You do this & I'll do that

At the risk of confirming some people's stereotypes, I will tell you that Jill and I have something of an Ozzie and Harriet household arrangement. I'll let you decide who is who. Within that framework, we've managed to divide up the chores so that we each secretly feel like the person who has the better deal. It works well.

Housekeeping is not something I come to naturally or with any great enthusiasm. My sister Barb recently reminded me of the house we shared back when she was in college and I was a single welfare mom. It was a cozy, little, green, shingled cottage in Illinois with hardwood floors, an upstairs, and a basement. The rent was cheap, it was comfy, and we lived there for a couple of years while Andrew was 2 and 3 years old. It was also the house where the refrigerator door had to be roped shut. We ran a fine establishment.

Since Barb and I grew up together we had similar views on housekeeping, which made us compatible. When it came time to do some cleaning, the preferred method was to open the basement door and throw things down the steps. That kept our living area clean and free of clutter --- out of sight, out of mind. To my everlasting shame, I bailed on her and moved to California, leaving behind most of my belongings and that basement full of . . . who knows what? And she's still speaking to me!

So, what I brought to this relationship with Jill was a trail of clutter from one coast to the other. Believe me when I say that our house is a carnival of interesting objects, everywhere you look. It wouldn't be to everyone's taste, but it suits us. Most of the time.

Despite our division of labor, Jill actually has less tolerance for clutter than I do. This means that every so often she goes on a tear and cleans out a closet, tossing things into the trash willy-nilly, getting a rush from purging and putting things in order. She generally does this when I'm not home; she knows it would never fly if I were there. You see, I'm attached to stuff. My stuff. And even though she tries to be considerate of my feelings, sometimes she crosses the line. Like this week, when she cleaned out the bathroom closet and threw away the hairdryer that works and kept the one that didn't. She has no use for a hair dryer --- she hardly has any hair! I got home just in time to prevent that debacle, but I still don't know what was in the three bags that went to the trash before I got there. Probably something I love and can't live without.

And there it is. Another layer of attachment to the physical that halts and chokes off flow in my life. It's a recurrent theme that shows up at all levels of consciousness. I don't want to part with things, I cling to outgrown ideas, I carry emotional baggage that's long past its expiration date. When Jill is on a cleaning jag and tosses out stretched Ace bandages and old cosmetics, I experience it as loss, as part of my being that's been thrown away. My stomach turns over, I become fearful. Someday, I might NEED that sling from when I hurt my shoulder. And why buy another jar of Vaseline when this one is half full and only ten years old? What a waste!

Last Thursday I had one of those moments of clarity when a huge internal burden slipped away. I've been waiting ever since for the effect to wear off, but so far it hasn't. Thomas Edison is credited with saying that luck favors the prepared mind. I don't know if he actually said that, but I do know that I've been sweeping and clearing and resolutely letting go, even when it appeared that nothing would change ---- preparing my mind, making way for something new. In view of that, I shouldn't be surprised that my "luck" has changed, but I am.

I'll undoubtedly accumulate more physical and psychic clutter. It seems to be what I do. But just as Jill can joyfully toss things away and let them go, maybe I can model myself after her, and do the same. In the meantime, it feels good to be lighter in body and freer in spirit. The sun is shining again.

Look Out: Adventures Ahead

Several people lately have asked me if I'm still writing. I always say yes, even though I'm not. I'm not sitting at the computer and composing new material, that is. But I'm always writing, even when I'm lounging around at Myrtle Beach.

I'm too old to have an identity crisis. If I haven't got it figured out by now, it's probably not going to happen. So when I found myself reduced to hand on my forehead "If I'm not in the role of mother, daughter, wife, teacher, writer ---- then who the hell am I?" a couple of weeks ago, it brought me up short. And this was close on the heels of an in-depth discussion about the nature of reality and God. Talk about Freshman Dorm Conversation ca. 1968!

Fortunately, God or someone very like God, in the form of a young African-American man running the carpet sweeper in the hotel hallway where we were sitting, happened by at just that moment and, without missing a beat, said "Human Being."

Just that. "Human Being"

Yes, I was being histrionic --- nobody ever accused me of not being a drama queen. But he cut through the bs and went straight to the heart of the matter. Brought tears to my eyes and cheers from the two women I was with.

Thomas. I asked him his name and thanked him, once the shock wore off. Thomas brought light that afternoon. And life. And love.

I expect that the lesson will wear thin and I'll once again be enthralled with the highly dramatic aspects of Life with Kathy. After all, our stories are what we bring to the world,---- the more color, the better. 

But I do hope that instant, when the world stood still and everything cracked open, stays with me. One person. Doing his job. Speaking the truth.

The Trouble with Living in the Moment

If you have heard, over and over, how important it is to "Live in the Moment" and have employed various techniques and practices to bring you toward that goal, perhaps you've already discovered the basic flaw in that approach to life. I'm only discovering it now.

Living in the now moment can truly suck!

I know all the reasons I don't want to dwell on the past or worry about the future, and they all make sense. I've even embraced the quasi-religious notion that all of creation dwells in the present moment, there is nothing else. The trouble is, it just opens a whole new dimension of anxiety for me to try to Be Here Now.

Like this? Like this moment right now? Or how about this one? Did I miss it? It's gone and I didn't fully experience it. Oh damn. Now I'll never get it back. Ok this one. How's that?

For those of us brought up to look for the right answer, to try to perfect performance, living in the NOW is pretty intolerable. How will I know if I did it right? Can I open my eyes and peek?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not whining. My now moments are, by and large, pretty awesome these days. I wake up when I'm done sleeping. I'm in a great relationship with someone who doesn't want to change me, I'm surrounded by all the comforts of life --- heat, running water, electricity, internet ---- so there's nothing to whine or complain about. It's just this "living in the moment" thing that's got my panties in a wad. That, and the prospect that time is running out.

I get to worrying about whether I'm missing my moments, which pushes me out into the future, which takes me out of the moment, which means I miss some more --- you get the idea. It's HARD to just be. (Okay, that sounded like a whine.)

My mom, now, she's in the moment. All she's got left is the very right now. That's totally what I DO NOT want! I can't know what's going on in her Alzheimer Diseased mind, but it doesn't look like there are very many connections left. She perseverates on whatever is under her fingers, usually her pants leg, which she folds and rolls constantly. She smiles sometimes, and seems to recognize for a brief moment that somebody familiar is in front of her. But much of the time, her eyes are turned inward, as though the physical world around her doesn't exist. Is that "living in the moment?" Actually, I think it's dying in the moment, or at best, existing in the moment.

I overthink everything, because I can. I have always been afraid I would miss my life, and now that my memory sometimes frays around the edges, I'm even more afraid that I'll miss it. I think way too much about people who have gone before, what kinds of experiences they had, what it would have been like to be them. We have so many images available now, that it's easier than ever to recreate in imagination the world as it appeared in times past. Not so easy is replicating the sounds, smells, textures, voices that are gone. 

It must be endemic in the brain of a novelist, or archivist, or historian, or depressive, to even want to bring to life that which is gone, in order to validate the present moment. Or maybe . . . maybe . . . it's past lives. Wooooooooooooo. 

See what happens when I've got too much time on my hands and not enough motivation to clean house?

Just show up and breathe

To say the past couple months have been difficult is like saying congressfolk aren't playing well with others ---- it's a monumental understatement. It is imperative though, that I keep moving forward, even if it is only by inches. 

I've never actually experienced quicksand, but I remember being fascinated by the thought of it when I was a child. One of my favorite books was "Girl of the Limberlost" and another was "Gone Away Lake" --- both featured quicksand as a terrible menace to unsuspecting children who could be lost forever without a trace. It gave rise to more than one nighmare during those elementary school years.

Now, as I do battle yet again with depression, that's one of the images that arises --- being sucked into darkness and never able to escape. Movies and books have taught my impressionable mind that when someone falls into the quicksand or through the ice, the rescuer must lie flat and hold out a strong stick for the kid to grab onto. Somehow, that's supposed to do the trick, though when I think about it, it doesn't seem likely to work very well.

Right now, I've got people holding out sticks and tossing me lines from several directions. I'm so glad they're there, even when I don't believe it will be effective. From my floundering perspective, the sticks look pretty flimsy and it seems more likely that they'll break off or I'll pull others into the muck with me. Terra firma can be elusive from where I am.

The advantage is that I've been through it before and can even get a leg up on it now that I recognize some of the warnings. Depression seems so trite, so tiresome --- so depressing. Everybody and their grandmother has depression these days. You're not going to see any signs up in the grocery store to raise money for poor Aunt Myrtle who suffers from depression and can't work, even though she probably could use the help. Far better to have something rare and exotic that excites sympathy and dread in other people, than to admit to a condition that almost everybody thinks is actually just a cop-out.

And that, perhaps, is what I'm learning this time around. WHAT-HO! It's actually an illness? A disease? It's not me trying to get away with something? It's not a character flaw or just wimping out on life? What a novel idea.

My knee-jerk response to situations I'm unfamiliar with, has always been to "look it up" --- it's not for nothing that my father sold World Book encyclopedias, and we kids used to have "look it up" challenges. But I've avoided learning about depression; that would make it too real. Now, finally, I've undertaken the look it up challenge, and have checked a tome from the library that will either teach me about depression, or crush my facial features when I fall asleep while reading.

There are things I can do to ameliorate this illness. Things I must do. One of them, it seems, is to say it out loud. When I skirt around it and pretend it's not there, it only gets worse and more shameful. There's an inexorable circularity to that, which can be deadly. 

So this is me, letting the sunshine in. From time to time, I snatch up all the rugs in the house and take them outside and shake the dirt out and then let them hang in the air and sunshine, believing that somehow that will make them fresher. I hope it works the same way for depression. 

Scrooge and Marley, I Presume

Today is December 1. It happens every year.

There was a time when I looked upon the winter holidays with excitement and anticipation. That was back when presents really mattered because I didn't have an independent income so I couldn't buy the things I wanted. You know, the early years.

Even the decade or so after my unseemly early marriage, at the tender age of eighteen, there were college and baby and low wage jobs, but Christmas was still pretty magical. It was when I could justify spending a little more than we could afford and figure out a way to make it up later. It was often a time when my parents swooped in from Europe, bearing good cheer, good beer, and interesting gifts.

It wasn't until I was well into the second marriage, and sober, that I started taking responsibility for creating magic myself. I was a late bloomer; for decades I thought Santa Claus was real, and I was still awaiting his arrival. There comes a time, though, when you have to start making your own Christmas or it'll sneak up on about the 24th of December and bite you on the ass. Having little kids around helps.

During my forties, I was so busy creating Christmas Memories for the world at large, that I sometimes had trouble finding the time to be with my own family. When you are in the living history biz, in whatever capacity, the holidays are a busy time of year. People who wouldn't dream of cooking over a fireplace themselves, or hanging out in an unheated log house, will pay good money to watch someone else do it. Nostalgia reigns.

The teaching decade, in my fifties, was interesting when it came to Christmas. I finally had a little something extra leftover at the end of every month --- kids grown, steady work, actual paychecks, an employed spouse, ---- and that took a lot of the fun out of getting presents, but increased the fun of giving them. I also met my match when it came to creating magic. You can hardly imagine what it's like in December, to live with someone who used to own a Christmas store. Really. Have you ever wondered where that merchandise goes when it's not in season?

By the time I retired, at sixty, I was ready to dial it back to cookies baked by someone else, decorations put in place by someone else (thank you, Jill), and dispense with the presents, already. This house is full up, and don't tip off the folks at Hoarders. No, it's not that bad, but it is hard to think of things besides food and underwear that we actually need to shop for.

So here I am in the kitchen, December 1, the first Sunday in Advent, ready for company. As per 55-year family tradition, those of us who are still in an upright position will gather around the Advent Wreath with the well worn volume of "A Christmas Carol" and whoever draws the short straw will read the first stave aloud. We used to do it in the evenings, but now night driving is much more difficult for some of us. We used to gorge on the traditional foods ---- pearl tapioca pudding made from scratch, party mix made from scratch, popcorn, sodas or cider, and whatever cookies anybody had been baking for the holidays. Now, everyone needs to lose the pounds, some don't eat gluten, some avoid dairy, nobody drinks sodas and the coffee is decaf. Temperance applies (except to the pudding!).

Change happens. We four were little kids when our parents devised this amalgam of traditions from each of their families, and applied it to the family they had created. We, in turn, have spread it to our own spouses, children and some to grandchildren as well. Older generations have passed on, crucial people are passionately missed, but this afternoon the candles will be lit, the popcorn popped, the pudding dished up and along about 3:30, as the sun begins to sink lower into the afternoon sky, a shiver will run down my spine as the familiar words are read:

"Marley was dead: to begin with."

Walking in Mama's Shoes -- Redux

While I was out of town, Jill undertook cleaning our bedroom closet. I only wish I had before and after pictures, because the results are spectacular.

One of the improvements concerns the organization of shoes. Despite the recent thinning of my collection due to a young dog who loves to chew footwear, I am still the fortunate owner of a gracious plenty of shoes, boots, slippers, flip-flops, heels, moccasins, and even an ancient pair of tap-dancing shoes and some bedraggled black ballet slippers. Among this extravaganza are many pairs that formerly belonged to my mother.

If you read a previous post Walking in Mama's Shoes, you'll remember that she was convinced that her shoe size was 2 sizes smaller than it actually was. This was not entirely due to dementia --- small feet are highly prized in our family. My mother's father owned a shoe store. Back in the 50s he even had one of those x-ray thingies, I think. I definitely remember the slide rule foot measurer and the slanted footstools. We bought our fall school shoes at Grandpa's store. I especially remember the red leather first grade shoes, the ones with the buckle across the top.

I'm not entirely immune to the small-foot fetish, and I have to admit that I've often thought that my pretty little feet are one of my best features. Yes, they're smaller than those of the other women in the family ---- except my teensy daughter. Even my sister teases me that my feet look like they've never been used. They haven't. I screw them off and put them in a satin lined, climate-controlled box every night when I go to bed.

In the interest of organizing our shoes, Jill purchased a fancy-dancy round, hanging shoe holder, with spaces for everything ---- quite amazing. Now that Mama's shoes were no longer tumbled on the dark floor among the suitcases, old gift boxes, and discarded t-shirts waiting to go to the thrift shop, I could see and wear them. Yesterday, I donned a pair of slip-ons, black loafers like I have never bought in my life, but since they were free.... The were too small, especially with warm socks on a cold day. But I was only going out for an hour. They would be ok.

By the time I got home, the toes that were not altogether numb from being squooshed, ached. I gratefully slipped the loafers from my feet and started to return them to the shoe bag, when I stopped myself. What in the world? Was I going to keep these shoes, and the other pair like them only a different color, just because they were free? Because they were Mom's? Because they have a lot of wear left in them?

That's what I've always done. That's why my closet it stuffed to the gills with things I rarely or never wear. They used to fit, but they don't anymore. They used to be my favorites, but they're old and outdated. They used to belong to someone I love. They were given to me free. They're vintage. They're soooooo cute (or I used to be cute in them, 30 years ago!). Not one of those is a good reason to keep clothes I don't use, but perhaps the worst is the "someday it may fit me" reason.

What if I simply got rid of everything that doesn't fit me right now? Even if it almost fits. Even if it's just a little too tight around the waist or across the toes. Even if the skirt hangs just a little funny, or the pants aren't exactly the length I like or I got it on a great sale, but never liked the color. What if I only had clothes and shoes I actually wanted to put on and wear, instead of waiting till that magical time when I lose weight, or have more money to shop, or go back to work, or have to go to a funeral. Well, ok. I'll keep the funeral outfit. Sooner or later I'll need it.

I have lived too much of my life making do and waiting for something to change. I don't have to wear Mama's shoes just because they're in my closet. They're too small to be comfortable. They were too small for her, but she wore them anyway. I don't have to do that ---- I don't have dementia.

What did you say your name was?

The other day I was in a gathering of women, some of whom I know well and many who are relative strangers. As part of the opening, we went around the room saying our names. There were a few repeats, as you would expect in a group of 35 or 40, but since the ages ranged from about 20 to 70, there was also quite a variety.

When my mind began to wander during the meeting, I spent some time examining individual people and trying to imagine them as babies or youngsters. It's one of the ways I entertain myself. It made me think about the names. They didn't pick their own, most likely. That's not how it's done. When they were born, their parents decided on a name and pasted it onto the new little person without a clue whether it would fit or not. And some names don't fit at all.

As I looked around and paired names and faces, I could imagine the parents full of hopes for their new little babies. There were Melissas and Lisas and Katherines and Susans, and even two Natashas. The older names sound so solid, and a little intimidating, like Mary Margaret or Nora or Dolores. Some have been shortened or altered by their owners --- Toni for Antoinette, Pat for Patricia, Jill for Julia. I was struck by the simplicity of Jane. You don't run into a lot of Janes anymore. Some of the more foreign or ethnic sounding names I can't even remember, but they definitely convey a cultural message.

I wonder what effect a name has on the developing child. Some names can be a definite hindrance, others can make the difference between fitting in or not. Some have associations that are thrust upon them by popular culture or famous figures. Do we live up to (or down to) our names? Do we take on characteristics of family members we're named after?

When I was a storyteller, I usually made sure that the villain had an unusual name that would not likely be shared by any of the children in the audience, while the hero usually had a fairly common name like Tom or Mary. I could always tell when I hit on a name in the group; all the other kids would turn to that child and giggle or point. By the end of the story, the heroic exploits of the character would be attributed to that child, who would often be beaming with pride. I always wondered how long that carried over.

One of the things I enjoy about being a novelist is that I get to come up with names. After all, you can only have so many babies in a lifetime. You wind up with a drawer full of unused names, perfectly good ones that would look so cute on a little kid.

That's one of the troubles though, isn't it? Halfway through the pregnancy the naming conversation begins. Everybody has an opinion. There are family names, traditions, customs and religion that can influence a child's name. And, of course, the trend factor. Everybody named Jennifer who was born in the 70s and 80s please stand up.

I collect names from live people, from books and news articles, baby name lists, cemeteries, movie credits, and my own genealogy. I just found a good one when I was looking through my mother's high school photo album. One of her friends was named Clella.

I guess I'm going to have to keep writing fiction until I run out of names. That's ok. At least it keeps me off the streets and well caffeinated.