The Innocent Man and Other Books

Day 316: The Innocent Man and Other Books

I had a longer, more involved post planned for today, but I've walked 8.3 miles and I'm tired. I know that I've walked 8.3 miles because my phone came with an app that counts your footsteps and distance walked daily. The data is probably stored in a database somewhere and if anyone cared, they could pay money to find out how many miles were walked in Ann arbor today, and where. Brave New World. Yeah.

I covered these miles grocery shopping, working an hour or two on Botanical Gardens stuff, folding laundry, setting Sam up for his first Arb work day (he's getting high school credits for learning how to lead a work day), helping Kaeli take algae samples in the Conservatory for her science project (much more complicated than I had imagined, involving trips to the staff kitchen), walking the dog, and buying upholstery fabric at Joann's to try to breathe a little life into our tired old sofa cushions. I also promised to make chicken legs for dinner, but I gotta say, pizza is starting to sound pretty good.

And this is the simplified life, with less to do, now that Emma's away at College and Sam is driving himself. 

Milk Crates

Day 315: Milk Crates

More casualties of Sam's trip to the Salvation Army: two milk crates. If this keeps us, we will have nothing to store our stuff in.

Stuff? What stuff?

KitchenAid Timer

Day 314: KitchenAid Timer

A friend of a friend sent me a message saying he'd been looking for a little blue timer just like the one I was getting rid of. Could he buy the one I'd blogged about? I was delighted to offer it to him for free; it was just sitting in the box, destined for the Salvation Army. Could I drop it off for him on Thursday?

I got great pleasure from the thought that the little blue timer - which I bought decades ago with money from Grandma Lu - was going to be useful to someone. It made the effort of getting rid of something and writing about it seem worthwhile, at least for that one day. It made it easier to let go.

A co-worker told me a few days ago that thinking of other people getting value out of his old stuff has made it easier for him to let go of things, too. He told a story about putting an old chain saw out on the street on Spring Clean Up day in Plymouth, when anyone can put their old stuff out on the curb. A guy came along and picked up the chainsaw before Jeff even had time to set it down. A guy who seemed capable of fixing it. Who was excited to have it. So Jeff has gotten much more pleasure out of giving away the old chainsaw than he ever got from having it stored in the basement, an unfinished task hanging around like a rain cloud.

With most of my stuff, it's hard for me to visualize the Salvation Army customer who might buy it and get the joy of using it and the joy of a bargain all wrapped in a single package. Most of my stuff, I think, people won't want. But maybe I'm wrong. I wouldn't have thought anyone would want that little blue wind-up timer. Doesn't everyone have a timer on their stove and their cell phone and their digital clock and their microwave and their iPad already?

Unfortunately, this story has an unhappy ending. Like yesterday's laundry basket, the little blue timer went to the Salvation Army with Sam and never came home. I forgot to take it out before I sent Sam on his errand.

John CP, would you like a KitchenAid timer instead?

Laundry Basket

Day 313: Laundry Basket

A sixteen-year-old boy with a driver's license can drive himself to late night basketball practices, and far off soccer games, and friend's houses, and the Y, and the library. For a nominal fee, he can also run a few errands for his mother, such as frequent trips to the Salvation Army to donate all the stuff she's giving away.

The downside: a sixteen-year-old boy sometimes might miss a tiny instruction among many when making those Salvation Army trips. He might, for example, not quite track on the fact that the stuffed animals get donated, but the laundry basket does not.

It will be interesting to see how we manage the laundry with only one basket.

Dog Treats & Medicine

Day 313: Dog Treats & Medicine

Chide me, castigate me, scold me. I'm a bad pet owner. Harpo's Heartgard has gone the way of my daily vitamin regime, which is to say, the medication has passed its expiration date but is still taking up room in the cupboard. So has the other canine medicine, the one that starts with "I" and prevents an illness I can't remember. I've stopped training him (thus the accumulation of training treats), and he's a month overdue for his rabies vaccine. (I need to take care of that before the next grooming.)

I don't take him for as many walks in the winter - it's just too cold and dark when I get home from work - and so he spends a lot more time chasing rodents in the backyard. To make matters worse, a section of fence blew down during the last major wind storm, and, bored as he is, he's gotten onto it and is constantly attempting to escape through the breech. We can't get it fixed because the ground is frozen. The day before yesterday, I caught him in Peg and Steve's back yard, barking at the collie on their other side, which means we've become a nuisance for multiple neighbors.

I love the little guy, but I could definitely do better. Tonight, I'm stringing up chicken wire over the hole in the fence. Tomorrow, I'm taking him for a walk. Next week, the rabies shot.

Potholders

Day 312: Potholders

Why keep replacing the cotton
when silicone lasts forever?

What is silicone anyway? I believed it to be a form of plastic, but no. It's a unique substance, two molecules of silicon, one of oxygen, combined with hydrogen or carbon, invented in 1901. Semi-organic. It's strange to think that my lobster claw potholder could also be used as a breast implant, a lubricant, a raincoat, shampoo, fire retardant, silly putty or eco-friendly dry-cleaning chemicals.

My sister made me feel better about my trashed, burned and stained kitchen linens. I often feel just a little frustrated with myself because I can't seem to keep stuff nice. All my resolutions - not to wear work shoes to weed the garden, not to walk eight miles in a cashmere sweater, not to scrub the sink with the pretty flower-handled dish brush, not to put loose pieces of chewing gum in the bottom of my purse - are easily forgotten in the moment. But Elizabeth says that kitchen linens must be replaced from time to time. Not even Martha Stewart can keep them nice. And she gave me a set of hand-knitted cotton dishrags.

Ah, but silicone! Silicone potholders never get stained or burned. They're odd and rubbery. It's a bit hard to get the hang of using them. But once you do, you can take even the hottest chicken pot pie out of the oven without burning your fingers. I bought one from IKEA because it looks like a lobster claw. I had hoped that it might trigger a Rich-riff worthy of John Stewart. Indeed, it did. But now the riff is past, and the lobster-claw turns out to be the sturdiest and most useful of our potholders. Only one caveat: mice eat silicone potholders when the weather gets cold enough.

Timer

Day 312: Timer

There's something viscerally pleasing about simple mechanical devices. Things that you can look at and understand, things that never break down, things that don't require any external sources of power. One-speed bicycles. Hourglasses. Balance scales. Candles. Whisks. Wooden pencils. Wind-up timers.

Back in the day, I rented a flat with a little gas stove and no microwave. No digital thermometers. No self-cleaning. No popcorn setting. No timers. Now I've got a fancy gas stove with an electric convection oven and a microwave, both of which have timers, and countless other clocks and timing devices.

It's a little hard to let go of this wind-up timer. When I moved into my first apartment, Grandma Lu (my dad's step-mother) gave me a check for $25 to set myself up with some kitchen supplies. This was one of them, along with a hand-mixer, cookie sheets, a set of measuring cups and spoons, and potholders. Grandma Lu didn't believe that all these things could be had for $25, but indeed, in 1985, it was possible.

If the little blue timer was a little cuter - shaped like a tomato, perhaps, or a pig - I might keep it. But it's not cute, and it's not necessary, and it's cluttering up the bookshelf. I've got a couple things left from Grandma Lu's $25 gift. I haven't used the hand-mixer, for example, since Mom and Dad gave me the CuisinArt stand mixer a couple years ago for my birthday. Maybe the hand-mixer will be the next to go.

Semester's Worth of Papers

Day 311: Semester's Worth of Papers

I generally try to refrain from bragging about my children. Bragging about your children awakens unpleasant feelings in the listener, ranging from boredom (amongst the childless) to anxiety (for those with children or grandchildren). My swings between anxiety about their well-being and pride in their accomplishments - as frequent and dramatic as weather changes on a San Francisco summer day - make it next to impossible for me to speak a word of praise anyway. By the time the praise is uttered, I've become convinced that one or the other will end up homeless, jobless, or a permanent resident of my basement. Also, they don't like for me to talk about them, positive or negative, brag or worry. It's all just plain embarrassing.

Today, I'm breaking my resolution because - YAY - Sam's junior year winter finals are over, and he did well! I won't go into detail (embarrassing! anxiety-producing!) but I will just mention that he got 101% on his science final, even though there was no extra credit on the exam. I'm even prouder because he was struggling a little bit with the concepts earlier this semester. Perseverance pays off.

The reason this all rates a day for the stuff project is not just the six-inch stack of exams, study sheets, xeroxed articles and worksheets that I threw in the recycling this morning. It's that junior year is such a terrible, awful, stressful, mindboggling year. The pressure cooker of having all your work reviewed and judged by unknown bodies - college admissions offices - adds that modicum of unbearability to all your efforts junior year. And the consequences seem so profound: Harvard versus community college, a career at McDonald's versus a career in a law firm. Of course, it's not really as dramatic as that, but it feels that way. At no other point in your life is all your work put forward for a judgment that will have long-reaching consequences. It's a crazy system, and it's a wonder the kids survive it with as much grace as they do.

So, good riddance junior year winter finals! One more semester of pain and suffering. Then college selection. Then college, a place where education is its own reward. Or so one hopes.

Good job, son.

General Cleansing

Day 310: General Cleansing

Feng shui!

I did myself proud last Sunday, with Rich's encouragement. I personally selected and installed a new HDTV (that's high definition television for you Luddites), an Apple TV and a rotating wall mount. I also removed our dying desktop computer (we've all got laptops now) and organized the spaghetti wires connecting the speakers, receiver, printer, wifi transmitter, modem, television and Apple TV. I've transformed our messy and un-feng shui computer desk into a neatly organized entertainment/office area.

Not feng shui!

The pleasing anti-clutter, however, just magnifies the disturbing uber-clutter directly across.

Emblematic of a boatload of junk

I've gotten rid of a great deal from these cluttered shelves, but somehow, they still look awful. So this morning, I went through them shelf by shelf to figure out why. I won't bore you with the details, but involved a fair amount of recycling, several musical instruments, a hefty black Coleman flashlight, miscellaneous battery chargers for unspecified electronics, and a bunch of books on the shelves but not quite shelved. This little cardboard box, which went into the recycling bin, is a symbol of all the rest of the recycling and outright trash that went into creating a more peaceful place for my eyes.

Sewing Stand Contents

Day 309: Sewing Stand Contents

I feel like I'm at mile 20 of a marathon. Close enough to the finish line that I don't want to quit, but far enough that I'm not sure I can make it. I felt an enormous sense of relief this morning when my eyes lighted on my antique sewing stand. Not only have I not yet riffled through it for things to get rid of, but it is actually overstuffed and disorganized. Woot, woot!

Imagine my joy when I realized that the box contained two packages of "Cover Your Own Buttons" and one package of snaps for handmade baby clothes. From the packaging, I assume these were manufactured in the 1950s. I am quite certain I will never use them. They came in a big bag of buttons I bought at Kiwanis years ago. I love buttons. Also in the box, a baggie of unopened Kirsch curtain hooks (I don't have a rod to match), a single curtain ring, a few little packages of embroidery thread (I don't embroider) and a single doll's shoe. One day down, 56 to go.

Still in the antique sewing box are about a dozen souvenir patches. Sam began collecting these at a very young age. In elementary school, he was famous, not just for his likable Sam-ness, but also for his distinctive red backpack, which was covered with patches from all over the country. An alligator from The Alligator Farm in St. Augustine. A mountain from our Alaskan cruise. A Junior Ranger patch from the Sleeping Bear National Seashore. When we ran out of room on his backpack, I began sewing them onto his little blue rolling suitcase. At some point, the patches began to come off the luggage. I started falling behind on my sewing tasks. And then, suddenly, before I could get caught up, he turned 13. From that point forward, standing out was a bad thing. We replaced his interesting and famous elementary school backpack with a gray and navy North Face, and he's never looked back. Three more sentimental things for me to be unable to let go of: the backpack, the little blue suitcase, and the stack of unattached patches.

And another sentimental thing: my button box. This is a Danish cookie tin filled to the brim with buttons of all shapes and sizes. Metal, plastic, leather, tortoiseshell, bone. Big, small, rear mounted, four holes, two holes, red, blue, black, yellow, sparkling, matte, new, used, vintage, antique. Heavy and light, round, square, triangular, irregular. Matched sets and one-offs. My mother had a button box just like it when I was a kid. I would spend hours sorting and examining the buttons. I still do. A few months ago, Emma and I spent an entire afternoon making stretchy bracelets and earrings out of the button box.

Another thing I can't get rid of.

The stuff project is like a death row prisoner when the governor can't quite make up his mind. One more day to live.

Last of the Stuffed Animals

Day 308: Last of the Stuffed Animals

A day when the difference between "What should I keep?" and "What should I get rid of?" is in stark contrast. I don't seem to have the willpower to reduce the stuffed animal contingent to one large basket. There are just too many that I can't bring myself to get rid of...even knowing that stuffed animals have no intrinsic value. I can't even bring myself to reduce them to one (or two, or three, or four) per person.

At the risk of sounding repetitive, there are so very many stuffed animals that I just can't seem to part with, and I don't know why. Looking around my house every day, trying to find that one more item to get rid of, I'm starting to see whole categories that I am still clutching, even if I never use them. Gifts. Heirlooms. Sentimental things. A moving truck's worth. These:

• The many handmade dolls my mother gave us, except for this one pilly gingerbread man, who's tattered puffball buttons are almost separated from his gingerbread body. I still have Mary (the little girl in pink), and a knitted sailor man in blue, and a boy with a red and yellow striped scarf. Also, from my mother are Raggedy Ann and Andy, made from fabric on the sewing machine

• The many handmade dolls my children made, including many intentionally ugly sock dolls Sam made from an ugly sock doll book, and a hand-knitted bear named Greg (yes, another Greg) which Emma made for Sam, and sock doll likenesses of me and Rich that Emma made with my mother (the little blond woman doll is always looking away from the slightly larger bearded man doll with the curly red hair), and a little calico girl doll Emma made in sewing class in kindergarten
• A bear stuffed with cherry pits that you can heat in the microwave and use like a sweet-smelling hot water bottle, a gift from Nadin because she loves hot water bottles so
• A giant tiger that Dad got for Sam at Costco. It's leaking little styrofoam pellets, but Sam loved it so, I can't stand to give it away
• A giant Eeyore, a giant floppy brown dog, and many giant fish pillows that make convenient lounging cushions
• A little stuffed dog - Elizabeth's first gift to Emma - and a little stuffed bear - my first gift to Emma
• Emma's collection of stuffed pigs
• An Ugly Doll knock-off that one of them won at the Burns Park Ice Cream Social
• A lifelike German Shepherd Dog and a giant snake, gifts from Miranda

We also have six small covered pillows. Emma sewed the covers and embroidered a note for each of her elementary school teachers on them. She intended to give them as gifts, but never did.

Monkey, Penguin and Mystery Bird

Day 307: Monkey, Penguin and Mystery Bird

How did Walter Putnam come to write the article Stuffed Animals: Transcultural Objects in the Bedroom Jungle? His article - which contains footnotes but no context for its writing - might be science fiction, or it might be poetry. It might lunatic rants, but then again, it might be brilliant. He makes these points:

• Stuffed animals have no intrinsic value; their value comes in their acquisition and the subsequent meaning we imbue in them (describes 90% of what I've gotten rid of this year?)
• They are invisible, a soft, cuddly, ubiquitous artifact of the industrial revolution; bombs are smuggled inside teddy bears (here are three more invisible stuffed animals; they snuck into our house somehow, and we have never imbued them with emotional value)

What are stuffed animals, anyway? The penguin in the center is more evocative of the animal it purports to represent. The two others are strange anthropomorphic creatures. A bird with a red scarf and a belly button? A monkey that smiles ear-to-ear while leaning its elbow on the penguin's head?

And who is Walter Putnam anyway? The article doesn't say. According to Google, Walter Putnam is a financial advisor for Northwestern Mutual. He is Chair of the French Department at the University of New Mexico. He is president of the U.S. chapter of Space Renaissance International and the Kepler Space Institute's vice president of communications. He is a former AP reporter/editor and Middle Easter correspondent. He is a licensed Arizona State Board of Pharmacy intern. He is a major general in the U.S. Air Force. He was a teacher, and a restaurant and sports shop owner, now deceased. He is a jockey, and an orthopedic surgeon. He is on Facebook, and Twitter, and LinkedIn.

Life in the modern age.

The Jukebox Queen of Malta and More

Day 306: The Jukebox Queen of Malta and More

Found a large stash of forgotten books. Good for a few more days.

Guesstures

Day 305: Guesstures 

A board

Game we have never played. Guess we don't need it. 

Broken Sled

Day 304: Broken Sled
Real Simple - the modern woman's Good Housekeeping - has an entire column devoted to repurposing household objects. Old nylons can be used to strain bacon fat. Old window screens can be used for earring hangers. Wine corks can be turned into bulletin boards. Teapots can be turned into lamps. Of course, when you attempt these projects at home, they do not in any way resemble to well-lit photoshopped versions in the magazine. In th spirit of Real Simple, I've been keeping this broken plastic sled on a shelf in the garage, thinking I might use it someday to haul raked leaves to the compost bin. I've seen my neighbors using old sleds for just this purpose. Molded plastic objects fill me with guilt, but, if I could get ten more good years out of it, maybe I wouldn't feel so bad.

Back when the kids were small, despite our best efforts to avoid it, we had many large-scale molded plastic items. We had a bright yellow and teal Little Tyke automobile with doors that opened; both the kids could sit in the front seat, and it had a steering wheel that really turned. If I'm not mistaken, they could propel it with their feet, much as Fred Flintstone did with his Stone Age car. We also had a Little Tyke little red wagon with removable sides, almost as convenient as a stroller for walking around the neighborhood with toddlers, but offering much more fun and freedom. These plastic behemoths had a very short run, floating in and out of our lives like flotsam on a fast river. Certainly, they still exist, but whether it's in someone else's backyard with the rest of their toddler toys, or in the middle of a mound of refuse at the city dump, it's impossible to say.

There's nothing rational about keeping this sled on a shelf in the garage, and it's not going to have a second life in someone else's childhood - someone who'd take it to Magic Mountain at Burns Park and give it a few dozen more good runs - because it's got a giant crack in the side.

Into the recycling bin with it, with apologies to Mother Earth.

Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them and Other Books

Day 303: Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them and Other Books

This is the time of year when our fantasies about the next ten years kick into high gear. Coming back from Florida to the prospect of months of bitter cold is never easy, especially for my southern man. But even in summer, we are always thinking. Emma seems successfully launched, Sam is leaving for college soon. Where shall we spend the next ten years of our working lives? The possibilities are many. Sell our expensive Burns Park house and buy a similar house outright in Ypsilanti, and a property on the water out in the country to go with it. Skip the Ypsi house and buy just a property on the water out in the country, with not too much of a commute. Move to a warmer climate, Gainesville or San Luis Obispo or Tacoma. Or what about Costa Rica?

Or perhaps we want to stay in this house until they carry us out, feet first. In that case, what would we do? Install a fireplace? Run a small business out of the studio? Build an attached garage with a short driveway right off the living room? Install a kitchen and bathroom in the studio and rent it out? The possibilities are endless.

All of these fantasies capture the mind like an iMax movie. And these fantasies about moving away make me realize something: that the question of what to get rid of is very different from the question of what to keep.

When you're deciding what to get rid of, you want to keep the little candleholder your daughter gave you ten years ago, and the novel on the top shelf that you've never read but might someday, and the bone china cocoa set that once belonged to your grandmother (the one that's missing a saucer), and every hand-knitted doll your mother made whether the kids played with it or not, and the watercolor you bought at the Humane Society fundraiser your niece organized, and the Star Wars Trivial Pursuit your son might want to give to his boy someday, and the six basketballs that bounce at different heights, and the crappy guitar that looks good hanging on the wall, and the old beat-up recliners that are still comfortable to sit in, and the Mr. Beer! that you still might use to make that pale ale recipe someday.

If the question is instead, "What should I keep?" - if, for example, you were moving to a smaller house in Ypsilanti, or a smaller house in the woods, or a smaller house in Florida - you might not keep any of these things.

You might, perhaps, be able to get rid of one thing, every day for two years.

Or three.

More Stuffed Animals

Day 302: more Stuffed Animals

More toward my goal of reducing to one basketful. 9 pm and I still need to fill out on-line forms with Sam for his independent study. Enough blogging. 

More Stuffed Animals

Day 301: More Stuffed Animals

How can a city whose population has declined from 1.8 million to just over 700,000 still have traffic jams? What must traffic have been like, back in 1950 when Detroit's population was at its peak?

My mother remembers those days. She tells stories about driving over the Ambassador Bridge from Windsor to shop at Hudson's flagship store on Woodward Avenue: 33 stories high, glittering with lights, full of glamorous women (like her mother) in silk stockings and stylish hats. Her mother would try on every shoe in the shoe department and not buy a single pair, leaving a wake of tissue paper and cardboard boxes and despondent sales clerks. A trip to Detroit was a special thing, back in the day.

I've got a goal of reducing the
stuffed animals down to one basket.
This dog is very cute but
a latecomer. The doll from the
slave plantation is interesting
but her features are running.
None of this has anything to do
with Detroit.

I understand the political, historical and economic factors that lead to Detroit's decline. But still, it's a bitter pill. The city's intrinsic beauty: the Great Lakes narrows - the Detroit River - with the Detroit skyline on one side and Windsor's on the other, spanned by the sweeping Ambassador Bridge. The many miles of riverbank, historic Belle Isle adorning it like a diamond brooch on a lady of substance. Rill to Kahn to contemporary architecture: burned out and abandoned buildings of heartbreaking beauty. How could a place with such gifts have turned into such a disaster?

My meeting this morning took place at Outdoor Adventure Center, a Department of Natural Resources museum in the making. They've reclaimed one of those grand, sweeping red brick former factories - the ones with twenty-foot ceilings and walls of windows - to create a monument to Michigan's outdoors. The place is filled with light, and from every vantage point, you see it all: the river, Canada, the Renaissance Center, and miles of open parkland.

So I'm driving through stop-and-go traffic all the way from the airport in Romulus to Detroit's riverfront. I'm watching the "Miles to Empty" dashboard reader count down, and I'm watching the minutes tick by, and I'm hoping no one's taking attendance, and I'm praying for Detroit. Out of bankruptcy, auto industry resurging, emergency financial manager finished.

May the Renaissance Center be aptly named at last.

Baseball Caps

Day 300: Baseball Caps
Many months ago, I culled my straw hats. Baseball caps, it's your turn now.

Baseball caps are different from straw hats. They serve a dual function: clothing and souvenirs. That's how you accumulate so many.

Keepers:

• Massasauga rattlesnake cap - cutest little viper in Washtenaw County
• Matthaei Botanical Gardens & Nichols Arboretum staff cap
• Cornell Medical Center cap - souvenir of Uncle David
• Wicking fabric cap - good for running
• Miscellaneous caps that are not in their place on the shelf but that are certainly hidden in various closets throughout the house

Losers:

• Tortuga Island Golf Tournament - huh?
• LSA all-staff barbecue cap - why?
• University of Michigan generic cap - yawn
• Cedar Creek Junction cap - paint stains

My Mother's Basket

Day 299: My Mother's Basket

Why do daughters feel that keeping their mothers' things isn't really stealing? My mother brought over a lovely picnic for me in this basket, probably three years ago when I had surgery in my nasal passages. And because I'm greedy for baskets, and because this one is so very functional, I just kept it. I never even thought about it. I just rolled up a bunch of clean towels, artfully arranged them in the basket and used it as a mini linen closet in the upstairs bathroom.

I thought of it yesterday, as I was stewing under a black cloud because I have hangnails on two fingers but no nail clippers. The reason I have no nail clippers is that Emma Jane stole my nail kit when she went back to Ball State last week. This, after I had explicitly stated that NO ONE was to remove this nail kit from the downstairs bathroom. Anyone could use it, but NO ONE could move it. Ironically, the nail kit was a gift (wrapped and delivered) from my mother.

I was extremely incensed when I realized that my nail kit was gone. The theft of my nail kit follows a pattern of other thefts - my sweaters, my makeup, my hats and gloves, my yarn, my books, my Sudoku puzzles - that create little unpleasant surprises as I move through my day. The bottom line is, daughters aren't really separate from their mothers, like drops of rain in a pond. For this reason, mother's things are really your things. You can't steal from yourself.

I'd been thinking, with irritation, that someday, when my own child is truly grown, she'll feel deep down that she is separate from me, and when that day comes, my sweaters will stay folded on the shelf, and my nail clippers will stay tucked in their bathroom drawer. I was looking forward to that day. Until I noticed the basket on the bathroom floor, filled to the brim with artistically arranged towels.

No doubt, my mother would happily give me that basket. In fact, she's probably reading this blog now and thinking something like, "Oh, you should have just kept the basket, dear. I'm happy for you to have it." And I would happily give my daughter a nail kit. If only she would ask.

More Lighthearted DVDs

Day 298: More Lighthearted DVDs

Things have changed since I was a kid. Changed even more since my parents' day. This is the obvious conclusion Sam and I drew today while he interviewed me as a homework assignment for his American history class.

We talked about the movie Selma, which Rich and I saw last night. Back then, Martin Luther King knew specifically what he was advocating when he met with President Johnson. With the stroke of a pen, he said, LBJ could make a significant difference in the day-to-day lives of black people in Selma, Birmingham, and Albany. Remove the barriers to allow black people to vote. Outlaw segregation on the busses and in the schools.

Nowadays, it's hard to know what steps to take to address the problems in society and in the world. The extremists who detonated a bomb at Charlie Hebdo are not comparable to the middle-aged ladies who peaceably demonstrated for their right to vote. What do these extremists want? What would satisfy them? On the other hand, the cartoonists at Charlie Hebdo were arguably taking cheap shots - sometimes with explicit racism - at a poor and disenfranchised segment of society. Of course, that's no reason to kill them. But it does add complexity.

Is social media and instant communication a good thing or a bad thing? In 1964, the police could have choked Eric Garner and no one would have been the wiser. Much of Martin Luther King's strategy centered around ensuring that when the sheriff took out his barbed-wire-wrapped billy club and used it, The New York Times was there to see it. Nowadays, there's a videocamera everywhere, and it takes only a moment to forward it to the Times. 

On the other hand, a kid swinging in a hammock on a summer day in 1964 might have been watching the clouds float past, or listening to the cicadas, or smelling the lilacs. Nowadays, that same kid might be watching t.v., or tweeting, or playing a video game. And that same kid might be making a judgment about Selma, or Eric Garner, based on what another kid tweeted, and not on a thoughtful and vetted published story by a seasoned reporter.

These DVDs were state-of-the-art when Sam was a toddler. What a blessing it was to pop in a video for the kids to watch while I was making dinner. When I was a kid, my mother had to park us in front of whatever was on t.v., or not. And in her mother's day, t.v. wasn't an option at all. Sam and I talked about how peaceful it might be, not to feel the constant pull of technology.

Things are the way they are, for better or for worse. You can't put the genie back in the bottle.

Towels

Day 297: Towels

If you look closely at this picture, you will see the tattered edges and lengths of unraveled string on these old towels. They were wedding gifts, 19 years ago. I've learned that the Humane Society will accept old towels. I've also realized my children will continue taking clean towels out of the cupboard every time they take a shower, until there are no more. At that point, they will go to their rooms and pick the driest towel up off the floor to reuse. Therefore, if there are only eight towels in the cupboard instead of 16, the only impact will be less laundry for me. And less clutter.

Surprised (as I am many days) that there are still so many things to get rid of.

Baskets

Day 296: Baskets
Baskets! I like them almost as much as I like bowls, towels and sheets. But, as with every other category of objects, not all baskets are created equal. Some are lovely, colorful, finely woven, handmade craftsmanship. Others come from the bargain table at Michael's. While these aren't quite junk, they're not nearly as nice as the handled basket my sister gave me a few years ago, which she got at the art fair, or the deep blue rectangular basket Bob got me at 10,000 Villages, or the giant sturdy baskets I bought from a tribal woman in Nairobi and brought back with me on the airplane.

The only reason I still have these - day 294 - is that they have been stored on top of my kitchen cabinets, well above eye level. I happened to glance up this morning and thought, "Aha!" One more day taken care of.

Now, if I could just get Rich out to the studio.

Classic Movies

Day 295: Classic Movies

Dear Mom and Dad (two of my very few readers):

Thanks for reading my blog regularly enough that I'm pretty sure you'll get this message. I love getting your email comments.

Question: would you please accept these five DVDs for your collection at Gros Cap? Gros Cap would be a great place second home for these outstanding classics. Time is fluid there. The place has enough amenities to be comfortable, and is just low tech enough to foster deep relaxation. No computers, but a broad collection of highly readable paperbacks, ranging from Jim Harrison to Tony Hillerman. No wifi, but a DVD player and a sizable collection of fun-to-watch movies. You've got all our favorites: Young Frankenstein. My Cousin Vinnie. Men in Black. So I Married an Ax Murderer. These would be an excellent addition to the library: fun to watch, excellent execution, tense enough to be engrossing but not so scary that you'd want to go stay in a Holiday Inn near the freeway.

Rich and I love classic movies, especially Alfred Hitchcock. But we're all about streaming these days.

Love,
Karen

Still More Books

Day 294: Still More Books

Scraping the bottom of the barrel. Sam offered to give me an empty toothpaste tube to get rid of, but I found a few old paperbacks. Oh, and a 20-year-old address book with the addresses written in pencil so they could be updated as necessary. 

Junk Mail

Day 293: Junk Mail

Here we have only two short weeks worth of junk mail, accumulated at the Post Office while we were in Florida. Rather than simply tossing it directly into the recycling, I decided to ask to be removed from the mailing lists of these organizations.

My first attempt was easy: a quick email to a Realtor who helped us purchase our house, to ask him to remove us from his regular mailing list.

Next, a call to QuickenLoans, where I spent seven minutes on hold listening to a prerecorded voice telling me how wonderfully responsive QuickenLoans are for mortgages, before a perky customer service representative told me that they have no record of our address in their system but that she would enter it into their database with a "Do Not Mail" notice. Now I'm afraid I'm going to get two sets of junk mail from Quicken.

I decided to winnow the pile. Instead of calling them all, I'll resign myself to the postcards and call only the most egregious catalog producers, starting with Holland America, 1-877-SAIL-HAL, which has been sending us huge catalogs ever since my parents took us on a cruise to Alaska in 2007. Had to listen phone router. After reaching a live person, had to be transferred to the Mariner Department. Phone time to complete request for removal: 3:22. Time to stop receiving mail: 4-6 weeks.

OMG, I don't have time for this. I went to the Federal Trade Commission web site and got routed to OptOutPrescreen.com, where I opted out of ever receiving any prescreened credit solicitations. This was a little nerve wracking because I had to enter my social security number, but I decided to trust it since it was linked through ftc.gov. I also opted into the National Do Not Mail List on directmail.com, and filled out the catalogchoice.org stop junk mail request form. I filled out the forms twice, once for myself and once for Rich.

I'll keep you posted on whether our junk mail declines.

All the King's Men, Streets of Laredo and The Sisters Brothers

Day 292: All the King's Men, Streets of Laredo and The Sisters Brothers
I have started filling in everything I eat and all my cardio exercise in "My Fitness Tracker," as I do every year around this time. As usual, I gained a few pounds over the holidays. My Fitness Tracker counts calories for me, telling me how much I can eat for the rest of the day if I wish to maintain or lose weight. It also gives me a happy message if I'm choosing high fiber foods, or a warning if I'm consuming too many polyunsaturated fats. I've found that just raising my consciousness about everything I put in my mouth is enough to bring my size back to modal.

As I was making the breakfast entries this morning, I started imagining a similar app for stuff. "My Stuff Tracker," perhaps. In it, you could record everything you acquire (purchases, gifts, inheritances, found objects) and everything you get rid of (donations, gifts, garage pail). You could record the purpose, the dollar cost, the environmental cost, the social cost, the sentimental value and so on for each object. "Belonged to grandmother." "Handmade by daughter in fourth grade." "Built by slaves in underground factory." "Released 12 pounds of carbon emissions." "Likely to be ridiculed within two years." I wonder if such an app would keep your acquisitions down, just like My Fitness Tracker does for your waistline.

I was also thinking about how excruciatingly modern all this is. An app to keep your weight down? An app to keep the clutter away? These are two problems that would have been unimaginable a hundred years ago. Too much stuff! Too much food! Impossible!

At the same time, I was looking around our first floor - (the open floor plan! another modern construct) - and flirting with the idea of getting rid of virtually all of my books. The first floor still looks pretty cluttered to me. There's a guy in Ann Arbor who has a little business inventorying and selling personal libraries. I could get rid of all my books, and in exchange get a complete inventory and an occasion check. I realize that much of what I value in owning the books is a reminder of what I've read. With an inventory, I wouldn't need the actual physical object. And what if I got rid of all the bookshelves? More room to move about the room, more room to push back the dining room chairs. Less to distract the eye. Imagine how much visual serenity I'd have.

And finally, amidst all these problem-solving, decluttering, inventing, judging, improving thoughts, I was noticing the problem-solving, decluttering, inventing, judging, improving thoughts. Imagining what it might feel like simply to be satisfied with first floor, and the amount of stuff I have, and the apps on my iPhones, without scheming for anything better.

For now, All the King's Men, Streets of Laredo and The Sisters Brothers are going.

More Sports Illustrateds and National Geographics

Day 291: More Sports Illustrateds and National Geographics

I have a couple of unwritten rules for the stuff project that make it a challenge. First, I'm not counting getting rid of anything I have come to possess since the start of the project. Second, I'm trying to achieve a net reduction of one object per day. The idea is that I should end the year with 365 fewer objects than at the start. This would be in contrast to getting 365 new things, and getting rid of 365 old things.

For me, this has proved to be the most difficult, and the most habit-changing. I suspect that I've been getting rid of an average of one thing a day for many years - and acquiring two newer, better objects each day. Or at least they seemed newer and better at the time. Whether the exchange has truly increased my happiness is a big question. Rich calls this "Reaching for a shiny object."

I've been fretting about the post I made yesterday, feeling that I didn't quite capture the essence of what I admire so much about Jane and Rich, and why I find it so deeply relaxing to spend time at Jane's house. I believe the habit of not reaching for a shiny object is somehow at the core. Wanting, researching, buying, unloading the car, disposing of packaging, breaking in, breaking out and arranging new stuff - these are all work, and costly, too. By getting rid of a net of one thing a day, I've become much more conscious of the mental effort I'm constantly putting into upgrading.

I was doing it last week, on vacation. My running shoes are several years old. My knees hurt. Better cushioning might help. While we were in St. Augustine, Sam got a great bargain on a new pair of Nikes at the Nike outlet. Cute shoes! Almost half off! Fit great! Great cushioning! After his trip to the outlet store, I'd expend mental energy every day thinking about the outlet mall, trying to decide whether it was worth a trip. In those moments, I wasn't in the vacation zone - long, slow walks on the beach, crossword puzzles, beer on the lanai, a game of cards - I was in acquisition mode. Plotting and planning to get something new.

I'm doing it right now. I've never liked the medicine cabinet, vanity and light fixture in our upstairs bathroom. The medicine cabinet and vanity seem to have a southwestern motif; the light fixture is faux Victorian. They don't go together, and they don't go with the house. I've spent time at Home Depot, checking out the vanities. I've had a plumber out here: the vanity is high quality even if it is ugly. He suggests having it refaced. This morning, I noticed that the vanity's bottom drawer is completely broken off. Is this the excuse I need to replace it?

Honestly, I'm doing this everywhere in the house, all the time: the living room sofa cushions are tamped down and losing stuffing, the lining has come off on the bottom. The paint is scuffed in the kitchen next to the garbage pail. I used to love the red wall in the basement, now I wish it was a more neutral color. The wood floors are getting worn and need to be refinished. The glider rocker we used to rock our kids to sleep is ugly. The futon couch in the attic is uncomfortable.

All these things take mental energy, energy that I'm not using to be a better writer, or a better musician, or more fit. Or more at peace. What if instead of noticing all the flaws in everything I own, I simply accepted it? What if I committed to my stuff in the same way I'm committed to my marriage, to my job, to my kids?

The Dalai Lama gives an image for meditation: a water glass full of sand, the sand stirred up so that it clouds the water. Meditation - sitting, practicing - simply allows the water to become still, and the sand to sink to the bottom. The sand is still there, but resting quietly. The water becomes clear. It seems that stuff stirs the current of my mind, clouding it. At Jane's, these thoughts (mostly) are stilled. My mind is clear. Calm. Peaceful.

Today, I'm breaking my rule about not counting things that I've acquired since the onset of the stuff project. If you'll recall, in the beginning, I get rid of tons of magazines: Tricycle, Sports Illustrated, National Geographic. Already, I've got a huge stack of new magazines, which I'll take to the library free rack yet again. I'm trying to be so very conscious of not bringing new stuff into the house, yet it's so very difficult. I admire the Amish, who consider each thing carefully before acquiring it. They only bring it into their households if the object will bring utility for generations. If you know that not only yourself, but your children and your children's children, will be responsible for each object you acquire, this would undoubtedly raise the acquisition bar.

High enough, perhaps, that our minds would be free of plotting and planning the next purchase. I wonder, what would such an unencumbered mind accomplish?

Towering Inferno, Last Emperor, and Death of a Cyclist

Day 290: Towering Inferno, Last Emperor, and Death of a Cyclist

I never win anything. At least, that's the story I tell myself. Then, 18 months ago, I had the good fortune to be the 10,000th person to "like" the Michigan Theater on Facebook. Not only did they extend my membership for a year, they also gave me a Michigan Theater reusable grocery bag with three artsy films in it on DVD: Towering Inferno, Last Emperor, and Death of a Cyclist.

Like many gifts, this was wonderfully exciting in the moment, but then I began to realize that the likelihood of my ever watching these DVDs was slim to none. Virtually every movie that isn't copyrighted can be watched for free. With a little time and effort, even new movies can be watched for free, if you're willing to wait for interlibrary loans. Or, for $4, I can stream anything without waiting. I have absolute control over my movie-watching pleasure, and I love movies.

We had a little taste of the bad old t.v. days in our condo on Captiva: no DVD player, so we just watched the movies that were on t.v. Home Alone and It's a Wonderful Life, two holiday classics, take three hours to watch when they deliver six minutes of commercials (at elevated volumes) every 14 minutes. Remember?

There's some sentimental value to being forced to watch the same things year after year. My family watched The Wizard of Oz each year without fail. The commercials made it a little less scary, but it was still pretty scary. My father would break up the tension by putting on a pair of fuzzy slippers and singing "Oh-Ee-Oh" at the top of his lungs, just like the Wicked Witch's flying monkeys, except for the farting noises. The Grinch, Frosty, and Charlie Brown all have a place in my heart.

But on balance, what we pay for Netflix streaming is well worth $7.99. No doubt, without commercial-free streaming, I would never accomplish my goal of watching every single Star Trek episode and movie ever made. And that's worth a lot, don't you think?

Movie-watching is a cornerstone of my marriage. We have been seeing a free movie on the first Monday or Thursday of the month at the Michigan Theater ever since the kids were old enough to leave at home. It's a built-in date night, and it means we get to see movies we might not ordinarily choose. Every Friday, we stream a movie at home and eat pizza. Up until just a few years ago, this was a sacrosanct family ritual. Now it's just me and Rich.

Today is my little brother's birthday. I hope he loves movies as much as I do, because I wrapped up these Michigan Theater prize DVDs and gave them to him. Karl has the right idea for birthday giving: each year, a single trade paperback, thoughtfully selected. Thanks to him, we've read and enjoyed everything from Moneyball to The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I don't believe that Karl has Netflix streaming, so hopefully he'll get more use out of them than I would. I know he loves independent movies.

Happy watching, brother.

World's Finest Hydration System

Day 289: World's Finest Hydration System

We are all a little out of sorts, feeling the lost sunshine and looking forward with mixed feelings to our real lives. The house feels chilly and dark, and there is little food except the Christmas packages - chocolate and cheese and coffee and smoked fish and sausage - from various Rickmans. Uneasily, I have taken stock and realized there is little left that I want to get rid of, short of a wholesale rethinking of my entire portfolio of goods.  Everything I see is either useful, or beautiful, or evokes fond memories. 

Jane's house is very comfortable, and yet, she is not acquisitive.  In her cupboards are heavy glass plates and off white china with brown patterns and little green four-ounce Coca Cola glasses, patterns and styles from my childhood. I have the feeling that if some of the dishes from her every day ware broke, she'd just keep the perfectly good rest of the set. Someday, when there were few enough left that she couldn't set a table, she might get a new set. She's had her big comfortable sectional sofa for the whole twenty years I've known her.

I believe that objects are just a means to an end in Jane's house. It's the people in the house, not the house and its contents, that matter. A sofa is a comfortable place to sit. A mug is a thing to drink coffee out of. A blanket is a thing to keep you warm. What's important is family, and humor, and affection, and comfort, and God. Stuff doesn't really matter, except maybe the old corduroy rocking chair that her mother rocked Richie in, once upon a time.

After 287 days, I'm still not quite ready to rethink everything. I felt relieved, peering around the red storage closet, to lay eyes on an object I didn't recognize and realize that it's an old, dusty water vessel I've never seen anyone use. I can put off confronting a crisis in the stuff project, at least for one more day.

On Monday, back to work.

Sweater

Day 288: Sweater

most clothes come and go and don't rise to the level something that qualifies as a thing to be gotten ridden of under the unwritten rules of the stuff project. This sweater is an exception only because it's made the family rounds as a favorite sweater. First Abby, then Emma, now me.  It's a perfect sweater in fact, almost knee length, great color, a soft wool blend, but it's completely trashed. Off to the ragpickers at last.