Cardboard

Day 194: Cardboard

Cardboard. Can you believe it has been sitting in our attic for years, unnoticed? Our finished attic? Our attic which serves as our tv room, where we have watched a video every Friday night for eleven years? Our attic which serves as a teenage boy crash pad, where one to six boys have slept, played video games, eaten meals, talked and studied for over five years?

As I begin to scrape the bottom of the barrel for stuff to get rid of, I ascended again to the attic. I was shocked to find this there, and remembered how, years ago, when the kids were small and we watched our Friday video when the sky was full of light, we used these sheets of cardboard to block out the sun. How did they become invisible?

The stuff project gives me new eyes. 

Antique Tea Tray

Day 193: Antique Tea Tray

At a memorial service yesterday, the deceased's brother spoke about he and his brother explored their dusty, mysterious attic together as boys. He recalled finding a 19th century cutlass, and books from the 1700s with the family name handwritten in the flyleaf. Such explorations in their New Jersey family farmhouse, he said, had awakened in his brother a lifelong love of history. What must it feel like, I wonder, to grow up in a house where your family has lived for centuries? Does it bring to life past eras? Is it comforting, to feel that your stock will live on? Or does it make you feel small, knowing that you are just a drop of water in the long river of humanity?

That's an experience I haven't had, nor my children. Neither will their children. Especially now, that I'm getting rid of so much stuff. Old family objects are among the hardest to let go of. We have no unfinished attic where such treasures can be safely stored for generations. In the modern style, we require a large house for day-to-day living, and so we've finished our attic, turning it into a t.v./rec room. The basement is not suitable for storing antiques; my great uncle's lovely 1920s bedframe suffered irreparable damage after less than a year down there.

I don't know the provenance of this fragile, beautiful old tea tray. It most certainly belonged to one ancestor or another. I've never used it. It's too large, too uneven, too fragile. I thought for years that I'd mount it on the wall, next to an antique mirror that matches its style, but I've finally come to accept that I'll never actually do so.

I like feeling connected to my history and my ancestors when I use old family things. I imagine my grandmother receiving these old dessert rose dishes as wedding gifts in Glasgow, and how she must have packaged them up, so carefully, and shipped them to Canada when they immigrated. I imagine my grandfather building this cedar chest in shop class as a teenager, how carefully he cut and fitted, stained and varnished. Almost a hundred years later, it's in perfect condition. And he wasn't a handiman at all: he was a lawyer. I imagine Rich's grandmother in her kitchen in Murray, Kentucky, with this Fiestaware bowl. Perhaps she gathered eggs from her own chickens in it. It's chipped, but we'll never give it away.

Some family heirlooms are a boon, others a burden. I've decided that it's okay to begin to separate the boon from the burden. And in a case where the object's history is unknown to me, and the object itself has no utility, I'm resolved to let it go. No matter how many times it's moved across the country with me.

Floor Lamp

Day 192: Floor Lamp

We tried to keep the IKEA floor lamp. It's gooseneck would have been perfect to allow Rich to sit in his Archie Bunker chair and read. He would have had more seating options, instead of just the well-illuminated sofa where he is lying, reading, even now. But even the Home Depot illumination specialist was stumped. What kind of bulb does it require? Another woman, overhearing, got involved in the question. She had a picture of her IKEA lamp and its light bulb requirements pulled up on her phone. I had the actual lamp in my shopping cart. 

After long minutes of peering and measuring, we both concluded that the needed bulb is only available at IKEA. But I refuse to be controlled! Let some other poor fool make the long trip to Canton. 

After the number of entries in this blog involving IKEA issues, I have resolved to stop shopping there. On the surface, they've got it all: uber PC backstory, low prices and hip merchandise. It's not safe to shop there, however. You end up with problematic stuff. 

That's the problem with low prices. They encourage you to buy stuff you don't really need, because the price point is too low to offset the temptation. It's like the free drinks in Vegas. Heady. Next thing you know, you've got a new kitchen or a pressboard bureau or a giant stuffed snake. On the way out, you can buy yourself a hot dog and some cinnamon rolls to complete the decadence. 

From now on, it's Kings Chosen or the Reuse Center for me. I swear. 

Kale

Day 191: Kale, Beet Tops and Another Unidentifiable Green

My farm share reproaches me. Yet another waxed box full of lovely, crisp, fresh greens. If I was a better person - greener, earthier, more politically correct - if my Birkenstocks were more worn, if my hair was longer (or much shorter), if I subscribed to Mother Earth instead of O, then I would view YET ANOTHER box of kale, beet tops, and some unidentifiable bitter green (which should be eaten as part of a salad, if only it didn't taste quite so....distasteful), all these, with joy. "Kale chips!" I would say to myself. "Kale stew! Quinoa 'n' kale! Tempeh kale stir fry! Kale stuffed peppers!" The possibilities are endless!

O, Jess, why did you have to move? You always took the kale.

I realize that giving away kale is not truly within the parameters of the stuff project, but since I've been putting energy - week after week - into getting rid of kale, I feel it belongs here as a marker of this year. If I didn't have a farm share, but merely had a friend with one - a friend who would give me kale once over the summer - I think I would like it. I have fond memories of kale. When I was a child, we always had a vegetable garden in the back yard of our sixties colonial. The soil hardly deserves the name: our vegetable garden was planted in fill dirt. My father used to flood our little patch of fill dirt with water, and we would stomp around in the mud. It was our way of breaking up the soil. We'd plant tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, carrots, peppers, zucchini, corn. And kale.

Despite our best intentions, kale was our only crop. Everything else tried, but between the fill dirt and the big trees, we were lucky to get a cherry tomato or two. So kale it was, night after night. Luckily, Mom subscribed to Ladies Home Journal and Family Circle. She had The Joy of Cooking and The Fannie Farmer Cookbook. She had recipes.

For whatever reason, I loved all manner of vegetables when I was a kid. Was it because of my grandfather's one acre garden, how  we'd walk in the rows of corn, pull them off the stalk and eat them, our teeth squeaking on the raw kernels? How my grandfather would pull the onions out of the ground, wipe away the dirt and eat them like apples, his breath pungent for hours after? The tomatoes and beets like red candy, sweet and firm? Zucchini and cucumbers like drops of water on a parched tongue?

The kale was okay, too.

But not every week. No.

Not week after fibrous week.

One thing I'll say for the chickens. They haven't given me an egg in weeks, but at least they like beet greens.

Plastic Sharks and More

Day 190: Plastic Shark, Dog Toy and Balloon Inflator

Notice that this plastic shark, dog toy and balloon inflator resemble exactly a reversed percent sign. 

%

See?

I've realized that every last little forgotten plastic item will one day need to be cleaned out of here, if not today, then when we move away from here, or when they carry us out feet first. 

Have you ever thought about the fact that the difference between owning a house and renting it only pertains to some legal definitions and how those definitions cause us to behave in relation to property? Because we are all here on Earth temporarily. We are all temporary residents of our homes. We are all moving out some day, one way or another. 

I guess I don't want to leave behind a legacy of absurd plastic sharks. 

Toy Shelf

Day 189: Toy Shelf

One thing I'm starting to accumulate: empty shelves. Why is it so difficult to decide to get rid of them? I tell myself that this stuff project is changing the way I think about stuff, changing how I bring objects into my home, burnishing me so that I have only what's useful or beautiful. But I can guarantee that, if I fill all the empty shelves now scattered about the basement, it will not be with burnished objects. 

So here goes the first shelf, easy to get rid of because it's too small, and dinged up, and best suited for a little girl's toys. I only have a big girl now. 

If this doesn't hurt too much, maybe next week I'll think about that rusty utility shelf in the Michigan basement room, or that pressboard toy cabinet in the garage, or that old laminated bookshelf in our tool room. All empty now, just waiting to magnetize useless stuff. Yeah. 

Maybe. 

Plastic Placemats

Day 188: Plastic Placemats

Anyone with little kids need some plastic placemats? Perfectly cute, perfectly functional. 

Microwave Plate

Day 187: Microwave Plate

It is 9:24 pm. I am ready to read, and relax, and sleep. Just returned from Sam's soccer game, which ended 0-0. Spent a half-hour at home between work and the soccer game, scarfing down a meal Rich made and walking the dog around the block. 

I've been working longer hours than I once did. Microwaves are good for people who stop by the house for a half-hour rushing from one thig to the next. Especially if they are not lucky enough to have a husband who cooks. 

Even so, two microwave plates are not necessary. Somehow this second plate didn't get discarded with the previous (broken) microwave. No need to keep on keeping it clean. 

Recycle bin? Salvation Army?

Odd Mittens and Gloves

Day 186: Odd Mittens and Gloves

The Dalai Lama, in The Art of Happiness, suggests a certain mindfulness practice: cultivate awareness of a pleasing object without desiring to possess it, or even to speak of it. Notice the pleasing object, notice that you see and are pleased, and let it go. Pleasure - like the pleasure of obtaining something new - is not contentment. Contentment is happiness. 

Cultivate contentment. 

Such a habit of mind takes years to develop, of course, and as parents, perhaps it is our job to point out beautiful things. Still, to the extent that I am able to do it, it's freeing. Like lying in the grass and watching the clouds. Appreciating beauty without the pain of wanting. 

I do best with appreciating - but not covering - pretty skirts. The last few years, it seems like our town is full of pretty girls in pretty skirts, full ones that fit at the waist and have bright and lovely patterns. These pretty skirts are like a pebble for my pocket, Thich Nhat Hahn's recommended reminder for mindfulness. I am teaching myself simply to enjoy seeing the pretty skirt, but not think about what store it came from, or what it cost, or whether it is the right length for me. Just a cloud floating past,  soon to disperse. 

I would have done well to appreciate some of these gloves and mittens on the rack, without coveting, then purchasing, then losing them. I have a feeling that if I had only one pair, I'd never lose it. 

Folding Sewing Table

Day 185: Folding Sewing Table

This table was specifically designed for sewing machines. Several years ago, I replaced it with a glass-top table etched with a lovely flower pattern, a larger, more beautiful surface. The sewing table is perhaps more functional than the table, but I didn't hesitate. 

I just spent a very pleasant hour in the attic, making a baby blanket for our week-old next-door-neighbor. There's something very pleasing - very peaceful - about touching and using ancient technologies like glass and needles and thread, glancing out the window at the big mapls tree, leaves just beginning to turn, and listening to the rain on the roof. The sturdy laminate folding table would perhaps have been easier on my back, but working in a lovely setting is easier on the spirit.

Now, if I was a professional seamstress, or even a more serious crafter, I might prefer functional furnishings. I hope such a person finds this table at the PTO Thrift Shop, and gets the thrill of the find, and the value of its utility. May the force be with you, unknown crafter.

Yellow-and-Blue Hats

Day 184: Yellow-and-Blue Hats and Other Winter Gear

I read an essay years ago called "In Praise of Hometowns" in a book of essays called Sustainable Planet. This was two decades ago, before sustainability was a buzzword. This was back when I was living in San Francisco, loving it while at the same time missing the seasons, missing having a backyard, missing the sound of crickets, missing being able to find a parking space at the grocery store and running into someone I know while shopping there.

The content of that essay is, of course, blurred, but I know what it meant to me. We are like Erysichthon: the more we eat, the hungrier we become. Doomed never to be sated. Our home towns aren't enough; we are spurred to move on, looking for a better job, a better house, better weather, better everything. The same impulse that spurs us to leave our hometowns also spurs us to upgrade our technology, our wardrobe, our automobile, our kitchen counters, our mattresses, our shoes, our sofas, our lawn mowers, our bath towels and our silverware. It's poetic that Erysichthon translates as "Earth-tearer."

So here I am today, looking at a carful of junk: a month's worth of getting rid of one thing per day, because that's how long it's been since my last trip. Sad, tired-looking crap that I'm embarrassed to give away.  It occurs to me that the Salvation Army, the PTO Thrift Shop, the Thrift Shop, the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop, ValueWorld, and the Goodwill are enabling our addiction to crap. We can kid ourselves that as long as this stuff is going to a good cause, we're not doing any damage. 

Among the crap are some things we never needed in San Francisco: outgrown mittens and silly yellow-and-blue jester caps especially for child-sized Michigan fans. All of it drawn from the Earth by some convoluted process, with intention. It's the American way. "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all  men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." Or, as in Jefferson's initial draft, life, liberty and the pursuit of property.

Trash

Day 183: Trash

Halfway there! It's all downhill from here.

I was exercising on the elliptical machine this morning, next to the washing machine in the basement, when I realized there is work to be done down there. Keeping bees tends to take over every available space, and I'm not a beekeeper any more. Contaminated wax (the mice got into it), bushel baskets, cheesecloth for straining honey, coffee cans for collecting comb, clementine boxes for smoker fodder, queen boxes, mesh. It can all go. And I found buckets of used paint rollers, empty plaster boxes, sponges and other detritus from past household projects. I must have been so exhausted at the end of the project, I never finished the clean-up. And what about all this other trash? Where did it come from?

I  moved all the tools from the backroom - our Michigan basement - to the front closet under the porch. I'd emptied out the under-the-porch closet to make room to build bee boxes, but now all that is gone. There's room to organize the tools again. 

It's surprising how long it is taking to get used to not being a beekeeper any more, considering that I'd only been a beekeeper for three years. There's something about bees that just gets into your heart and blood. It's hard to forget about them.

It's also hard to remember to be afraid of them. Today, I was privileged to have a tour of the Clara and Henry Ford Estate in Dearborn. Like everyone else, I left my purse behind in the Ford billiard room. Only when their horticulture manager pointed out a yellow jacket nest did the Epipen - tucked away in a zippered pocket in my handbag back in the billard room - enter my mind. I saw many beautiful plants, and many beautiful bees - honey, sweat and bumble - all over the Estate. I felt no fear.

What are the odds that I'd get stung, anyway? And we've all got cell phones.

Glass Jars

Day 182: Glass Jars

I'm guessing - and correct me if I'm wrong - that the Masai women I met in Masai Mara (the ones who live in manure-and-grass huts) know exactly and intimately every single item they own. They would never proudly proclaim that every item in their home either brings joy or is useful, and a day later find an entire grocery bag full of glass jars that has been tucked away on a shelf, forgotten, for months.

When I noticed this grocery bag, pulled it down from the shelf and peeked inside, my first thought was, "I can't get rid of these! These are useful! And I like them!" Then I thought about the entire shelf full of glass jars I have in the kitchen, smaller jars that are just the right size for honey and jam. And I thought about the fact that I hadn't even noticed that these jars have been completely out of circulation. And I'm not a beekeeper any more. No need for dozens of Ball jars, no matter how lovely.

Years ago, I removed decades worth of paint from a white marble fireplace in our San Franciso painted lady. The first part was easy. Apply a little DIF, and you can see the paint bubble before your eyes. Thick swathes peel off in satisfying long strips, and you are an archeologist, looking at one hundred years of paint colors, thinking about the people who chose them. The second part - getting the paint out of the contours between the carved marble grapes and grapeleaves - required toothpicks and Q-tips. (Fortunately for me, I got pregnant just at the critical point when all the easy parts were done, forcing Rich to finish the toxic job. Thanks, honey.)

Here I am, one day shy of the halfway point: day 182. The first half of the year was the long smooth strips of paint, reminders of my history, interesting but irrelevant. Now I'm getting into toothpicks and Q-tips. Finding all the little bits and pieces in odd places. Scraping them away like lead paint in a bunch of marble grapes. Pregnancy won't save me now. 

I'll be surprised if I find 183 more lost and forgotten items. I don't expect to have as little in the end as a Masai woman. But perhaps, at least, I'll know what I have.

Electric Toothbrush

Day 181: Electric Toothbrush

Since when have our toothbrushes looked more like flashlights than teeth cleaners? And why do we need external power sources to clean our teeth?

I bought these toothbrushes at the recommendation of our dentist, mostly for the kids. But neither they nor I could tolerate the jarring noise of it. It reminds me of a miniature leafblower. Like, who would choose a loud power tool over the quiet tranquil utility of a wooden-handled rake? It turns out that I personally do a better job on my teeth using my fist, an old-fashioned Colgate toothbrush and a two-minute egg-timer than with a battery operated Oral B anyway. 

On the other hand, regular toothbrushes are specifically named as a plastic item that is causing problems in the Doldroms. A really good ecocitizen would get bamboo toothbrushes from Whole Foods. Or better yet, the People's Food Coop. 

Sometimes you just have to go with personal preference. 

Magnetic Dart Board

Day 180: Magnetic Dart Board

I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel now. I went down to the coat rack, thinking there would be an armful of coats we never wear. Turns out we use them all, except possibly a magenta Lands End pea coat that Emma Jane did not take with her to college. (Note to self: ask Emma if she would like me to send pink pea coat.) Then I peeked in the red closet, where we keep our suitcases and camping gear, and saw a lot of suitcases and camping gear that we use, and none that we don't. 

I though to myself: maybe today is the day. The day I have nothing more to get rid of. 

I'm not saying our house is like Walden Pond. We've still got stuff. Lots of stuff. But almost everything we have either brings pleasure or has an active use. 

Although the story might be less interesting, I have almost decided that I won't be getting rid of stuff I use or enjoy. The idea of the simple life - such as Jeff described yesterday - has great appeal. But that's not the life I'm living now. The life I'm living gets value out of sets of dishes, a dozen pairs of shoes (or two), games to play, projects to finish and books to read. If I start getting rid of stuff just to get to the top of the mountain, then I'll have less stuff and a long shopping list. And a long shopping list is the antithesis of the environmental good I value. 

The day isn't today. I remembered a couple more things I've identified that we aren't using. The person who's used this magnetic dart board the most is Roxanne, my sparkly dancing five-year-old niece, and there's no reason for her not to have it. We aren't using it, and it was a gift from my parents - Roxanne's grandparents - anyway. 

There's still the studio. The potting shed. The garage. I might eke out a few things there. 

But the countdown begins. Just a few days shy of the halfway point. 

Raspberries

Day 179: Raspberries
Please enjoy this outstanding post by guest blogger Jeff Plakke, who has devoted his life to conserving and connecting with nature.

Useful and beautiful: Jeff's cabin in Isle Royale

One year when I was in college I volunteered for the National Park Service and lived for three summer months on Isle Royale, an island park in northern Lake Superior. I was the back country campground host at McCargoe Cove and my home was a three sided Adirondack shelter, shelter #6. I was dropped off by boat at this remote location and received my grocery order every two weeks. I had no running water, no electricity, and could take with me just what I could carry from the boat up the hill to my new home. What this experience taught me about "stuff" and the freedom of going without was incredible. 

First of all it is important to note, I had all the things I needed: a roof over my head, a cot and sleeping bag, clothes, sturdy boots and rain gear, a water filter, a camp stove and food, a small propane-powered refrigerator for a few perishables, a bucket to haul water and wash my clothes, a knife and a saw, and a few other necessities (TP). I also brought a few books; collected Jack London, a wildflower guide, and a journal to fill the hours on rainy days. I could listen to Park Service chatter on the 2 way radio and every few days someone would call my number, "302...". The solitude and peacefulness of that summer are almost impossible to relate to modern life. The elimination of distractions of computers, phones, TV, the numerous appointments and engagements, cars, the shopping and the wanting and all the "stuff" I owned was gone like a fading echo. As time passed and I managed the withdrawals, new energy flowed into me. Physical energy to hike for miles and explore the wilderness. Sleeping under the open sky and diving into frigid waters invigorated me. Mental energy; my senses were heightened, tuned into my body and my surroundings in an ever sharper and expanding sphere of awareness. My mind was clear and balanced, my thoughts more focused, insights became deeper. I felt fully alive and awake in the present moment. OK, I was 22 years old, but I never felt so healthy. And no, I never really felt lonely. There were people to meet there, undistracted and full of their own energy, happy to make a connection.  

What I found in those three months and in the many journeys into the wilderness since is that it takes energy to attend to possessions. The more stuff I have, the less energy I have left over to think, to be aware of myself and my surroundings, to understand the difference between my wants and my needs. Time, energy and freedom come back as I shed the accumulation of things. Henry David Thoreau summed it up well when he wrote, “It is preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, that prevents us from living freely and nobly.”

Since that simpler time I've grown, I have a family, a house and a lot more stuff. But what I learned in Shelter #6 has stuck with me. I'm extremely careful about bringing things into my life. I know possession runs both ways and the costs add up, draining my time and energy. I also know that getting rid of stuff isn't the answer to ALL of life's problems, but I think it's surprising how many. So good luck, Karen! Keep it up. Your project is a great reminder to simplify. I can tell you with absolute certainty, it works!

Note from Karen: I did indeed get rid of something today: a thicket of raspberries. I knew when I planted them that they have a tendency to take over, but I couldn't resist. Many a gardener will tell you that most of our weeds are things we originally planted ourselves.

Preteen Girl Books

Day 178: Preteen Girl Books

I'm sitting in my parents' living room with my eight- and five-year old nieces. Evie is singing a song - from Frozen, of course - while Roxanne dances. Roxanne is wearing a sparkly black and pink tutu, and Evie is looking fine in pink polka dots. There are rules here, courtesy of the theater manager, Roxanne. No electronic devices (I got grandfathered in). No lights (except the stage lights, also known as the track lights on the ceiling). Evie knows all the words and movements from Frozen. I remember very well sitting and watching her sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider over and over, her tiny hands climbing up into the air and fluttering down to the ground at the end. And years before that, listening to Emma sing The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night (none of the words were comprehensible, but she knew them all).  Now Roxanne is serving refreshments: imaginary tea from a brass teapot. The teapot contains books of matches, as it has since I was a child. I believe my mother's parents brought it with them to Canada from Scotland.

Perhaps later tonight, these girls (and their older sister Kaeli, who is not here tonight) will enjoy these books. They were Emma's, but not her favorites. I hope she comes home for Thanksgiving. If she does, I don't think she'll miss them.

Headless Torso

Day 178: Headless Torso

Venus de Milo? Amputee? Murder victim? This headless torso is one of our odder belongings. Emma got it from a costumer. My daughter actually did use it to alter a black blazer in preparation for auditions in Chicago last year. Later, she used it to display her chintz and satin prom dress, the gauze skirt pooling around the stand like froth beneath a waterfall.

It has moveable parts. You can puff out its chest, or give it a poochy stomach, or fatten up its hips, or enlarge its breasts. It can shrug its shoulders. It can do the twist.

My sister deserves this headless torso. After all, she's taken multiple sewing classes. She's meticulous. She irons her seams. Her scissors are sharp. Her needles pierce.

Besides, this thing gives me the creeps.

Clothes That Didn't Make the Cut

Day 177: Clothes That Didn't Make the Cut

This is the pile of clothes that we took with us in the car to Muncie, and that Emma wisely culled from her collection in the hotel room the night before move-in day. She was trying to strike that perfect balance between having enough to feel secure but not so much as to feel embarrassed. There are one or two shirts in the pile that she never wore, but for the most part these are stretched out of shape, torn or faded. Now that I am trying to be more focused on controlling the influx of stuff, I resolutely integrated none of these into my own wardrobe except one soft orange t-shirt from one of her last shows senior year. 

I feel a little nostalgic, thinking of that final night, though mostly lately when I think of Emma, I'm just pleased. She seems happy. I guess she chose well, not just her packing list but her program, her school and this next stage of life. Whew. And - woot woot!

You may have noticed that this pile of stuff was not selected today to be gotten rid of, and in the interest of full disclosure, there is about a month's worth of stuff piled up in the basement and our bedroom closet. I intend to get rid of it all, next time the football game is away, because it's just too much trouble to run errands on a game day. Rich is starting to notice that there are piles on things around that I haven't really gotten rid of. Soon, soon. 

But even though I have a lot of stuff in piles and boxes, I've still let go of it. The basement is just a staging area now for a bunch of things I no longer really own, a place for errands waiting to happen. 

Soon, soon. 

Purses

Day 176: Purses

Every woman (and a few enlightened men) is on a perpetual search for the perfect purse. (I can hear your protests: not EVERY woman. Poetic license.) It should be big enough to fit everything you need, but not so big that things get lost in the bottom. It should have a select few pockets placed such that they assist with organizing, but don't hide things. The strap should be the right length - for me, that means long enough to wear hanging from my shoulder and across my chest, so the bag rests on my hip. It should be cute and au courant, but timeless enough to be worth the price. It should be leather so it lasts, a quirky yet pleasing color matching both brown and black shoes. It should be all things to all people. 

I've never found it, but I keep looking. This one doesn't fit the bill. (Sorry, Jess!) Nor does the homemade felt one underneath. Nor do the two little woven baskets and the little zippered bags. 

Still searching. 

Bowling Pin

Day 175: Bowling Pin

There are many things I don't miss about having little kids. I don't miss sleep deprivation. I don't miss having to pee but not being able to leave the room. I don't miss trudging along behind an inquisitive two-year old on a slow walk around the block to prevent him from running out into traffic or putting cigarette butts in his mouth. I don't miss elementary school spelling worksheets (I mean, who needs to spell any more?). But most of all, I don't miss birthday parties.

More specifically, I don't miss Chuck E. Cheese, that den of running, screaming seven-year-olds, flashing, pinging video games, and crazed adults in weird mouse costumes. I don't miss Zap Zone, Jump City or Buhr Pool. I don't miss laser tag, paintball or mini-golf. And I don't miss the bowling alley, where conversations are shouted into nearby ears like front row seats at a Bob Seeger concert. Birthday party locations and headaches go together like - well - birthday cake and ice cream.

I also don't miss spending $100 on cheap plastic party bags that the little guests will never use. Or $150 on less cheap party bags that the little guests will still never use. I don't miss dogging the kids to write thank-you notes. I don't miss last minute trips to Toys R Us for those birthday parties we forgot we were invited to. I don't miss worrying about whether we've invited too many kids, or left somebody out by mistake.

The one thing I do miss about kid birthdays: birthday cake. Cake really takes the cake. I like everything about birthday cake. I like baking it: usually a Duncan Hines yellow cake with chocolate frosting, but sometimes a completely-from-scratch carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, celebrant's choice. I like singing happy birthday, a little off-key with poor harmony. I like to see the special light the birthday candles cast on the smiling face of the birthday girl. I like watching the birthday boy try to blow out all the candles. And I like seeing everybody scarfing down and loving that cake.

So long, Colonial Lanes bowling pin with the smeared-off happy birthday wishes. 

Spare.

Me.

Wool Coat

Day 174: Wool Coat

This wool coat belonged to my sister's much-loved mother-in-law. Suzanne was an artist, and I am the beneficiary (in the purist sense of the word) of her extensive collection of needlepoint wool as well. And no, I will never get rid of the needlepoint wool. Perish the thought. 

This coat is wool of a different sort, less useful to me, though perhaps more useful in a general sense. It came to me by way of a naked ladies party I had a couple years ago. It is a very high quality coat, Calvin Klein navy wool with leather patches at the elbow and big wooden buttons shaped like little barrels. It is a little outdated, but not quite outdated enough to be retro. I wore it once. The pockets are shallow, and my cell phone fell out in the parking lot as I was getting out of the shuttle at Dunning Toyota. (That's another heartwarming story that ends with some random person going to great lengths to return the phone to me by way of my mother.) I never wore it again.

A high-quality warm coat like this is one of those things that makes me muse about stuff and poverty and distribution of wealth. Like, is there a homeless person in this county who is at risk of dying of exposure, who might benefit from having this coat? A coat which has been hanging unused in my basement for at least a couple of years? And if so, how can we match up people who need stuff with people who have too much? Especially given that a person without a coat also probably doesn't have a cell phone, or access to a computer, or access to any kind of communication network that might start the needed stuff flowing in their direction.

Or is that not what poverty looks like here in Michigan? Maybe the homeless have coats, but the coats are a little outdated (like this one). And if you're poor, does that mean it doesn't matter if your clothes don't make you feel cute? I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that if you're poor and fifteen years old, you still want to look cute. And if you're 50, hey, maybe you can be a little more philosophical. But. 

Let me just say it.

I'm in favor of a living minimum wage.

Light Fixture

Day 173: Light Fixture

This charming light fixture and its twin have been casting a dull glow in the kids' bedrooms since we bought this house eleven years ago, and probably for five decades before that. The wires connecting the fixtures to the ceiling were  covered with crumbling black paper, and of course there is no grounding wire. 

Why did I get rid of the old ceiling fixtures just a few days before Emma moved out? I replaced them with ceiling fan lights, which cost only $40 each and which have significantly improved the climate, lighting and general modernity of the rooms. It took Sam and me less than an hour to replace each one. I should have done it years ago, and yet, there was no real catalyst. Perhaps just filling my thoughts with a project, to distract myself from her going away. But as I've discovered time and again, new stuff doesn't really fill the holes in your heart. 

Still, it is nice to lie on the bed in the guest room, directly under a nice, cool breeze. 

Here's a fun fact: there are no Energy Star ratings for fans. Which means you really don't know how much power they use. Maybe they're worse than air conditioning, and all this sweating and lolling about we've done has been to no purpose. 

Question: am I cheating by "getting rid of" these old fixtures, when I was really replacing them with something new?

Binders

Day 172:

We all have stuff that sparks our passion. Stuff that magnetizes us like the smell of cigarettes to a recent ex-smoker. Stuff that says "Take me home!" no matter how much of it we already have. 

For me, it's whites. Linens. Domestics. Sheets, mattress pads, quilts, comforters, pillows, tablecloths, cloth napkins, potholders, dishrags, towels, washcloths. I love them all. When the ones I have get the slightest bit faded or threadbare, I want new ones, but I hate throwing away the old, so they just keep accumulating in the cupboards. I've also got a minor obsession with bowls. I probably have a dozen different serving bowls - maybe more - but I cherish each one. Two from the Potter's Guild. Two oven-safe stoneware. Two green Fiestaware, slightly chipped, that belonged to Rich's gramma. Stainless steel nesting mixing bowls. A wooden salad bowl. A big Italian pottery bowl that came from my aunt as a wedding gift. I hope I can make it to day 365 without having to take a long hard look at my serving bowls.

For Sam, it's shoes. He has fifteen pairs of apparently identical canvas shoes. To him, they are not identical at all. The Patagonias that look just like his loafers are slippers. One pair of gray Perry's has shoelaces, the other doesn't. This red pair is Nike, that one is Ralph Lauren.

For Rich, it's music gear. We've got five clip-on tuners and one listening tuner. Two electronic metronomes and one mechanical. Three acoustic guitars; four if you include the one that's hanging on the wall for decoration. Two stand-up basses and two electric basses. We've got drums and mariachis and wooden flutes. Silver flutes, penny whistles and recorders. Two electronic keyboards and a piano. A concert ukulele and a soprano ukulele. Two mandolins. One orange and one black Manhasset music stand, and one silver and one black foldable music stand. We've got microphones, amplifiers and a big Rubbermade tub of cords. We've got floor stands and wall hangers. Dozens of books and instructional cds. We've got apps and we've got software.  Okay, let's be fair: some of this stuff belongs to others in the family. But Rich is the king of music gear.

For Emma, it's school supplies. I probably should have said no to her annual requests for all new binders. I don't really believe that new binders every year are necessary. Can all the clasps really be broken? But having new school supplies gave her a reason to look forward to school starting, and how could I say "no" to that? Especially with my drawers and closets stuffed full of linens? So here we are, Emma gone from home, and used binders coming out of the woodwork. I've left a few on Sam's school shelf, and a few out in the studio waiting for new sheet music, but this stack can go. I already got rid of one pile - unofficially donated to the Botanical Gardens - so I figure if I need one in the future, it would be fair game to borrow one. Given the closetful of binders there (I've been cleaning out file cabinets all over the building), I'm taking this set straight to the PTO. Hopefully somebody can find a use for them.

Fabric and Wooden Puppet

Day 171: Fabric and Wooden Puppet

I always liked this puppet better than either of the kids. Perhaps they didn't like it because its nose got chewed off by our dog, Chester, soon after we got it. Or perhaps it's not objectively very much fun, but I like it because I have a nostalgic attachment to old fashioned toys, and a fond memory to go with this one in particular. We bought it for them on the Rue de Passy in Paris. Our first trip away, a whole week in an apartment tucked behind Notre Dame on the Ile de la Cite, with its narrow cobblestone streets and clear December air. We left the kids with my parents while we attended my brother- and sister-in-law's wedding, back in those long gone days - over a decade already! - before cell phones or texting or Skyping, when a trip to Europe meant you only got in touch if there was an emergency.

The little shop seemed charmingly nineteenth century, filled with wooden tops and jacob's ladders and rag dolls, all made from materials that have been used for toys for hundreds of years. I remember very well the first time I went into a Toys-R-Us, just before Emma Jane was born, and experienced the supreme frustration of not being able to get where I wanted to go because the display armature forces you past aisle after aisle of plastic toys. I had the jarring realization that there was an entire massive industry of stuff of which I had been blissfully unaware. The little Parisian boutique felt like an antidote.

It's been many years since I've shopped at a Toys R Us, and many more since that trip to Paris. Without a nose, this little fellow may end up another resident on the Island of Misfit Toys. But it's time he gets out of the closet and into circulation.

Coyote Pelt with Bullet Hole

Day 170: Coyote Pelt with Bullet Hole

How in the world did we come to possess this coyote pelt with a bullet hole in it? It emerged when we did the room switch, but no one who lives here seems to feel ownership for it. 

Since I've become a more sophisticated environmentalist, I've lost my yuppie liberal distaste for hunting. I'm a supporter of deer culling. Deer are disease vectors and ecosystem destroyers. In the absence of sufficient predators, they take over, and their overpopulation isn't good for them or anything else as food and other resources become scarce. I'll never forget my first tour bus ride with a bevy of botanical gardens professionals. The bus driver pulled over to the side of the road to point out a grazing herd, and a riot almost broke out.

Deer hunting, good. Coyote hunting, bad. Wolf hunting, bad.

I suspect that this coyote pelt belongs to a younger brother. We have several. We also have over a thousand square feet of unfinished basement, nearly empty. Three younger brothers have had stuff stored in our basement at one time or another. 

Little brothers, if you want this coyote pelt, speak now.

Mattress Pad

Day 169: Mattress Pad

This mattress pad is on a par with Harpo's girlfriend: so nasty I can't tolerate the embarrassment of sending it off to the ragpickers. It went straight to the trash, and then onward to the landfill. 

I have a question: are landfills really so bad? I understand that in this country, they begin with an impermeable layer that prevents pollutants from entering the ecosystem. This is a stark contrast to Belize, which we visited a year and a half ago. The landfill - say, dump - was between the little house we rented and the town on Caye Caulker. People were dumping trash everywhere in the vicinity, and when it rained, puddles would fill with bits of refuse. Every couple days, there would be a terrible stench of burning rubber as the garbage was incinerated. 

Meanwhile, we denizens of the good old USA are increasing our recycling and composting efforts here in our local communities. But many recycling processes result in as much environmental harm as production from raw materials would. And high quality processed compost is piling up in the compost center, because a lot of people would rather buy plastic bags of wood chips and topsoil than shovel compost at the reuse center. 

We order Calder Dairy milk delivered to our door every two weeks, five half gallon glass bottles that the Dairy collects, washes and reuses. We've been doing this for five years, which means we've kept 500 plastic or waxed milk jugs entirely out of the waste stream. If I had a cow, I wouldn't even incur the fuel costs of milk delivery. I could just drink right from the teat. 

Well, that's not going to happen, of course. But while Belizeans may not do as well with waste disposal as we do, they produce significantly less waste per person. And using less - not disposing of things better - is really the key to environmental stewardship. 

Yeah. Milk right from the teat. No recycling necessary. 

More Tablecloths

Day 168: More Tablecloths

The end is near, I can feel it. I had planned to spend the rest of the week cleaning out the medicine cabinet, under the sink, the drawers and the small cupboard in the upstairs bathroom. Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that two of the three drawers were already empty, as is the space under the sink and most of the cupboard. A whole week of getting rid of stuff, gone.

I have a few more items in a bin in the basement that I have identified for getting rid of. I haven't blogged about them yet. These three tablecloths, an old coat, a mattress pad, a bowling pin, a broken puppet. Another week's worth, perhaps. We haven't hit the music studio yet. I imagine there are still a few more items in the garage and the tool shed. Perhaps a suitcase or two that can move on to a new home, and those old tax files. I could probably glean some stuff out of the Christmas box and my bin of childhood momentos.

All this might add up to a month's worth. Maybe two, stretching it.

That will be a good thing, right? It will mean everything in my house either brings joy, or has a use. But what then? Will I quit the stuff project? Move on to Catriona's office (as she keeps hinting)? Perhaps I could start getting rid of bad habits, or bad relationships (do I have any?), or the mice in the basement, the carpenter bees, and our house in Saint Augustine. Perhaps I could try getting rid of my monkey mind. No more spinning thoughts. Daily meditation.

Now that I think of it, maybe things are just starting to get interesting.

Chocolate Fondant

Day 167: Chocolate Fondant

I had big, big plans for this chocolate fondant. I was going to make a graduation cake, maybe carrot, maybe yellow, Emma's two favorites. I was going to bake the cake in an oven-safe stoneware bowl, so the cake would come out dome-shaped. I was going to decorate the cake to look like a ball, maybe a soccer ball, with half the hexagrams dark like chocolate. I was going to get some special crunchy sugary cake letters, several alphabets for all the B's. The cake was going to say "Ball State BFA Bound!" I was going to bake a second cake for Francesca, whatever her favorite flavor is, maybe a slightly smaller cake, with "Go Cardinals" on it, maybe in the shape of a bishop's cap, with red icing. I've never used fondant before, but I was going to learn.

What actually happened is, I called my mom the day before the grad party, not quite in a panic. "I need a cake!" Costco to the rescue, a yellow cake with whipped cream frosting. My mom got ahold of an icing pen somewhere and wrote "Congratulations, Emma, Francesca and Joe" (because my nephew Joe graduated from eighth grade that same week). 

Hey, there was a lot going on that weekend.

It's a little tempting now to eat the chocolate fondant. I love sweets. It's time for dessert, and we don't have any, unless I pick the M&M's out of the trail mix. But no. I won't sink so low.

I doubt Food Gatherers would accept the fondant. Is it really food? 

Free table at work. We'll see how long it hangs around.

Plastic Serving Implements

Day 166: Plastic Serving Implements

Plastic. Cheap. Versatile. Durable. Ubiquitous. And it doesn't biodegrade. Instead, it photodegrades. 

What's the difference? A big one, to marine life. When a substance biodegrades, it breaks down into simpler compounds. It can be absorbed and repurposed. But plastics simply weaken in the sun, breaking down into smaller and smaller bits, retaining their chemical substance, and interfering with the life cycle of marine animals and sea birds.

These plastic serving implements made their way into our household through Emma's graduation party, when Francesca and Emma each ordered food from their favorite ethnic restaurants. The big paper shopping bags filled with Indian and Middle Eastern food also disgorged a dozen or more plastic serving tongs and spoons. They are sturdy and functional, too much like real cutlery to throw away, yet we don't need them. Plastic may be functional, but it is never pleasing to the eye or to the touch. Still, these were too substantial - too pristine - to recycle, so I shoved them into one of our precious few kitchen drawers.

Today, as I was rooting around, looking for twist ties and frustrated because the drawers were so crowded I couldn't find anything, and then I couldn't get the drawers open and closed, I realized they were stuffed full of black plastic serving implements that had never been used. So I bagged them together in a Ziploc bag and threw them into the latest Goodwill box. I'm not sure, though, that anyone will ever buy them. After all, isn't every kitchen drawer in Ann Arbor stuffed full of plastic serving implements?

I've already stopped taking drinking straws (did you know straws used to be made of paper?). I'm resolved now to decline plastic lids and cutlery as well. 

Also relegated to the Goodwill box: not my grandmother's china desert rose salad tongs. Now at last I can get the drawers open and closed. Today anyway.