Another example of the invisible obvious: shoelaces and Post-Its. They have been sitting in plain view on our credenza getting dusted for uncounted weeks.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Party Balloons and Crepe Paper
Day 224: Party Balloons and Crepe Paper
These were in the same small basket on the same small shelf with the hefe I got rid of last week. On the one hand, it feels like I'm drained dry: I have nothing left to give. On the other, I have an infinite amount of stuff, so much that unnecessary items - party decorations bought at the Dollar Store years ago for a party long finished - hide in plain view.
I don't even see them. Invisible.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Sealed Container
Day 223: Sealed Container
Food packaging. I've always assumed that it is a major contributor to negative environmental outcomes. Often as I unwrap a granola bar, or pour myself a bowl of cereal, or take a piece of bread out of the plastic bag, I imagine Caroline Ingalls and her monthly trip to town. How the flour and sugar and baking soda and pickles and candy were displayed in giant wooden barrels. The grocer would weigh the items on a giant scale and twist them up into pieces of paper, which Caroline would tuck into a woven basket for the long ride home. Even that was too much dependency for Charles, who kept moving them farther and farther into the wilderness, where they had to make do with whatever they brought along, or could grow, build, bake or trade in the new, emptier landscape.
On our kitchen counter, we have rows of sealed glass jars that remind me of those pioneer days. In them: corn meal, white flour, wheat flour, sugar, popcorn, rice, brewer's yeast, pasta, teabags. To some extent, this is a successful effort on our part to minimize waste from food packaging. Partly, it's a decorative choice. But, although our popcorn included less packaging than the microwave variety, it still came in a large plastic jug from Costco, or a small plastic bag from Meijer. Ditto everything else in the jars. We didn't pull the ears from the stalk, hang them to dry over the winter, and enjoy a tasty, fully compostable treat by the fireside come spring.
It turns out that some of the things I thought about packaging are true. Yes, packaging is a large component of the municipal waste stream, compromising about one-third of the total; food packaging alone comprises about 20% of municipal waste. The good news is that the volume and weight of packaging has remained constant since the 1990s despite overall economic growth (with accompanying increases in waste). The EPA has solid regulations the encourage recycling and composting.
The big surprise to me - duh - is that the primary purpose of food packaging is to keep our food safe from contamination. It's not all just a marketing ploy! And guess what? We have one of the safest - perhaps the very safest - food system in the world! So you don't have to feel entirely guilty about those little plastic bags that you repurpose as poop sacks, or the little apple bags you use to carry your lunch, or the cardboard cartons you put in the recycling bin.
I've idealized Charles and Caroline and Mary and Laura and Carrie. I've even imagined my next year's challenge: only whole foods, every day for a year. Nothing prepackaged. No restaurants, no tortillas, no store-bought bread, no Kellogg's or Kraft. No Trader Joe's cheese, no matter how delicious.
Now I'm not so sure. First, eating only whole foods would be a major, major time commitment. A lot of the food would suck, because I haven't had the lifetime of lessons Caroline had to make her food palatable. Let's face it, I'm not the best bread baker in the world. We'd get a lot less variety. Moose Tracks, not. Greek yogurt, not. Gin and tonic, not.
I'm still keeping the sealed containers on the counter (not including this green metal one, which doesn't match). I'm still going to get my milk delivered so Calder Dairy will reuse the bottles. I'm still going to bring my canvas bags to the grocery store, and refrain from putting bananas in a plastic bag, and buy dish soap in larger bottles less often. On the other hand, I'm also going to consider food packaging - and our safe food system - with more appreciation.
On our kitchen counter, we have rows of sealed glass jars that remind me of those pioneer days. In them: corn meal, white flour, wheat flour, sugar, popcorn, rice, brewer's yeast, pasta, teabags. To some extent, this is a successful effort on our part to minimize waste from food packaging. Partly, it's a decorative choice. But, although our popcorn included less packaging than the microwave variety, it still came in a large plastic jug from Costco, or a small plastic bag from Meijer. Ditto everything else in the jars. We didn't pull the ears from the stalk, hang them to dry over the winter, and enjoy a tasty, fully compostable treat by the fireside come spring.
It turns out that some of the things I thought about packaging are true. Yes, packaging is a large component of the municipal waste stream, compromising about one-third of the total; food packaging alone comprises about 20% of municipal waste. The good news is that the volume and weight of packaging has remained constant since the 1990s despite overall economic growth (with accompanying increases in waste). The EPA has solid regulations the encourage recycling and composting.
The big surprise to me - duh - is that the primary purpose of food packaging is to keep our food safe from contamination. It's not all just a marketing ploy! And guess what? We have one of the safest - perhaps the very safest - food system in the world! So you don't have to feel entirely guilty about those little plastic bags that you repurpose as poop sacks, or the little apple bags you use to carry your lunch, or the cardboard cartons you put in the recycling bin.
I've idealized Charles and Caroline and Mary and Laura and Carrie. I've even imagined my next year's challenge: only whole foods, every day for a year. Nothing prepackaged. No restaurants, no tortillas, no store-bought bread, no Kellogg's or Kraft. No Trader Joe's cheese, no matter how delicious.
Now I'm not so sure. First, eating only whole foods would be a major, major time commitment. A lot of the food would suck, because I haven't had the lifetime of lessons Caroline had to make her food palatable. Let's face it, I'm not the best bread baker in the world. We'd get a lot less variety. Moose Tracks, not. Greek yogurt, not. Gin and tonic, not.
I'm still keeping the sealed containers on the counter (not including this green metal one, which doesn't match). I'm still going to get my milk delivered so Calder Dairy will reuse the bottles. I'm still going to bring my canvas bags to the grocery store, and refrain from putting bananas in a plastic bag, and buy dish soap in larger bottles less often. On the other hand, I'm also going to consider food packaging - and our safe food system - with more appreciation.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Halloween Coloring
Day 222: Halloween Coloring
I am not one of those mothers who does up the whole house with holiday decorations. I'm more of a just-in-time kind of gal. Which means that I just realized today (Tuesday) that Friday is Halloween. For holiday decorations, the kids have to go to my mom's.
Nevertheless, I have a whole boxful of holiday stuff that will have to be buried with me in my coffin, because I will never give them up. Never. In the whole big box, I found very, very little that I could bear to part with.
And a whole lot that gives me joy.
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| Sam used to draw the most expressive, comical, appealing faces. This pumpkin makes me laugh every time I take it out of the box. |
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| Just recently Sam's English teacher told him he has talent as a poet. You can see this talent started to emerge at a young age. |
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| This is the only thing I can actually get rid of. Nothing original - just colored-in Xerox copies. Haven't put them up in years. |
And a whole lot that gives me joy.
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| Your friendly neighborhood vampire, arriving on time to suke your blood. Another classic from Emma Jane that makes me laugh. Every time. |
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| Skeletons made out of Q-Tips, pumpkins in a patch, maniacal scarecrows. All keepers. |
Monday, October 27, 2014
Curtain Rods
Day 221: Curtain Rods
The au pair we had in between Nadin and Ina - Nicole - wanted curtains for her attic bedroom. She felt exposed up there, even though it's a floor above any of our neighbors' living spaces, and even though most of the windows are skylights pointing towards the clouds. Nicole had a few other complaints as well. Rich and I drank all the coffee and didn't leave any for her. Her bed was uncomfortable, too soft, not enough support. The kids made her feel "stressy," they didn't mind very well. I bought these rods for her with every intention of acquiring and putting up curtains for her, but it just never happened. In an old house like ours, I'm not a fan of curtains unless they are absolutely necessary for privacy's sake. Every ray of sunshine should be embraced and uplifted. Nothing should diminish the light.
I lived in San Francisco for twelve years, and for a good portion of that time, I had a little apartment in a ten-story building on Alamo Square Park (site of postcard row). I had a beautiful western-facing view of the City: from my window, I could see the Panhandle and Golden Gate Park in the distance, the distant trees a backdrop to the vast sea of apartment buildings, houses, cafes, sidewalks, gas stations, bodegas, bicycles, streets, light poles, cars, passersby, transit lines and on and on and on.
At one point, my father gave me a telescope and I set it up by the window. I think my intentions were pure - I would look at the moon, or the birds, or try to spy the ocean in the far distance.
Naturally, the view a little closer to home was much more interesting. The telescope was a secret peek into slices of my neighbors' lives. The City is so dense, you can live in the building next door to someone for a decade and not recognize her when you pass her on the street. I never saw anything even remotely scintillating through the telescope. Not even a PG-13 kiss. It's not that people had their curtains closed. It's just that they usually do things like watch t.v., or talk on the phone, or read the newspaper. Things that aren't very interesting to watch.
I quickly lost interest in the telescope. Watching ore boats go by on Lake Michigan in the U.P. is much more captivating than watching your neighbors eat a bowl of cereal. But the telescope had the paradoxical effect of diminishing my commitment to window treatments. If someone really wants to watch me type my blog through a telescope from some neighboring building, let them. What's the harm in watching?
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| These ends are a testament to why keeping stuff around is not a good idea. How did they get crushed? I don't know. I hope they're still usable for someone. |
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At one point, my father gave me a telescope and I set it up by the window. I think my intentions were pure - I would look at the moon, or the birds, or try to spy the ocean in the far distance.
Naturally, the view a little closer to home was much more interesting. The telescope was a secret peek into slices of my neighbors' lives. The City is so dense, you can live in the building next door to someone for a decade and not recognize her when you pass her on the street. I never saw anything even remotely scintillating through the telescope. Not even a PG-13 kiss. It's not that people had their curtains closed. It's just that they usually do things like watch t.v., or talk on the phone, or read the newspaper. Things that aren't very interesting to watch.
I quickly lost interest in the telescope. Watching ore boats go by on Lake Michigan in the U.P. is much more captivating than watching your neighbors eat a bowl of cereal. But the telescope had the paradoxical effect of diminishing my commitment to window treatments. If someone really wants to watch me type my blog through a telescope from some neighboring building, let them. What's the harm in watching?
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Kids' Music
Day 220: Kids' Music
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The shelves upstairs are still yielding little things from past times. A signed version of Teaching Hippopotami to Fly by the Chenille Sisters. Magic School Bus Dinosaurs (oh, how Sam loved dinosaurs!). I Spy.
No more cross country trips with books on tape played over and over, or the same videotape played over and over, or the Chenille Sisters played over and over. I can still recite the book The White Cat from memory ("You are nothing but a white...cat") and sing all the words to "A You're Adorable," and speak the lines along with James Cromwell in Babe ("That'll do, pig"). The kids listen to their own music now, with headphones. off in the zone.
It doesn't seem long ago that they were toddling along on unsteady feet, with diaper-fat butts and chubby little ankles and shorts that went below their knees, or reaching up to ride the Razor scooter set at the lowest height, or stopping at the street corner because they weren't allowed to cross on their own, or climbing the tree between our house and Barbara's house next door to put letters in the wooden box they'd stowed up in the branches.
I'm guessing that I'll have grandchildren in fewer years than it's been since we last listened to the Magic School Bus. Should I keep these things for them?
Sam, Rich and I spent some time this afternoon filling our street-side compost container with leaves, as we've done every Sunday for several weeks. It's a pleasant task, with the sun shining, the crisp yellow leaves clean and sweet-smelling, and the autumn light soft and clear like champagne bubbles. We spent about 45 minutes at it, and then Sam went back to his homework and NFL game, up in our finished attic, as he has does every week when we are finished with our leaf-clearing chore.
Later, I saw a young mother in her front yard with two pre-school aged kids, raking fallen leaves into piles. Not long ago, we'd rake our own leaves into giant piles, not wasting them in the composter but turning them into an afternoon's entertainment. We'd fling ourselves into the leaf piles, over and over, laughing, throwing leaves into the air so they'd glint in the sun, getting covered from head to foot with crisp little pieces.
Soon enough, winter will be here.
No more cross country trips with books on tape played over and over, or the same videotape played over and over, or the Chenille Sisters played over and over. I can still recite the book The White Cat from memory ("You are nothing but a white...cat") and sing all the words to "A You're Adorable," and speak the lines along with James Cromwell in Babe ("That'll do, pig"). The kids listen to their own music now, with headphones. off in the zone.
It doesn't seem long ago that they were toddling along on unsteady feet, with diaper-fat butts and chubby little ankles and shorts that went below their knees, or reaching up to ride the Razor scooter set at the lowest height, or stopping at the street corner because they weren't allowed to cross on their own, or climbing the tree between our house and Barbara's house next door to put letters in the wooden box they'd stowed up in the branches.
I'm guessing that I'll have grandchildren in fewer years than it's been since we last listened to the Magic School Bus. Should I keep these things for them?
Sam, Rich and I spent some time this afternoon filling our street-side compost container with leaves, as we've done every Sunday for several weeks. It's a pleasant task, with the sun shining, the crisp yellow leaves clean and sweet-smelling, and the autumn light soft and clear like champagne bubbles. We spent about 45 minutes at it, and then Sam went back to his homework and NFL game, up in our finished attic, as he has does every week when we are finished with our leaf-clearing chore.
Later, I saw a young mother in her front yard with two pre-school aged kids, raking fallen leaves into piles. Not long ago, we'd rake our own leaves into giant piles, not wasting them in the composter but turning them into an afternoon's entertainment. We'd fling ourselves into the leaf piles, over and over, laughing, throwing leaves into the air so they'd glint in the sun, getting covered from head to foot with crisp little pieces.
Soon enough, winter will be here.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Electronic Yahtzee
Day 219: Electronic Yahtzee
Milk crates. A few weeks ago, about three dozen of them appeared at my neighborhood playground. Black, lime green, red, yellow. The plastic kind that Calder Dairy delivers our milk in once a week. The kind you can buy at Target for $2.99.
I first noticed them because a group of older high school kids were using them to build a tower on the blacktop near the school's kindergarten wing. They were creating a pyramid form, trying to make it stable enough that one of the lighter girls could climb on the top. They would build it, then help her climb. Then it would collapse and they'd try again.
An older woman and I stopped to watch in horrified fascination. She was the kind of woman I hope to be in twenty years, with wrinkles you'd get when you've smiled a lot and a spry walk.
"That looks dangerous," I said.
"Yes," she replied. We paused, watching another collapse. Then she smiled. "But you can't worry about everything."
Every time I've walked past the playground since then, I've noticed the milk crates. They are never in the same place. Today, three boys had set up an obstacle course on the basketball court. They were timing themselves, zigzagging in and among the crates on their fat-tired bikes. Last week, some pre-schoolers were carrying up the play structure steps and pushing them down the slide, over and over. A week before that, some second graders were using them to supplement the jungle gym, stacking them against the walls. I've seen the crates on the swings, spread out on the lawn, stacked against the school wall and arranged in a baseball diamond. They are getting more use than the sandbox or the slides or the bocci court.
I keep waiting for the crates to disappear. Some administrator (someone like me, but who works for the school district) is going to realize that these crates are dangerous. Weak and wobbly. Uncontrolled and unstable. Somebody is going to hurt. There could be tragedy. There could be hell to pay.
We've got a builder's nook in the Gaffield Children's Garden, using all natural materials. The kids love it. Giant logs and long sticks, stones and sand. They build tiny little houses for trolls and fairies, and tipsy tipis to climb in themselves. There's nothing else like it anywhere in town - nothing like it in any other children's gardens I've seen around the country - and I love it. It reminds me of what playing was like when I was a little kid. My brother and sister and I would wander down to the little wetland on Hubbard and Green roads. We'd walk in the muck and pull cattails, separating the rusty sausage-like pods, rubbing the grainy seeds between our fingers and again the palms of our hands. There were pussy willows there; I remember stroking the downy buds against my cheek, careful not to damage the plant. Sometimes we'd wander in the woods behind the playground at our neighborhood park, watching for squirrels and chipmunks, listening to the birds, walking softly, pretending to be Indians.
Time stretched like caramel.
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| This little thing helped get us through several 1,000 mile drives to St. Augustine, back before iPhones |
I first noticed them because a group of older high school kids were using them to build a tower on the blacktop near the school's kindergarten wing. They were creating a pyramid form, trying to make it stable enough that one of the lighter girls could climb on the top. They would build it, then help her climb. Then it would collapse and they'd try again.
An older woman and I stopped to watch in horrified fascination. She was the kind of woman I hope to be in twenty years, with wrinkles you'd get when you've smiled a lot and a spry walk.
"That looks dangerous," I said.
"Yes," she replied. We paused, watching another collapse. Then she smiled. "But you can't worry about everything."
Every time I've walked past the playground since then, I've noticed the milk crates. They are never in the same place. Today, three boys had set up an obstacle course on the basketball court. They were timing themselves, zigzagging in and among the crates on their fat-tired bikes. Last week, some pre-schoolers were carrying up the play structure steps and pushing them down the slide, over and over. A week before that, some second graders were using them to supplement the jungle gym, stacking them against the walls. I've seen the crates on the swings, spread out on the lawn, stacked against the school wall and arranged in a baseball diamond. They are getting more use than the sandbox or the slides or the bocci court.
I keep waiting for the crates to disappear. Some administrator (someone like me, but who works for the school district) is going to realize that these crates are dangerous. Weak and wobbly. Uncontrolled and unstable. Somebody is going to hurt. There could be tragedy. There could be hell to pay.
We've got a builder's nook in the Gaffield Children's Garden, using all natural materials. The kids love it. Giant logs and long sticks, stones and sand. They build tiny little houses for trolls and fairies, and tipsy tipis to climb in themselves. There's nothing else like it anywhere in town - nothing like it in any other children's gardens I've seen around the country - and I love it. It reminds me of what playing was like when I was a little kid. My brother and sister and I would wander down to the little wetland on Hubbard and Green roads. We'd walk in the muck and pull cattails, separating the rusty sausage-like pods, rubbing the grainy seeds between our fingers and again the palms of our hands. There were pussy willows there; I remember stroking the downy buds against my cheek, careful not to damage the plant. Sometimes we'd wander in the woods behind the playground at our neighborhood park, watching for squirrels and chipmunks, listening to the birds, walking softly, pretending to be Indians.
Time stretched like caramel.
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