maybe some other kid will use it for organized study. Or maybe some other mother will use it to fuel her dreams.

At least the Misfit Goods - pens, makeup, water bottles, plastic forks, music books, chopsticks, construction paper, tiny notebooks, beads, sewing pins, magnets - have left the island and returned to civilization.

Leaky Hose and Broken Sandals

Day 162: Leaky House and Broken Sandals
You get what you pay for with garden hoses. The pricey ones last forever. The cheap ones often don't last a season. At Home Depot, you can spend $10 for a light duty fifty-foot hose, or $60 for the same length, heavy duty. Although the bargain hunter in me recoils, I think I'm finally ready to commit to heavy duty, straight down the line. It isn't just the fact that I keep having to get rid of garden hoses every year. It's also that the light duty variety are kinky, slithery and leaky. Is it useful? Within limits. Does it give joy? Absolutely not - it gives frustration. Heavy duty is a joy to use, an all-in-one minimalists' dream.

I discovered that the end of this leaky kinky cheap hose was crushed when I tried to screw it into the faucet yesterday. The same day, my Firkenstocks - which cost $25 and which I've had for only three months - fell apart in my hands.

Note to self. It's neither a bargain nor ecofriendly to buy junk that falls apart within weeks. Heavy duty hoses. Brand name Birkenstocks.

Jewelry Box

Day 161: Jewelry Box

The more I get rid of, the more I like my house. The more I get rid of and like my house, the more I'm willing to get rid of.

One of the very hardest categories of things to get rid of is things with sentimental value. This jewelry box is one of those things. This jewelry box - so very 70s, with its orange-gold lined drawers and fancy little knobs - is one of the few things I have left from my own childhood. But I have a much nicer, larger red chest (thanks, Mom), more useful and more beautiful. (Remember the Minimalists: is it useful? does it give joy?) The 70s jewelry box has been sitting on top of the red chest, gradually becoming emptier. Each time I wear a piece of jewelry, I put it away in the nicer chest, so that today, when I emptied the old jewelry box, there was not one thing in it of value. Now that it's gone, the room looks just a little less cluttered. A little more lovely.

A funny story about this old jewelry box. About eight years ago, I found the words "Sam sucks!" scratched into the veneer, apparently with a sewing pin. I ask you: would a smart girl like Emma go into her mother's room with a pin and scratch fighting words onto her mother's sentimental childhood object? Another question: would a mischievous boy like Sam who enjoys flying below the radar screen - one who doesn't mind seeing his sister get in trouble - be clever enough to set her up?

That's when I realized that Sam plays a deep game. 

Miscellaneous Junk

Day 160: Miscellaneous Junk
This is a box of miscellaneous junk that I collected in a cardboard box while making the room switch. It includes:

• A very small shelf with pegs for hanging things on, which came free with some garden store merchandise years ago, and which I picked up off the free table at work. It used to hang on Emma's wall but it's been years since it was hanging
• A faded green damask comforter cover which I believe my brother bought and used in Africa
• A Vera Bradley handbag, never used (by us, anyway), which a co-worker brought to a naked ladies party I threw last year and which we thought we might use someday
• A tiny Tibetan peace flag which came in the mail with a fundraising pitch
• A little blue locker shelf that I bought in an effort to help keep a middle school locker organized, which did not actually fit in the locker but which I could not bear to get rid of because I'd paid good money for it

I planned to get rid of this box on Sunday, the same day Sam and I made a grocery run to Meijer's. Ten years ago, both kids went to the grocery store each and every time I shopped, because they were too little (six and seven) to be left home alone. Sam constantly complains that there is "no food in the house" when there is clearly enough food to feed a Masai village for a month. I've been trying to lure Sam to the store for several years with the promise that he would be allowed to buy anything he wants, thereby solving for himself the "no food in the house" problem. I'm not sure why he finally agreed to make the trip, but off we went together, late Sunday afternoon.

This is what he chose:

• Cherry frosted Pop Tarts
• Apple Jacks and Cinnamon Toast cereal
• Frozen shrimp for stir fry
• Barbecue potato chips and salt & vinegar potato chips
• Rye bread
• Beef jerky
• Cheddar cheese so sharp it squeaks in your teeth
• Freezer pops
• A twelve pack of A&W root beer
• Bananas, basque pears, raspberries and blueberries ("I might eat a peach if you cut it up for me")
• Chicken sausage
• Frosted animal cookies
• Suave shampoo, rainwater scent

All this, in addition to our regular fare, cost about $150.

As we were driving out of the Meijer parking lot, we drove past a family of four standing by a stop sign. The man was holding up a big hand-lettered cardboard sign which said, "HOMELESS! Lost my job! Family of four! Jesus loves you!" He was smiling and waving pleasantly at each vehicle that stopped at the sign. His wife held one child on her hip, and the other, about waist-high, huddled up against her. She looked tired.

As we passed, I asked Sam, "What do you think of that?"

"I think it's sad."

"Do you think we should give them some money?"

"Yes." 

So I pulled over, saying "I'm not sure I have any money." (See previous references to how having teenagers at home cleans you out.) I was thinking about the $150 in junk food groceries, and the box of miscellaneous useless stuff about to go to the PTO Thrift Shop. Sam took his wallet out of his back pocket and took out five ones, all the money he has in the world, at least until I pay him for his next set of chores. I pulled my wallet out of my purse and handed him what little cash was in it.

"Eleven dollars," he said. "That ought to at least buy them a meal."

In the car on the way home, he asked whether I thought we were giving that family money so we wouldn't feel like shit heels, or if we were giving them money because we wanted to help them. After some conversation, we decided it really didn't matter why were giving them the money. Whatever our motivation, the end result was the same.

Proud.

Hot Curlers

Day 159: Hot Curlers

Thank you, Elizabeth Arden, for transforming women's beauty rituals. Where once we merely pinched our cheeks and bit our lips to add a little color and bathed weekly with scented soap, we presently spend 55 minutes a day and $2.3 trillion (yes, TRILLION) per year on beauty rituals and products. Did you know that political science professor Sheila Jeffreys has published an entire book on the topic of whether western women's beauty rituals - ranging from labiaplasty to liposection to lipstick - should be included in the United Nations' definition of harmful traditional/cultural beauty practices? 

Do a quick web search on "beauty industry" and "feminism" and you'll find a hord of twentysomething women bloggers proclaiming that they are feminists who have been (fill in the blank) ... wearing lipstick, or depilitating, or bleaching their hair, or botoxing, or, or, or... How convenient for Elizabeth Arden: where 75 years ago, women would have been shocked and repulsed by the idea of shaving their armpits, nowadays we can go down to the Wax Loft in Ann Arbor and spend anywhere from $13 (upper lip) to $140 (full leg/Brazilian) to "avoid mishaps and minimize the pain associated with hair removal."

Not surprisingly, my daughter and I - and my mother and I in years long past - are not in perfect accord with regard to how much time and money should be spent on personal beauty. Happily, in the PTO Thrift Shop, we can sometimes set aside these disagreements. How exciting to find these hot curlers nestled on the shelf during one of our thrift crawls. Only $2, and with that all-important word, "Works," penned in black Sharpie on a piece of masking tape, stuck to the bottom.

Emma left these behind when she packed for college. I would have kept them for her - no self-mutilation necessary! - but when I tested them, sadly, they no longer worked.

When she comes home, she'll be stuck with the lovely, shiny, ever-so slightly waved tresses God gave her. And 100 strokes each night with a hairbrush.

Miscellaneous Strange Things

Day 158: Miscellaneous Strange Things

Sam says that his old room, now putatively Emma's room but really more of a guest room, looks like a grandfather's room. It's got my lovely antique bed, now seriously warped by its two year sojourn in the basement. It has the National Geographic sepia framed map of the world, embossed with Emma's name, which my father gave her to track her travels around the world, complete with color coded pins for marking where she's been and where she would like to go. It's got my gorgeous but impractical vanity, split in two with the mirror hung upside down on the wall by the bed like a kinky shield. No sign of Emma, really. Even the map looks strangely impersonal. 

When I emptied her old room of stuff to make way for Sam, I found some strange things. Like this corn-on-the-cob stuffed animal - scratch that - stuffed vegetable, with its sombrero and swashbuckling mustache. And this pink crepe paper ball, held together with wire. Who designed these things? Who looked at the design, pulled out the checkbook and said, "By God, yes! Let's do it!" Who worked on the corn doll assembly line? What did they think about, day after day, gluing mustaches hour upon hour, on their feet all day?

Yet removing these things is what took Emma's personality from the space, leaving me missing her and regretting the sudden move. I talked with her today. She sounded subdued, but competent. Like she's doing what needs to be done. Like she's adjusting. 

I guess I'm adjusting, too. As the stuff project progresses, the empty spaces in the house - the blank wall where the vanity once was in my bedroom, for example - feel peaceful. Soothing. Like maybe I'd like to get rid of it all except my tent, my mess kit, my two burner stove, my sleeping bag, my lantern, three pairs of underwear, two shirts, two pairs of pants and a warm winter coat. Toothpaste, toothbrush and shampoo. On the sandy shore of Lake Michigan, watching the sun set. Leaving the corn dolls behind, along with everything else. 

Simpsons and Bugs Bunny Poster

Day 157: Simpsons and Bugs Bunny Posters

Too tired to write. Too tired to eat. Too tired to read. Perhaps not too tired for a beer.  

Painted Sam's former room today. The intention was to make it Emma's room but frankly, it looks exactly like a guest room. The only thing Emma about it is the prom dress in the closet. The furniture is my childhood bed and vanity, so maybe it looks a little like my room. But it doesn't look one little bit like Emma's room. 

I spent the day vacuuming, dusting, painting, moving furniture, repairing stuff and lugging things from the basement to the second floor. Emma spent the day auditioning for the Ball State improv group, which we only know from

Facebook. I've always thought she could make it as a comedian. I wonder how it went. I wonder if she will ever come home and live in this room that looks like a guest room. 

Thirsty. 

Rolling Desk Chair

Day 156: Rolling Desk Chair

Conveniently poised at the
top of the stairs in case someone
would like to take a ride

If I'm not mistaken, this is an actual landfill rescue, brought into the house by Sam or Emma from next to the dumpster in the apartment building next door. It lived in Sam's room for a while, then out in the studio (armless! good for playing the guitar!) then in Emma's room under her desk. I believe no one has actually used it as a chair in several months - possibly years - although it has been a convenient repository for dirty clothes.

Goodbye, little black rolling chair. There is no space for you in Emma's new smaller room.

Backpack

Day 155: Backpack

I had an all-day meeting at the Law School today, a scant mile from my house. After a day of sitting, the walk home felt good. Along the way I noticed a couple of college-aged girls unloading stuff directly from the bed of a Ford F-150 into a dumpster. I've walked past that dumpster a million times, and insofar as I've thought about it at all, I assumed it was part of a major construction project. It's huge - eight feet tall and fifteen feet long, one of three dumpsters that together take up almost an entire block.

I looked twice because I thought the girls were doing illegal dumping. And they were dumping some really good stuff. Like sturdy metal shelves - seemingly brand new - such as the ones we have in our basement for cleaning supplies and tools. Or a chrome floor lamp, light bulb and all. Or a 50-gallon garbage bag bulging with textiles. Or an 8x10 oriental rug, hardly worn.

Then I realized that there were workers right there next to the dumpsters. One was writing on a clipboard, another driving a small loader. And I noticed another car parked in front of the F-150, with a young man taking stuff out of the vehicle and tossing it up and over the edge of the middle dumpster. I thought about our neighbors, the football players moving out this weekend and the big dumpster of stuff they left behind in their driveway. And I realized that it's summer move-out, when the kids who've graduated but stayed on through the end of their leases finally clean everything out and head off for the next phase of their lives. And these dumpsters must be there for the college students to throw away all their old stuff, so it can be carted off directly to the landfill.

The rest of the way home, I noticed garbage bins and dumpsters filled with perfectly good stuff. Sturdy wastepaper baskets. A pair of worn but servicable blue easy chairs. A plastic lawn chair. A half-dead potted plant. Picture frames, plastic cups, bed pillows, lampshades. Glassware.

I was feeling an impulse to pull this stuff out of the garbage and take it home with me, not because I need or want it but because I can't stand the thought of it all going to waste. I was thinking of all the brand new stuff we bought for Emma for her new dorm room. I was so pleased to think of her starting her new life with fresh new things. But now, here are all these perfectly servicable not very old things that must be gotten rid of. Like this backpack, which she'd been carrying for two or three years in high school. I realized a day or so ago that it isn't the slightest bit worn, and yet we bought a new one, from the North Face. Starting fresh.

And here are all these 40,000 University of Michigan students, a large portion of whose parents had the same impulse when they headed off to college, the impulse to send the kids off with a fresh start. And at the other end, all these dumpsters full of four-year old fresh starts.

When I first graduated from college, I lived for 18 months in an apartment in Jamaica Plain with a couple of kibbutzniks. Tlalit would cook our entire weeks' worth of meals every Sunday, delicious, complicated food like spinach pies with filo dough. Tzvika would dumpster-dive with the 1979 Datsun B210 that he'd picked up somewhere for a song and restored to working order. He'd go around to college neighborhoods and come home with broken t.v.s, stereos and lamps, repair them, and sell them through classified ads or garage sales. The two of them couldn't get over the waste in the United States, and the wealth, and the poverty. It was their lark year after college, before they went back home to Israel and got on with their real lives, and they funded it on the flotsam and detritus of the Boston elite.

I have a feeling there aren't enough enterprising and competent kibbutzniks in Ann Arbor to empty all those dumpsters. But wouldn't it be nice if at least a little bit of that stuff could find its way to those poorer neighborhoods - or even those poorer schools - right down the road in Detroit and Flint? 

It seems like there ought to be a way to make it happen.

50" Sony Projection TV on Stand

Day 154: 50" Sony Projection TV on Stand

Across the street and a half-block down is a little apartment house on Packard that has been occupied by perfectly nice, perfectly quiet UM football players. Although they sometimes have beer parties in the yard, generally they are friendly, clean and about as good as it gets in terms of undergraduate student neighbors. I bought my scooter from one of them a year ago - an awesome retro 49 cc Yamaha Vino - which came about purely by accident: I answered his Craig's List ad and it turned out we were neighbors. Because of that, I've realized that he has a little business buying and selling scooters. I frequently see young men taking test drives up and down our street: 250-pound clean-cut guys with athletic builds driving around the block on tiny mopeds, their knees up around their ears. Generally the guys wear shorts, flip-flops and no helmets. I guess football players are invincible.

Well, these perfectly nice football players moved out on Sunday. For students, they seem to have a lot of stuff, because they had two pretty sizable U-Hauls parked on the street. One thing they didn't take with them: a 50" Sony projection TV on a built-in stand. Instead, they put the thing on the corner with two signs taped to it: one says "Free" and the other says "Works."

Well, Sam laid eyes on this 50" Sony projection TV and his eyes lit up like Christmas lights. He was thinking of his brand-new huge bedroom, and the loveseat he'd like to put in there between the two big windows, and how awesome it would be to play X-Box with his buddies while sitting on the imagined loveseat. On this free, working 50" Sony projection TV with a built-in stand.

Well, is it a bad thing when a mother loves her son so much she wants to say "Yes"? In this case, yes. Yes, it's a bad thing. Not, yes, this TV is a good idea.

We tried it. We used a sturdy luggage rack, him pulling, me guiding. We got it all the way across the street. I was groaning a bit, although you couldn't hear it above the traffic noise. By the time we got across the street with it, I had decided that thing was never going to enter my house. It probably wouldn't fit through the front door, and it certainly wouldn't fit up the stairs. And Sam is only going to be living here for two more years.

Sam took the bad news with equanimity. We deposited the TV on a different corner, adjusted the signs ("Free!" "Works!") so they would be visible from Packard, and headed back home.

The next morning, the TV was on my front porch. Thanks, guys!

The good news: I advertised it ("Free!" "Works!") on Craig's List. So far, three takers. If Maurita no-shows tomorrow, I've got two more suckers in my back pocket, ready to stop by on Saturday.

Shoe Rack

Day 153: Shoe Rack

You can see a couple of
pairs of left-behind high
heeled shoes on the floor
behind the rack. I ended up
just arranging them on
the closet floor. The
old-fashioned method, no
furniture required

This shoe rack has been in Emma's closet for several years. Over time, it became a repository for those few shoes that she never wore. The problem with it is that the front bar is lower than the back bar, probably so that the shoes can be elegantly displayed for ease of selection. This means that, unless the shoe has at least a two-inch heel, they generally just slide right off. And another problem: it's a rickety rack. It wobbles and shimmies and generally behaves as though it's a Victorian hot house flower on the verge of collapse. I don't even know where it came from.

Emma took about half of her shoes with her to college, and wisely left about half behind. Many of the "home shoes" do in fact have two-inch heels (or higher), and once again I agonize - at least for a minute - over whether to keep or get rid of this object. And once again, the Minimalists' criteria - does it give joy? is it useful? - came in handy. No doubt, this thing does not give joy. Quite the opposite: it's irritating. Is it useful? Based on the number of shoes that have slid onto the floor, I had to give it a "No."

I've been thinking about how often this inner struggle over the decision to get rid of something takes place. I have resolved to get rid of one thing a day for a full year, and because of this, I'm more inclined to get rid of the things I'm torn about. This is more efficient, I reason, because in another 100 days, all these things I'm torn about are going to be back on the chopping block. Might as well not have to think about them again.

Another thing I've noticed: how much I like to obtain things. Especially bargains and free stuff. And much of the stuff I've gotten rid of was a bargain. Or free. So I'm trying to be a little more conscious of taking home those bargains only if I'd be willing to pay full price.

With five months under my belt, it's interesting to note that I haven't missed one single object that I've gotten ridden of.

Except my bee stuff.

And Emma Jane.

Bulletin Board

Day 152: Bulletin Board

Here's a bulletin for you: if you're going to allow your younger child to move into your older child's room, wait until your older child has been gone from home at least two weeks. Especially if your older child loves stuff. Especially if physical chaos makes you anxious, causing you not to be able to relax until everything is orderly and in place. Don't allow your younger child to begin the process of moving stuff from one room to another until the first room is cleaned out. Don't begin painting on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of soccer try-outs and busy times at work and the blues everyone is feeling because your older child has left a hole in the household.

Here's another smart idea: if you constructed your younger child's 200-pound pressboard IKEA bed inside his tiny bedroom, don't assume you can get it through your circa 1927 doorframe without significant disassembly. And don't assume the disassembly will be easy to figure out, or that the little socket wrench that came with the IKEA bed is a standard size. Don't assume you will be able to put the components of the bed back together once you have taken it apart.

If, however, you have gone down the path of any of these poor decisions, don't be afraid to retrench. Finish the paint job, but don't worry too much about the spots where the black and purple previous colors are peeking through. Move all the clothes and decorations from room A to room B and vice versa. Then move everything you can't figure out what to do with into half-painted room B and shut the door.

Girl Stuff

Day 151: Girl Stuff

Switching the kids' bedrooms. Now that Emma's gone, Sam gets to move into her bigger, brighter space. We spent the day cleaning, organizing and painting.  I promised not to give away her stuff, and I'm sticking to it. Mostly. 

Family dinner tonight, my nephew Joe's last for a while. At 14, he leaves for boarding school on Friday. With our numbers diminishing, I thought the little girls could use a bit of cheering up. I chose a few odds and ends that I know Emma won't miss. A purple feather boa for Roxanne, the five-year-old vamp. A pretty little notebook, never used, with the letter E on every page for Evie, the little scholar. A Guatemalan purse for sensible Kaeli, who declined, saying she doesn't want to accumulate too much stuff. A girl after my own heart. 

Also in the box: a giant kids' atlas of the world, which my own kids have outgrown but which might now be good for Karl's classroom, a pair of women's ice skates size 7, a hat box, and a little red Snoopy t-shirt.

All this painting, cleaning and chaos. I am sure I will soon get used to our bigger, quieter, cleaner house. 

Soon. 

For sure. 

Last Day for Books

Day 150: Last Day for Books

August 16, the last day of the AAUW book pick-up. In its honor, I selected a larger stack of books to get rid of, the last of the good reads that we'll never crack open again. The only books left to go through now are the kids' books, to separate those that should go to our nieces and nephew from those that we want to keep. I believe I can now fit all our books onto the bookshelves single-depth.

Finding the AAUW book drop off was like falling through the looking glass. In my head, I had the drop-off timed perfectly such that I could finish the errand and get to Saline High School in time for Sam's 1:00 game. The AAUW web site said it was in north end of the Target shopping mall, over on Oak Valley Drive. I never go over that way, so I didn't realize the construction had closed off Ann Arbor-Saline Road entirely. The detour routed me around Briarwood. To be on the safe side, I continued around to Ellsworth then turned right on Lohr Road, past Meijer, to approach the Target shopping mall from the east. I was flabbergasted when I got to Ann Arbor-Saline Road and found it closed from that direction as well. All you could see were huge orange construction fences and detour signs. From where I sat, it appeared that the entire mall had entirely disappeared. Since there was apparently no way to get to Target at all, I figured the entire shopping mall was closed. By then it was already quarter to 1. I had no idea where the AAUW drop-off was any more. I pulled an illegal u-turn, giving up on the errand even though I'd been planning it for weeks. I was already going to be late for Sam's game.

At the next intersection, I saw a tiny sign board with "AAUW" and an arrow pointing left. I was in the wrong lane. I had to make a snap decision: should I be even later to the soccer game, or go ahead with the damned book drop-off? Well, the game was the second of three that day, a tournament, so I knew I'd be spending hours at Saline High School. I doubted Sam would notice the exact time I arrived at the game. pulled another illegal u-turn, peering around all the while for more little signs with "AAUW" on them. In the end, it was easy. If I'd gone by way of Scio Church Road, it would have taken 15 minutes. It took me 45.

I realize all this is probably pretty boring to read. It's all about mundane frustrations, and how you make plans and they don't always turn out as planned. 

Road construction.

How to Speak Dog

Day 149: How to Speak Dog and Other Books

I don't speak dog, but I can tell that Harpo is a bit on edge. He's farty, and when my alarm rang this morning, he was asleep on the bed at my feet, a big no-no in our house. I don't know if he knows Emma is gone - he had a strange habit of growling and tucking his tail whenever she petted him, almost like a purring cat, possibly because of being picked up, tossed around and manhandled one time too many - but I do know that all the reorganizing, painting and getting rid of stuff has him on edge. But maybe, like me, he misses her.  

She called me tonight, but it was only to tell me that she'd bought another textbook. While I had her on the phone, she told me a little about her roommate, her program, the people she's met. Then we said "Love you." Hung up. And I was by myself again for the evening. Strange how someone can be so utterly dependent on you, and then not. 

I remember distinctly the first time someone asked me, "Are you a mother?" He was cutting my hair in a salon in San Francisco; I was sitting in a riveted swivel chair with wetted hair, looking at him and myself in a giant mirror. I said, "Yes, I am. Why do you ask?"

"You look tired," he answered. 

I'm still tired, 17 years later. Tomorrow morning, I may sleep in. 

Mists of Avalon

Day 148: Mists of Avalon and Other Books

This small stack of books is one of many stacks of things Sam and I cleared out of Emma Jane's room today. I promised not to get rid of anything that belongs to her, but we found much in the room that once belonged to me. 

I never finished The Mists of Avalon. I found the book so compelling, it disturbed my dreams. The characters came to life at night and woke me from sleep. I was 16 years old, just the same age as Sam and a year younger than Emma is now. I was living in Middletown, Ohio, commuting to a small private school in Dayton and just about as miserable as a kid could be. Another book entered my dreams that same year - The Stand, by Stephen King - and I stopped reading that one, too. I don't know why I've hung onto The Mists of Avalon all these years, while The Stand is long gone.

I haven't heard a peep from Emma since I watched her walk through the door leading to her dorm hall. Rich thinks we should let her contact us first. 

I don't know if I can wait that long. 

How was dinner with her hallmates yesterday? How did she sleep, first night away from home? Did her roommate arrive today as planned? Did they rearrange the room?

Has she met anyone from her program yet? Has she figured out where to go on the first day of class?

Has she eaten any vegetables?

Emma Jane

Day 147: Emma Jane Rickman

Surrendered my daughter to Lynn, the resident advisor at Studebaker West. 

Wonder what she is doing right now?

Must. Not. Send. Text. 

Garbage, Recycling and Extra Clothing

Day 146: Garbage, Recycling and Extra Clothing

My idea was that Emma Jane would be in one of four moods during the 24- to 36-hour drop-off period: cold and snarky, or calm and mature, or stressed and frustrated, or weepy and sentimental. Possibly, I figured she would be all four at various moments.

So far, it's been mostly calm and mature, with a little silly and excited thrown in. And affectionate, and cheerful too. No sign of snarky and stressed.

She packed the car all by herself, the stuff piled so high we couldn't see out the rear view mirror. An easy drive through pastoral Indiana. Our first stop upon arrival: the college book store to get her books for the semester. She held even held my hand for a moment during the walk there. The wait for textbooks was nothing like in my day, when the store was packed with customers and staff sweating and shouting, flipping through big stacks of computer printouts and if you forgot your schedule, too bad for you. During the 20 minutes we were there, we had the undivided attention of a calm and cheery clerk. A half-dozen students came to pick up the textbook packages they'd already ordered on-line, no sales clerk necessary. We were the only folks who were selecting and buying the books right then. Emma chose wisely what to buy new, what to buy used, and what to rent.

Then back to the hotel, where she (again wisely) decided to reduce her packed clothing by a third. I couldn't get her to agree to let me give this big IKEA bag of extra stuff to the Goodwil, but at least she won't have it choking up her dorm room. (I also got rid of a massive pile of trash and recycling from her room this morning.) She did give me the Wicked jacket that my mom bought for her when we went to see the live Broadway show the year before last, which I love because I love the Oz books (I've read each at least five times), and the book Wicked (I've read it twice), and the musical (which I cherish the memory of seeing with Mom and Emma in Detroit). And now the jacket is a souvenir of this night as well.

Then, onto Scotty's, the brew pub a block from campus that is on its way to being our place while we are here. Our first dinner with Emma in many months, since she got her lifeguarding job and started buying fast food dinners with her friends.

Now relaxing in the Ball State Hotel suite we got for the night. 

Thirteen hours until move-in.

Removed at Emma's Request

Day 145: Removed at Emma's Request

I thought yesterday's post was a sweet and funny one about anticipating missing Emma herself but not her messy room. She thought it was mendacious and a little mean, so I unpublished it. Then we spent a half-hour cuddling and crying on the couch. 

Last night at home. 

Teenage Girl Books

Day 144: Teenage Girl Books

Last night, for the first time in many months - perhaps years - Emma Jane came and sat at my feet and let me run my fingers through her hair. After a while, she asked me to stroke her forearm lightly with my fingernails. She has loved this ever since she was a tiny little girl. I believe her gramma Jane was the first to stroke her arm in this way. Her arm is freckled now after a summer lifeguarding in the sun, just as it was when she was tiny and we spent so much time outdoors. 

Will this be the last time?

Friday evening was our last opportunity for pizza and movie night, a tradition in our house for well more than a decade. Rich made one veggie pizza and one pepperoni, just as we have done for years.  Fifteen years ago, the screen-time selection included Mary Poppins (in half-hour increments), Teletubbies (uh-oh!), and Dumbo. Ten years ago, Toy Story 2 (Toy Story 1 was too scary), Babe, and Monsters, Inc. Five years ago, The Natural, A League of Their Own, and E.T. A year ago, The Hangover, Ted and Bill's Excellent Adventure, and Beetlejuice. Now we choose what we like (this week, Five Easy Pieces) because it's been months since either kid agreed to watch with us. This week, the kids ate the pepperoni, but not until hours after it came out of the oven, and with their friends instead of with us. On the plus side, our movie viewing pleasure is uninterupted by shushes.

We leave for Ball State the day after tomorrow. She's taking her student actor and monologue books with her, but allowing me to throw a half-dozen Sarah Dresslers and Twilights into the AAUW pile.

I hear her calling me now. 

Will this be the last time?

How to Be Good

Day 143: How to Be Good and Other Books

Stuff is like the Purloined Letter. The thing you're looking for is in plain sight, hidden amongst an abundance of similar but useless items.

It's as true for books as it is for cloth napkins, socks, tupperware and jewelery. Here is the short stack of seven books I'm getting rid of today, mostly good reads, except The Daughter of Persia and An Atlas of the Difficult World, which were a little chewier:

Now, here's the stack of books we obtained one way or another because they looked good, which I didn't get to right away, and which gradually got subsumed into the overwhelming weight of other books on the shelf:

I'm especially excited about the Ann Packer book, and the book about water politics in Florida, and, of course, Lives of the Monster Dogs. Who wouldn't be excited about Lives of the Monster Dogs?

I'm hoping this stack of books will keep me company next week, after I drop off Emma Jane at Ball State.

6,458 days down, four to go.

She does say she's moving back home next summer. Unless she gets a job at Disneyland.

Les Vins de Bordeaux

Day 142: Les Vins de Bordeaux and Other Books

Does the object bring me joy? Is it useful to me? These are the Minimalists' questions, and they change everything with regard to books, at least for me. 

Les Vins de Bordeaux should theoretically be useful, except that it's in French. I can actually read a bit of French, and I've been keeping it all these years, thinking someday I would sit down and go through it. I was an Arts & Ideas major, and to complete my degree, I had to prove fluency in a foreign language by completing several college-level courses in that language. Yes, I have read the textbook Socialism en France, and I understood it and the entire political history of France described therein. I wrote multiple papers about it and I took a final exam which involved writing essays in French about the French revolution. Over thirty years ago. The likelihood that I will use this book to learn about French wines is, shall we say, minimal. Who in their right mind would use a book, even one written in your native tongue, when you can actually drink wine in a wine-tasting class at Washtenaw Community College?

Furthermore, very few books bring me joy, at least sitting on the shelf years after I read them. This isn't to say that I don't enjoy books. I do. I enjoyed The Summons very much, as I do every John Grisham book. He's the master. I enjoy Susan Minot, and I enjoyed looking through Tales and Mysteries. But these books don't bring me joy. Why am I keeping them?

I may end up hiring a U-Haul and hauling my entire book collection to the AAUW drop-off on August 16.

Quilting Books

Day 141: Quilting and Craft Books

I'm not sure these sad little quilting and craft books will sell at the AAUW book sale. In fact, I'm not even sure the St. Ignace public library will take them for free. And yet, I was reluctant to give them away. I made one quilt with them, about thirty years ago, with a Husqverna sewing machine my parents got for me when I was in college. 

My sister got the exact same machine. We were at the cottage on Clear Lake, and Elizabeth and I went into town together with my mom to choose patterns and fabrics for our first projects on the new machines. 

The end of this short story is that my sister ended the week with a beautifully tailored, perfectly fitted dress that included bound seams and double hemming. I ended with a pink and green "quilt" (I put quilt in quotes because I ran out of time for actual quilting) that never laid flat and was already coming apart at the seams before it ever lay on a bed. 

Nevertheless, I have fond memories of that week, and I still have the quilt, and the book, and the sewing machine. I use the quilt every day, the sewing machine every week and the book, once ... thirty years ago. 

Probably okay to open up some space on the shelf. 

Redemption

Day 140: Redemption and Other Books

The focus for the next ten days is going to be books. That's because the American Association of University Women's final book drop-off date is August 16, and I want to turn in as many there as I can.

Giving away books until the AAUW
drop-off closes on August 16

The AAUW book sale featured large in my childhood. My mom started volunteering for AAUW well before my memory dawns. Every year, our basement became stacked full of cardboard cartons, crammed with books people had donated to the sale. Once, our basement flooded while we were on vacation. I believe that was the last year we were asked to store books.

We saw less and less of my mom in the weeks leading up to the event. Back then, the sale took place in the Michigan Union ballroom, a huge, beautiful room mobbed with people for the three days of the sale. I didn't understand what it was all about, but I liked to browse among the books, wander through the Union, and sit beside my mom at the cash box.

A few years ago, my mom invited me an AAUW luncheon. Two scholarship recipients - beneficiaries of the sale proceeds - spoke. Up until then, I'd thought the sale was an awful lot of work for only a little gain: last time I got a report (granted, this was a long time ago) sale proceeds were in the neighborhood of $10K. I'm well aware of the many hours these dedicated volunteers put into the sale; I'm guessing they might earn $10K or more putting the same number of hours into minimum wage jobs.

Both scholarship recipients actually wept when they spoke at the podium. One was an older single mother. The other was a young woman, first in her family to go to college. Both were attending the University of Michigan, and both told the audience that they could not have afforded to go to college without the AAUW scholarship. Even $10,000 divided by two can make a big difference in someone's life.

The university-educated women who belong to and volunteer for AAUW aren't interested in low-paying jobs. They want the connection and community that comes from joining together in service of a larger purpose. So if you, like me, are getting rid of one thing every day - or just occasionally - consider giving your books to AAUW. You'll know your good books are going to a good cause.

World's End

Day 139: World's End

I completely forgot about the stuff project today. I didn't think about what I would give away, or what I would write. I didn't take photos last night, or do any research. I turned on my iPad purely for the purpose of logging my food and exercise (I've gained 5 pounds!), saw the blogger app and experienced a slight jolt, as though I'd gotten an electrical shock.

Day 139, and this is the very first time I've forgotten.

Well, books are an easy one. I've set a minimum of six to count as "one thing." I noted with pleasure that many of the shelves are now occupied (and not overstuffed) with books that give me great pleasure just to see them, nothing middling or mediocre. I also noticed that my pajama drawer and my table linen drawers were neatly organized when I put away the clean clothes this morning. So the project is working, at least insofar as it is creating greater tranquility in my home.

I myself am not tranquil, however. I'm heading off to the Bentley all-staff meeting this afternoon to meet a whole host of new people for whom I'll be responsible for administrative services. It's exciting, but it's a big transition, and it's a lot of work. And when Emma got up this morning (I was fortunate to be able to work from home), she cuddled up to me, sighed, and said, "I'm going to miss you, Mamma." 

I guess my head is so overstuffed, I've gotten rid of thoughts about the stuff project.

Boy Shoes

Day 138: Boy Shoes

Question: why do boys' shoes cost the same as men's shoes? Answer: because boys are the size of men long before they're finished growing.

We are planning to go see the movie Boyhood tonight, which was filmed over a period of 12 years with the same cast. The summary says "[T]his film is a groundbreaking story of growing up as seen through the eyes of a child named Mason, who literally grows up before your eyes." I expect we'll cry.

I tried to get Sam to come along to the movie with us, but soccer practice conveniently prevented him. I suspect that the idea of leaving soccer early would be more compelling if the temptation wasn't a movie date with his parents. Even as I write, I am texting him about the job application he was supposed to submit today to Tropical Smoothie but didn't, he says, because he doesn't know his social security number. He's not very enthusiastic about job hunting, and it isn't easy to motivate a boy who would rather play than pound the pavement: filling out the forms, shaking hands, pursuing the managers, making that first impression. It's a lot of hard work and rejection, and the reward is more hard work. And less freedom. And less fun.

He's not a bad kid. He cleaned his room this weekend, and did his laundry, and helped install the fans, and walked the dog. He practiced his instrument and cleaned the storage shed, and he's on track for helping the neighbor build his deck.

In cleaning his room, he discovered five more pairs of outgrown shoes and a few more outgrown shirts and shorts. Well, whether he gets that job today or next week or next year, he'll be working soon enough, and he's going to keep on working for decades. He's going to buy his own shoes someday, and someday maybe he'll buy shoes and more shoes for his own boy. And maybe his boy, at 16, will prefer to goof around than get a job. Someday. Maybe.

Lumpy Comforter

Day 137: Lumpy Comforter

Apparently, if you're me, the cure for the blues is household projects. Three years of beekeeping has given my family welcome respite from the dust and destruction associated with constant improvements, which have ranged in scope from demolishing walls and building new ones (in different places, of course) to simple things like painting a wall.

So after Jean-Francois departed with all my beekeeping stuff yesterday, leaving me with $150 burning a hole in my pocket and nothing else but time, I headed straight for Home Depot. There, I bought two flush-mount ceiling fans, one for Sam's room, one for Emma's. Sam and I spent most of yesterday evening and much of this morning removing the hideous old fixtures, which were most likely installed in 1952 when this place was turned into a rental duplex, and installing the lovely, bright, quiet new ceiling fan/light combos. 

Emma will be filled with gratitude that her last ten days in her bedroom will be cool and brightly lit.

Although we did get rid of the dull and hideous old fixtures, that doesn't really count towards the stuff project because it was a one-to-one trade. However, changing the fixture caused fifty years of dust and rubble to fall from the ceiling onto Sam's bed, which caused us to change his sheets, which caused me to notice just how lumpy and awful his comforter is, which caused me to insist that it go straight into the Goodwill pile to be replaced with the feather comforter my mother gave me in 1980, just that much softer and more comfortable with age. A year ago, I would have consigned the lumpy comforter to the trash. That was before I learned that old nasty textiles are sold to be turned into household insulation by thrift stores.

It worked. I went to bed last night flush with the satisfaction of having finished a project. Every time I walk past the kids' rooms, I'll see the fans and feel pleased with myself. All that, for $66 and a couple hours of work. Goodbye, beekeeping, hello, home improvements.

Sorry, Richie.

More Bee Stuff

Day 136: More Bee Stuff

Today, a lovely soft man came and took away my bee stuff, a retiree with a charming French accent, a great big belly and a beat-up old Renault station wagon. A chem-free brand new beekeeper taking a beginner class from Rich Weiske, who keeps bees barefoot and without a veil so as not to scare the little ladies. My very last chat about whether I succeeded in overwintering (I did not) and speculation about how to increase the odds of survival next season.

It took me quite a lot of time to gather together all the bee stuff. Maybe the tears slowed me down a little. Yes, I actually cried, foolish as it sounds. I got up before 6, because once I'd woken up, I couldn't stop thinking about Jean-Francois's coming that morning to take it all away. 

I'd forgotten a lot of the cool stuff I have. He took it all, with gratitude: the beat-up old flour sifter I use to distribute powered sugar in the hive to knock down the varroa mites. A book about honey tasting, and two books about beginning beekeeping. An extra hive tool. Cheese cloth for straining honey. A swarm catcher (how I dreamed of catching a swarm someday!). An ingenious mason jar feeder that Winn Harliss made for me. Smoker fuel. I had nine medium hive bodies, not just eight; someone gave me one that I'd forgotten about.

My price must have been too low, because within two hours of posting the ad, I had almost a dozen queries about my bee stuff. It was unlike any other Craig's list ad, because along with "Is it still available?" I also got messages of commiseration, requests for beginner tips, and questions about the relative merits of different pieces of equipment. 

It was a final reminder of what may actually be the biggest loss of all: beekeepers are really, really nice people. People you want to spend an afternoon with. People you might ask for advice, invite over to grill, or ask to help you move. As a beekeeper, you know you can go anywhere and instantly have a community of kind and able friends who share your basic moral framework. People who care about the earth, its creatures, and each other.

Jean-Francois said he didn't need to look at the house numbers to know which house had a beekeeper living in it. He could tell by the garden, full of the flowers that bees love. Well, I'm not changing my garden. Next year, I'll  have even more time to spend in it.

Duffel Bag

Day 135: Duffel Bag

How convenient! Rich decided to get rid of this duffel bag just when Abby asked me to separate out the giveaway clothes that might be good for my nieces. I can deliver the clothes inside the duffel bag. Abby won't remember this, but I was actually with her when I bought this duffel bag in the Traverse City Target. Seems like a long time ago now.

Rich is going to use my sturdier, luggage-quality duffel as a workout bag instead.

Did you know that the word "duffel" is derived from the town of Duffel in Belgium? First known use, 1677. Technically, this is probably not a duffel bag, because it is not made of course, heavy woolen material. And it can be spelled "duffle" or "duffel" (which explains why I was confused and had to look it up in the first place).

The word duffel also refers to transportable belongings. I'm starting to do a little research into poverty and need here in the State of Michigan, wondering whether, with better transportation, those of us in wealthier communities might be able to alleviate suffering in our more desperate Michigan communities. Detroit. Flint. Rural U.P.

More to follow.