Last year at this time I found myself slip-sliding into 2016 with almost none of the thought and intention that I usually had brought to the process each year. A couple of months in, I could see where the year was taking me, so I declared a Word of the Year and a general goal: this would be the year I divested myself of belongings, activities, attitudes, or goals that no longer served me well.
Some of that happened, and not by accident. I cleaned out closets and cabinets, tossing clothes I no longer needed. I leafed through and then tossed large boxes of publications and documents that once were valued evidence of my work or markers of battles won and lost. (There is plenty more clearing to do!)
After a long and frustrating struggle to achieve a smooth transition to new leadership for our 28-year commitment to save and operate a historic carousel, Peter and I announced our planned departure--and then quit in November a few months sooner than we'd planned. It was the best, most freeing decision we've ever made, and we believe it cleared the way for new leaders to step forward in ways they weren't doing while we were still in place.
While we were at it, we finally pulled the plug on our long-standing support for St. Paul Saints minor-league baseball. Charter season-ticket holders since 1993, we were no longer enjoying the experience as we once had, and neither were our kids and grandkids. We'd already cut down on the number of games we attended (from 50 to 6 or 8). Next year we'll go to 2 games followed by fireworks.
Quicker than I'd expected, new priorities rushed in to fill the void. And it turns out that life brought them to me, without my planning for them. All I had to do was say Yes.
This year I'm much more aware of my need to reflect and deliberate about my goals and interests. I'm already finding I'll be much more effective if I focus on a few rather than try to do them all. The coming of a new year--and all that it implies--makes me determined to choose wisely for this new stage of life.
I promise I'll be back soon to talk about it. Meanwhile I'd love to hear what's on your mind as we enter 2017.
--Nancy
Sunday, January 1, 2017
Monday, July 11, 2016
Now It's Personal
I live in Falcon Heights, Minnesota. Yes, that Falcon Heights.
Last Wednesday night, six blocks from my house, Philando Castile was pulled over for what a Saint Anthony, Minn., police officer called a broken taillight. Within minutes, four powerful, close-range shots left Castile fatally wounded. That's when Castile's girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds, began to livestream the scene to Facebook. We see Castile slip into unconsciousness, his bloody shot-up arm hanging useless. We hear Reynolds' four-year-old daughter crying in the back seat. We see the officer's gun still trained on Castile and we hear him screaming, almost pleading: "I told him to get his hands up." "No sir," Reynolds says very calmly, "you told him to get out his ID and that's what he was doing." At the end of the video, Reynolds is crying, handcuffed in the back seat of a police car, and her daughter comforts her. "It's okay, Mommy, I'm here."
But it's not okay. There are many details under investigation, and there is competing testimony from Reynolds and the officer. I want to know the truth, but I also know that there's a larger truth. I finally know that it's not only police officers and people of color who are put in jeopardy and pain from this all-too-common kind of encounter. It's all of us.
This time it happened in my neighborhood. The Saint Anthony Police Department is my local police force, operating under contract with Falcon Heights.
What's more, my daughter Abby and her two children knew Phil Castile. He managed the food service at the kids' school. A few years ago, he helped solve a bureaucratic problem that had been driving Abby crazy. Every day, he greeted all the kids by name and helped make sure they were making good food choices. When Abby broke the news of his death, Augie and Vi were devastated. They talked about what people could do to prevent this kind of thing. Vi suggested a poster campaign, and Augie proposed educating people about all the different groups who have come to live in Minnesota since its earliest days.
I, too, have been thinking. Day and night, SAPD patrols slowly down the alley and up the street. I've seen them respond to emergencies at neighbors' homes, and even my own when we thought I was having a heart attack. I have always felt they are looking out for us, but now, finally, I wonder at what cost? Yes, I want to be protected from actual criminals. What's more, I want my neighbors and friends and people passing through to enjoy the same protection. I don't want terrible mistakes made in haste and fear. I don't want racial profiling. I don't want our community to rely on traffic stops to generate a big portion of the city budget. I have benefited from this system without even knowing it. So yes, I want police officers to be accountable for their actions, but it turns out that we the people have to be accountable for what we ask of them. We need justice for Philando and others like him. We need justice for all the people of color who any day of the week can and do get pulled over for minor and sometimes imaginary offenses. But no matter how this case turns out after the legal process plays out, we still have work to do, to rethink and restructure our systems.
It turns out I accidentally posted before this was done. I know that previous paragraph is breathless and overwrought and will benefit from a bit of judicious editing, but I'm going to post now rather than leave the original incomplete post in place. Can you tell this has become more than just another cause to "like" on Facebook? I want change, and I will be part of it to the extent that I can.
Last Wednesday night, six blocks from my house, Philando Castile was pulled over for what a Saint Anthony, Minn., police officer called a broken taillight. Within minutes, four powerful, close-range shots left Castile fatally wounded. That's when Castile's girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds, began to livestream the scene to Facebook. We see Castile slip into unconsciousness, his bloody shot-up arm hanging useless. We hear Reynolds' four-year-old daughter crying in the back seat. We see the officer's gun still trained on Castile and we hear him screaming, almost pleading: "I told him to get his hands up." "No sir," Reynolds says very calmly, "you told him to get out his ID and that's what he was doing." At the end of the video, Reynolds is crying, handcuffed in the back seat of a police car, and her daughter comforts her. "It's okay, Mommy, I'm here."
But it's not okay. There are many details under investigation, and there is competing testimony from Reynolds and the officer. I want to know the truth, but I also know that there's a larger truth. I finally know that it's not only police officers and people of color who are put in jeopardy and pain from this all-too-common kind of encounter. It's all of us.
This time it happened in my neighborhood. The Saint Anthony Police Department is my local police force, operating under contract with Falcon Heights.
What's more, my daughter Abby and her two children knew Phil Castile. He managed the food service at the kids' school. A few years ago, he helped solve a bureaucratic problem that had been driving Abby crazy. Every day, he greeted all the kids by name and helped make sure they were making good food choices. When Abby broke the news of his death, Augie and Vi were devastated. They talked about what people could do to prevent this kind of thing. Vi suggested a poster campaign, and Augie proposed educating people about all the different groups who have come to live in Minnesota since its earliest days.
I, too, have been thinking. Day and night, SAPD patrols slowly down the alley and up the street. I've seen them respond to emergencies at neighbors' homes, and even my own when we thought I was having a heart attack. I have always felt they are looking out for us, but now, finally, I wonder at what cost? Yes, I want to be protected from actual criminals. What's more, I want my neighbors and friends and people passing through to enjoy the same protection. I don't want terrible mistakes made in haste and fear. I don't want racial profiling. I don't want our community to rely on traffic stops to generate a big portion of the city budget. I have benefited from this system without even knowing it. So yes, I want police officers to be accountable for their actions, but it turns out that we the people have to be accountable for what we ask of them. We need justice for Philando and others like him. We need justice for all the people of color who any day of the week can and do get pulled over for minor and sometimes imaginary offenses. But no matter how this case turns out after the legal process plays out, we still have work to do, to rethink and restructure our systems.
It turns out I accidentally posted before this was done. I know that previous paragraph is breathless and overwrought and will benefit from a bit of judicious editing, but I'm going to post now rather than leave the original incomplete post in place. Can you tell this has become more than just another cause to "like" on Facebook? I want change, and I will be part of it to the extent that I can.
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Clearing I: Sometimes you just step away
We had begun to plan for others to succeed us, and we had cleared much of the paperwork and memorabilia that we'd amassed at home. Most important papers were already filed at the carousel office, but we moved anything we thought necessary and tossed the rest. It felt good, and it began to change our thinking.
We had done all we could, given everything we could, for nearly 30 years. It was up to others to figure out next steps. It's not like this was a surprise; we'd been saying for two years that we were looking to retire. So in June we sent a letter to the board of directors and other key partners of the carousel to say that our current term of office, which ends in February 2017, is our last. We said we hoped candidates for our positions would surface by early October, and if not the board would need to find new people or new solutions. We said we'd be around to provide advice or information to anyone who asked for it. (We promised each other to keep our mouths shut if nobody asks!)
I'm still working on a couple of carousel projects, and we will have things to deal with as we move forward. But we've made our decision and the date is set. It feels right.
And now that I'm clearing this big responsibility from my agenda? There's already a new activity taking its place. More later, I promise.
P.S. You can find more about the carousel here.
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Bobbily-Boo and Wollypotump
When my sister and I were little girls, our dad used to read us a short bedtime story each night. Many came from a 1950s collection of nursery rhymes, and one stuck with me.
Bobbily-Boo, the king so free,
He used to drink the mango tea.
Mango tea and coffee, too,
he drank them both 'til his nose was blue.
Wollypotump, the queen so high,
She used to eat the gumbo pie.
Gumbo pie and gumbo cake,
she ate them both 'til her teeth did break.
Bobbily-Boo and Wollypotump
each called the other a greedy frump.
And when these terrible words were said,
They both sat and laughed until time for bed.
These verses stayed in my head, and at some point I began to recite them for friends, trying without success to find someone else who remembered them.
About ten years ago, I googled the names. I got nowhere, so I googled gumbo pie. And after I scrolled past a few recipes, there was the rhyme, credited to one Laura E. Richards, in a nursery rhyme collection from the 1800s! But there's one difference. The original version is much darker. No more laughing:
They both sat and cried until they were dead.
I don't think my grandkids were even born yet, but I immediately bought the book that contained this and other old nursery rhymes. I just knew it would be a great conversation piece some day. And it would be right now, if only I could find it. Both kids have a great sense of point-of-view and mood-setting and "darkness" and other aspects of things they read. (Given the adults in their lives, that was inevitable.)
Today I googled again and was directed to four different collections including The Nursery, Volumes 19-20, edited by John L. Shorey, published in 1876. I'm pretty sure it's the one I bought, and it's now available free as an e-book. I'm still going to try to find my copy.
This rhyme comes to mind almost daily in the past few months, since Abby bought us some wonderfully high quality teas, including green tea with mango. Every time I brew that one, a voice in my head says, with much delight, "Mango tea and coffee too, She drank them both til her nose was blue."
My nose is still fine, thanks.
Bobbily-Boo, the king so free,
He used to drink the mango tea.
Mango tea and coffee, too,
he drank them both 'til his nose was blue.
Wollypotump, the queen so high,
She used to eat the gumbo pie.
Gumbo pie and gumbo cake,
she ate them both 'til her teeth did break.
Bobbily-Boo and Wollypotump
each called the other a greedy frump.
And when these terrible words were said,
They both sat and laughed until time for bed.
These verses stayed in my head, and at some point I began to recite them for friends, trying without success to find someone else who remembered them.
About ten years ago, I googled the names. I got nowhere, so I googled gumbo pie. And after I scrolled past a few recipes, there was the rhyme, credited to one Laura E. Richards, in a nursery rhyme collection from the 1800s! But there's one difference. The original version is much darker. No more laughing:
They both sat and cried until they were dead.
I don't think my grandkids were even born yet, but I immediately bought the book that contained this and other old nursery rhymes. I just knew it would be a great conversation piece some day. And it would be right now, if only I could find it. Both kids have a great sense of point-of-view and mood-setting and "darkness" and other aspects of things they read. (Given the adults in their lives, that was inevitable.)
Today I googled again and was directed to four different collections including The Nursery, Volumes 19-20, edited by John L. Shorey, published in 1876. I'm pretty sure it's the one I bought, and it's now available free as an e-book. I'm still going to try to find my copy.
This rhyme comes to mind almost daily in the past few months, since Abby bought us some wonderfully high quality teas, including green tea with mango. Every time I brew that one, a voice in my head says, with much delight, "Mango tea and coffee too, She drank them both til her nose was blue."
My nose is still fine, thanks.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Moving forward, or trying to...
Our house is full of the "stuff" of our lives. We are ready, and in fact we have begun, to divest ourselves of this stuff--clothing we no longer wear, papers we no longer need, possessions that are cluttering up the place so there's little space for new endeavors. But it's slow going.
Inside my head, this clearing is a rite of passage, part of my continuing transition from working (and heavily volunteering) to retirement, or the next phase of retirement. Last week, for example, I finally tossed the last of the work-related files I'd been saving. I suppose I always knew I wouldn't need them, but they represented so much thought and effort that it was impossible to walk away without at least a few. Now retired five years, I was happy to march those papers out to the recycling barrel. Similarly, I had stockpiled a resume and work samples in case I wanted, or needed, to freelance. Opportunities were out there, but I decided almost immediately that I was no longer interested. Tossing the stack of samples--five years later--made it official.
The thing about sorting papers is that it's almost impossible to do without reading through them. So we are reminded of triumphs and struggles, of people who helped us and people who didn't, of projects we intended to undertake once we retired. Having walked down memory lane, as contained in my desk and file cabinet, I've learned two main lessons.
I have very little interest in keeping records of my past life, be they related to work, finances, health, whatever. Of course I keep what I might need, but my definition of "need" is a lot stricter than it used to be.
I am ready to get on with my life, and one big commitment seems to be standing in the way. I have projects all over the place, in various stages of readiness, and they all require two things: space and time. I have sewing projects promised to the grandchildren; boxes of old photos to scan, color-correct, and share; a counted cross-stitch I started a dozen years ago; a new interest in knitting and crochet; a back porch to design; music playlists to organize; birds to discover; a blog to rejuvenate, and so much more. Plus a growing stock of items I plan to sell on eBay, some of which I've already photographed and written up.
All these projects are calling to me. But before I can respond I have to make space and time. And the element taking up the biggest share of my office space, energy, and time is my commitment to the carousel and the nonprofit organization that cares for it.
When I wrote last week's post about the graphic design project from hell, my frustration was only partly with the technical difficulty of the work. The project had gone on, episodically, for weeks. How-to books and sample pages and notes buried everything else on my desk. I became resentful. I began to rail against it. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to sew and knit and clean out closets, and get on with getting on, and let somebody else worry about promoting the carousel. And in fact, I will--but not today. Peter and I will both retire and our executive director, in the job for a year now, will take on or delegate work we have been doing. But there is much to be done before we retire, and in the meantime I really do enjoy working collaboratively with our staff person. For a while yet, I will do whatever it takes to get the project done.
In the past several days I have finally cleared the scrambled piles on my desk, arranging things in folders: red for carousel projects (e.g., display panels, Facebook page, new website) and yellow for personal ones (e.g., porch, taxes, eBay).
When the time does come to walk away from the carousel's management, I will be a little sad to leave behind what has been a consuming and highly rewarding family commitment. But I'll be ready for all the new projects in their newly organized spaces. In fact, having cleared a bit of space, I'm pretty sure I'll find some time for new projects as well as old ones.
Inside my head, this clearing is a rite of passage, part of my continuing transition from working (and heavily volunteering) to retirement, or the next phase of retirement. Last week, for example, I finally tossed the last of the work-related files I'd been saving. I suppose I always knew I wouldn't need them, but they represented so much thought and effort that it was impossible to walk away without at least a few. Now retired five years, I was happy to march those papers out to the recycling barrel. Similarly, I had stockpiled a resume and work samples in case I wanted, or needed, to freelance. Opportunities were out there, but I decided almost immediately that I was no longer interested. Tossing the stack of samples--five years later--made it official.
The thing about sorting papers is that it's almost impossible to do without reading through them. So we are reminded of triumphs and struggles, of people who helped us and people who didn't, of projects we intended to undertake once we retired. Having walked down memory lane, as contained in my desk and file cabinet, I've learned two main lessons.
I have very little interest in keeping records of my past life, be they related to work, finances, health, whatever. Of course I keep what I might need, but my definition of "need" is a lot stricter than it used to be.
I am ready to get on with my life, and one big commitment seems to be standing in the way. I have projects all over the place, in various stages of readiness, and they all require two things: space and time. I have sewing projects promised to the grandchildren; boxes of old photos to scan, color-correct, and share; a counted cross-stitch I started a dozen years ago; a new interest in knitting and crochet; a back porch to design; music playlists to organize; birds to discover; a blog to rejuvenate, and so much more. Plus a growing stock of items I plan to sell on eBay, some of which I've already photographed and written up.
All these projects are calling to me. But before I can respond I have to make space and time. And the element taking up the biggest share of my office space, energy, and time is my commitment to the carousel and the nonprofit organization that cares for it.
When I wrote last week's post about the graphic design project from hell, my frustration was only partly with the technical difficulty of the work. The project had gone on, episodically, for weeks. How-to books and sample pages and notes buried everything else on my desk. I became resentful. I began to rail against it. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to sew and knit and clean out closets, and get on with getting on, and let somebody else worry about promoting the carousel. And in fact, I will--but not today. Peter and I will both retire and our executive director, in the job for a year now, will take on or delegate work we have been doing. But there is much to be done before we retire, and in the meantime I really do enjoy working collaboratively with our staff person. For a while yet, I will do whatever it takes to get the project done.
In the past several days I have finally cleared the scrambled piles on my desk, arranging things in folders: red for carousel projects (e.g., display panels, Facebook page, new website) and yellow for personal ones (e.g., porch, taxes, eBay).
When the time does come to walk away from the carousel's management, I will be a little sad to leave behind what has been a consuming and highly rewarding family commitment. But I'll be ready for all the new projects in their newly organized spaces. In fact, having cleared a bit of space, I'm pretty sure I'll find some time for new projects as well as old ones.
 |
| Spring flowers above from Como Park conservatory 2013 |
Saturday, March 12, 2016
There must be 50 ways....
"There must be 50 ways to leave your lover." Paul Simon said so in a song I loved, though I rarely had occasion to use the advice.
Now the song is stuck in my head. No, I'm not leaving anybody. I'm just trying to finish a project for the carousel* and what seemed relatively easy and fun has turned into The Really Hard and Frustrating Project From Hell. Or maybe The Project That I Can't Figure Out And It's Driving Me Crazy.
We are creating new display panels for the carousel pavilion telling some of its story--its history and restoration, how volunteers can help, etc. When we opened the carousel in Como Park 16 years ago, Peter and I created six panels using lots of newspaper clippings (now yellow) and photos (now faded). Our new executive director and I decided to make new printed panels with sepia-toned images very light in the background, and with type over the images. Everything was going well until I tried to screen the images to be really light.
If there are 50 ways to leave your lover, there must be 250 ways to take a color photo, turn it into a black-and-white in Photoshop, add a sepia tint, and screen it way back to a ghost image. I've tried them all. I spent days experimenting to get a result I liked...and the file was so huge it crashed my computer WITHOUT being saved. I have spent long, frustrating days getting back to that place while keeping the file size manageable. As of today, after trying about 50 more ways, I think I've got it. Which is good, because I am very ready to move on to other things.
There's a hitch, though. When I print a version on my ink-jet printer, I like the results. But how will it look when a commercial printer uses my files to create a panel 34 by 40 inches? I'm keeping my fingers crossed. If all goes well, I get to do this five more times for the other panels. Let's hope I can learn from my mistakes!
* In case you don't know, my husband and I founded a nonprofit organization in 1988, saved the old Minnesota State Fair Carousel from being auctioned to collectors, and have operated the carousel with volunteers ever since. A year ago we hired an executive director so we can cut back on our own volunteer involvement. Clearly, we haven't walked away just yet.
Now the song is stuck in my head. No, I'm not leaving anybody. I'm just trying to finish a project for the carousel* and what seemed relatively easy and fun has turned into The Really Hard and Frustrating Project From Hell. Or maybe The Project That I Can't Figure Out And It's Driving Me Crazy.
We are creating new display panels for the carousel pavilion telling some of its story--its history and restoration, how volunteers can help, etc. When we opened the carousel in Como Park 16 years ago, Peter and I created six panels using lots of newspaper clippings (now yellow) and photos (now faded). Our new executive director and I decided to make new printed panels with sepia-toned images very light in the background, and with type over the images. Everything was going well until I tried to screen the images to be really light.
There's a hitch, though. When I print a version on my ink-jet printer, I like the results. But how will it look when a commercial printer uses my files to create a panel 34 by 40 inches? I'm keeping my fingers crossed. If all goes well, I get to do this five more times for the other panels. Let's hope I can learn from my mistakes!
* In case you don't know, my husband and I founded a nonprofit organization in 1988, saved the old Minnesota State Fair Carousel from being auctioned to collectors, and have operated the carousel with volunteers ever since. A year ago we hired an executive director so we can cut back on our own volunteer involvement. Clearly, we haven't walked away just yet.
Monday, February 8, 2016
Overthinking the Obvious
A funny thing happens when I step away from blogging for a while.
When I decide it's time to post again, I feel as though the new post has to be fabulous--good enough to make up for all those posts I didn't write. I begin to think I have to explain what I've been doing, what I've learned, what on earth could possibly have taken me away from the keyboard for all this time (more than two months, in this case). I want to be witty and charming and full of wisdom so that if you really do decide to read my post after all this time, you'll be delighted that I'm back. That's pressure!
And that phrase--"I'm back"--implies that I'll be posting regularly again, so now, in some part of my brain, I have added pressure to come up with a handful of topics for the immediate future and the discipline to address them in a timely fashion.
In other words, I've been overthinking it. I've started three different posts. But each one was burdened with too much information, too many competing goals, too many words.
So here's the simple truth. I've been busy, I've had a whole lot of other commitments, and I haven't been able to write. I have some stories to share with you, mostly about my delightful grandkids, of course, and I'll be back in this space again soon. Meanwhile I have enjoyed your posts on a fairly regular basis and it seems that, as the Beatles once said, "Life goes on." Oh-bla-di bla-da.
Happy to be back.
When I decide it's time to post again, I feel as though the new post has to be fabulous--good enough to make up for all those posts I didn't write. I begin to think I have to explain what I've been doing, what I've learned, what on earth could possibly have taken me away from the keyboard for all this time (more than two months, in this case). I want to be witty and charming and full of wisdom so that if you really do decide to read my post after all this time, you'll be delighted that I'm back. That's pressure!
And that phrase--"I'm back"--implies that I'll be posting regularly again, so now, in some part of my brain, I have added pressure to come up with a handful of topics for the immediate future and the discipline to address them in a timely fashion.
In other words, I've been overthinking it. I've started three different posts. But each one was burdened with too much information, too many competing goals, too many words.
So here's the simple truth. I've been busy, I've had a whole lot of other commitments, and I haven't been able to write. I have some stories to share with you, mostly about my delightful grandkids, of course, and I'll be back in this space again soon. Meanwhile I have enjoyed your posts on a fairly regular basis and it seems that, as the Beatles once said, "Life goes on." Oh-bla-di bla-da.
Happy to be back.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Being thankful
As I write this, a half-dozen men are ripping up our front yard, removing the turf and attempting to level out the damp clay-based soil.
Theoretically, someone will deliver sod and someone--these men or others--will install it before the end of the day, though it's already mid-afternoon. All of this was to be done weeks ago, but then the rains came, for days on end, and the people at Rainbow Lawn Care said the sod farm told them it was too wet to cut the sod. So the schedule would change, and we'd say okay, and then it would rain again.
The complication now is cold weather. If the sod doesn't get installed today, the ground may freeze. Even if it does, we have to water it for a week or more, and with our cold nights our hoses may freeze. And you know what? It's out of my control. It will happen or it won't. The guys are working hard, it's still daylight, it might all come together. If not, it will happen another day, maybe in the spring.
And for that I am thankful! Our lawn looked sort of okay (the crew needed reassurance that indeed we did want the current stuff torn up). But the whole thing was very bumpy. It was increasingly difficult to maneuver a lawn mower around without it nosing down into a crevice or hanging itself up on a bump. And the creeping Charlie and other nasty stuff had taken over. Rather than apply a lot of weed killer, we decided to start over.
We've lived in this house 25 years. We did a lot of yard work when we first moved in, and then gradually for another 10 or 15 years. Lately, we've been coasting. And when we looked around, we saw that trees needed to be trimmed (done), the lawn needed a makeover (underway), and we'd really like a new garage and a back porch (planning underway for both).
We see it as an investment in our own happiness, our own well-being. The fact that we're able to do this gives me a new reason to be grateful this Thanksgiving. We are fortunate indeed.
For what are you giving thanks this year?
Update 1: 8 a.m. on Thanksgiving, 30 degrees F, windy, and snowing, and the crew arrives with sod, which they install by 10. They worked well past dark last night, leaving about 7 p.m .
Update 2: I should add that having the yard done is just icing on the cake; I'm truly thankful for my family above all.
Theoretically, someone will deliver sod and someone--these men or others--will install it before the end of the day, though it's already mid-afternoon. All of this was to be done weeks ago, but then the rains came, for days on end, and the people at Rainbow Lawn Care said the sod farm told them it was too wet to cut the sod. So the schedule would change, and we'd say okay, and then it would rain again.
 |
| One last day-lily |
And for that I am thankful! Our lawn looked sort of okay (the crew needed reassurance that indeed we did want the current stuff torn up). But the whole thing was very bumpy. It was increasingly difficult to maneuver a lawn mower around without it nosing down into a crevice or hanging itself up on a bump. And the creeping Charlie and other nasty stuff had taken over. Rather than apply a lot of weed killer, we decided to start over.
 |
| The last rose of autumn |
We see it as an investment in our own happiness, our own well-being. The fact that we're able to do this gives me a new reason to be grateful this Thanksgiving. We are fortunate indeed.
For what are you giving thanks this year?
Update 1: 8 a.m. on Thanksgiving, 30 degrees F, windy, and snowing, and the crew arrives with sod, which they install by 10. They worked well past dark last night, leaving about 7 p.m .
Update 2: I should add that having the yard done is just icing on the cake; I'm truly thankful for my family above all.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Why grandparents love Halloween
Two months ago I started making a princess dress for ViMae. She wanted to wear it to the Renaissance Festival first, which gave me about three weeks, and then for Halloween. No problem, I thought.
She chose a pattern and then picked out fabric and trims for the dress and its lacy cape. The girl has a wonderful sense of color, and while she might mix jarring tones in an art project, everything about the dress had to harmonize. The big surprise: instead of pink, she wanted blue. It occurred to her that people would think she was dressing as Elsa, from Disney's magahit Frozen, and she didn't want to be just one of many. So she decided to be Assassin Elsa, stashing a dagger in her boot and threatening to stab anyone who doubted her evil intentions. (You may recall that last year she was Bellatrix Lestrange, the most evil female villain in the Harry Potter series.)
Everything was coming along fine until my sewing machine acted up. It was skipping stitches and breaking needles, and eventually I learned it couldn't be repaired. So work came to a halt while I did some research and bought a new machine. (I switched brands in the process--the trauma was roughly equivalent to renouncing my birth family and going over to the Dark Side.) Anyway, I finished the dress one day before Halloween, and ViMae loves it. Now she is excited that the waiting is over; she can wear it any time, for any occasion.
Augie dressed as a Berserker, a medieval Viking warrior named for the bear pelts they often wore. Now celebrated in video games and comic book art, the Berserkers worked themselves into trancelike states in which they felt no pain until the battle was over. Berserkers were undisciplined enough that Augie's collection of warrior gear--none made specifically for that period--made up a great costume.
Augie's outfit involved lots of teamwork. He made his shield and axe at Cardboard Camp some weeks ago. Grandma Anita had made him a warrior jumpsuit with flying gold epaulets, designed to his specifications. And Peter had just recently made a helmet called a morion, which in fact is Spanish in origin. We found a fur vest at Once Upon a Child, which suggested the bear pelt, and boots completed the look. Voila--a Berserker.
Everything was coming along fine until my sewing machine acted up. It was skipping stitches and breaking needles, and eventually I learned it couldn't be repaired. So work came to a halt while I did some research and bought a new machine. (I switched brands in the process--the trauma was roughly equivalent to renouncing my birth family and going over to the Dark Side.) Anyway, I finished the dress one day before Halloween, and ViMae loves it. Now she is excited that the waiting is over; she can wear it any time, for any occasion.
Augie's outfit involved lots of teamwork. He made his shield and axe at Cardboard Camp some weeks ago. Grandma Anita had made him a warrior jumpsuit with flying gold epaulets, designed to his specifications. And Peter had just recently made a helmet called a morion, which in fact is Spanish in origin. We found a fur vest at Once Upon a Child, which suggested the bear pelt, and boots completed the look. Voila--a Berserker.
Thursday, October 15, 2015
TBT: Augie plays Pinetop Boogie
This first appeared in September 2009.
When Augie was just over a year old, he'd come in the door and head for the den, saying "Dah-Nn." Doctor John. The DVD is "Dr. John Teaches You to Play New Orleans Piano," and Augie's immediate favorite was "Pinetop Boogie." While I struggled to learn fingering, he absorbed the music, heart and soul. Here's evidence.
When Augie was just over a year old, he'd come in the door and head for the den, saying "Dah-Nn." Doctor John. The DVD is "Dr. John Teaches You to Play New Orleans Piano," and Augie's immediate favorite was "Pinetop Boogie." While I struggled to learn fingering, he absorbed the music, heart and soul. Here's evidence.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
An October getaway
The weather has been so warm that our leaves are weeks behind their usual schedule, so we headed north and east to the St. Croix River valley where we figured things would be a little further advanced. The birches were glorious tiny points of gold, and the sumac was deep red, and here and there a hardwood was turning red as well. Much of this was contrasted against deep green, and it was lovely. The sun hid behind the clouds both days, but there was beauty everywhere. The photos you see here were taken at Interstate Park at Taylor's Falls, Minn., notable for its scenery including glacial potholes; I've described it before.
The hotel's special dining attraction is a multi-course fondue dinner, which was as good as we remembered from decades ago, except that now we know our limits and didn't overdo. The cheese fondue, served with marinated vegetables and several kinds of bread, was accompanied by a wonderful Riesling. In hot oil we cooked shrimp, duck, and steak, all accompanied by an Austrian white and an Italian red that were a little more dry and heavy than we like (we'll never be wine aficionados). The grapes and berries course served as our dessert, and we skipped the chocolate fondue. I've always enjoyed the process of the fondue dinner, and it's even better when you're not the one who has to clean up and deal with the hot oil and messy cheese pot.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
30 years of adventure and teamwork
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| Our wedding, 9/27/85 |
I was 42 and not looking to get married when I met Peter at a business meeting. I thought I was happy and fulfilled. But he showed me what it could be like to be loved, and we were married less than six months after we met.
We've grown and changed a lot since then. We learned we could be a great team; our individual talents and perspectives complement one another and we can accomplish a lot when we decide to work for something we believe in. He's helped me take more risks and speak up; I've helped him be a little less the aggressive New-Yorker-in-a-china-shop. He is, by the way, a much more nurturing person than I know how to be.
When we were first discussing marriage, Peter said the secret of our happiness would be the small quiet moments--if we took time to appreciate them. At our ages, he said, we were unlikely to set off on new adventures. He was right about the moments, but wrong about adventure. We've undertaken three life-changing projects together.
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| Cafesjian's Carousel |
This year we have begun working to replace ourselves with new leaders, a transition that is not easy. The carousel has been a full-time preoccupation for 27 of our 30 years together, and it forged our relationship. Together, the team of "Peter-and-Nancy" has often been far bolder, more entrepreneurial, and more wildly successful than either of us could have been--or even imagined--alone. It's hard to let go of that role. On the other hand, we feel a responsibility to pass along what we know to those who will carry the work forward. Besides, we are tired and it's time to move on.
Meanwhile we've been season ticket holders for Saint Paul Saints minor-league baseball since 1993, and for years we really threw ourselves into it. We attended nearly every home game, tailgating before each game and forming good friendships with players, coaches, staff, players' families, vendors, and other fans. Saints games became our social life until changes broke up the community we had enjoyed. This summer, the team moved to a new downtown stadium that is difficult to access for those of us with bad knees. Instead of attending 45 or 50 games, we made about 15 this year, and we're already thinking it will be fewer next year. Gradually and sadly we are giving up a beloved activity that was another big part of our shared identity. |
| Legos--a favorite family activity |
As we move forward, Peter and I need to find new ways to spend time together, to foster our relationship and to replace activities and identities that shaped our first 30 years together. For starters, we are planning a back porch where we can sit together on long Minnesota evenings and admire the garden, listen to music, maybe even listen to a baseball game. Our grandchildren and their parents are welcome to join us any time.
I am content. I have enjoyed being with this man who once promised to "throw a monkey wrench into your well ordered life." He certainly did, and the results were surprising, challenging, sometimes perplexing, often amazing. Now, at the 30-year mark, we are negotiating some transitions. I am pretty sure that we are up to the challenge, and that the outcome will be worth the work.
I love you, Peter Boehm. I love being loved by you, and I love the life we have created together. I hope we have lots more wonderful moments together, and maybe even some rewarding but slightly less taxing adventures!
P.S., The story of how we met begins here.
P.P.S., This is posted to
Thursday, September 10, 2015
TBT: Parents, milestones, hugs
My parents' anniversary was August 31, and their birthdays were September 4 and 7. Those days became a significant trinity early in my life, and that hasn't changed. Whatever else is going on at this time of year, I find Mom and Dad on my mind, gently reminding me of family, origins, and home.
August 31 this year was the 75th anniversary of their wedding. When Mom was in her 60s, several of her friends celebrated their 40th anniversaries, and she seemed taken with this milestone--almost jealous, and certainly looking forward to getting there as well. She was diagnosed with colon cancer just after their 38th anniversary, so the 40th took on a new significance. But she died a week before, and when August 31 came, just after her funeral, my Dad and I couldn't even bring ourselves to speak of it. I hadn't really kept track of the years until my brother Allen noted that this was the 75th. They were a well matched pair, I think, and they both worked hard to give their six children a good start in life.
September 4 was an even bigger milestone, the 100th anniversary of my dad's birth. He died just five years ago, frankly amazed to have lived so long. His parents and sister had all died quite young, and he seemed to be aging quickly so he retired from work at age 62. He reached a point at which he had been retired for the same number of years (33) he had held his job! When Mom died just a couple of years after he retired, he married a long-time widow he met at a church spaghetti supper. She complicated our lives, and that's all I'm going to say about that.
September 7 was Mom's birthday, and had she lived she would be a feisty 99 this year. For many years Mom and Dad celebrated with a group of friends who also had early September birthdays. It occurs to me that of the 10 or 12 people who gathered (for lutefisk, lefse, and Swedish meatballs) just one is alive today, and she turned 104 on Saturday. She is still alert, happy, and loving, and she credits her longevity to her lifelong habit of walking long distances. I think good Italian genes might also have something to do with it.
Our families spent a lot of time together while I was growing up, and now this lady calls me periodically to catch up and to tell me she loves me, and my siblings. I didn't make it to her birthday party Saturday, but I will drive the hour or so to visit with her in the next few weeks. Her children and grandchildren treasure her and know how lucky they are to still have her with them. And just now I think another hug from her would be a perfect gift from home.
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| Mom, in the dress she made |
Our families spent a lot of time together while I was growing up, and now this lady calls me periodically to catch up and to tell me she loves me, and my siblings. I didn't make it to her birthday party Saturday, but I will drive the hour or so to visit with her in the next few weeks. Her children and grandchildren treasure her and know how lucky they are to still have her with them. And just now I think another hug from her would be a perfect gift from home.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Ten Years After…and Don’t Call it Katrina
Television brought us heartbreaking images and stories—elderly residents abandoned to drown in a flooded-out nursing home, families making their way through foul waist-high water, thousands stranded on rooftops and bridges and in the Superdome and at the convention center, baking and some dying in the hot sun. (I've avoided using the most shocking images here.)
Thousands of homes were uninhabitable because of water damage, toxic mold, and lack of utilities. We heard that FEMA would bring in emergency trailers. There was a supply of trailers available nearby—in Mississippi, as I recall. They were locally built, so if FEMA used them and ordered more, they would be boosting a regional economy also disrupted by hurricane damage. Instead, FEMA held out for trailers that would be built in Alaska and transported to Louisiana. When I heard that, it dawned on me: They are stalling so their friends can get into position to profit from this. Just as Halliburton got excessive no-bid contracts in Iraq, a fleet of out-of-town contractors would profit from exceedingly favorable treatment in the cleanup and redevelopment of New Orleans.
When we visited this past April, our cab drivers were seldom New Orleans natives; during Easter Week a nice young man from Jordan asked whether we could explain the Good Friday tradition. The wait staff at one Cajun-Creole restaurant was entirely Latino and at another entirely southeast Asian, seemingly imported from elsewhere when a restaurant reopened or changed hands. They provided competent service, but they didn’t know beans about rice and beans. Something similar must have happened in the kitchens; traditional New Orleans food was simply not quite as rich and tasty as it should have been. The problem is not the addition of new ethnicities; it is the decreased presence of those who, like generations before them, shaped the remarkable culture unique to New Orleans.
Of all the expressions of New Orleans culture, music seems to have survived best. Some of the city’s most successful musicians (the Marsalis family, Harry Conick Jr., Dr. John and others) banded together to support the many musicians who were wiped out, and often forced to flee, by the flood. They raised money, built a musician’s village through Habitat for Humanity, established a music school for city children, and kept on playing. New Orleans music is not just an art form, not just a tourist attraction, it is vital part of life. The spirit of second-line parades and “Indian” parades, together with New Orleans jazz, blues, zydeco, and the rest, give a sense of the culture and strength that brought the city’s people through the flood and its aftermath.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
TBT: Being thankful for every day
This first appeared August 26, 2009; it was my third-ever blog post.
Today's Cryptogram was "Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year." It's Ralph Waldo Emerson (not LL Cool J, who apparently posted it on his web site recently).
Just yesterday I was thinking about the fact that being grateful for each new day is one of the better pieces of self-help advice I ever got. Habitually making the conscious choice to appreciate what you've got changes your approach to the day. I notice it in my responses when greeted with "How are you?" Old responses: tired, overworked, hate the weather, I have this ache.... New responses, at least some of the time: great, love this sunshine, too busy but glad to have a job in this economy, and of course the newly popular, having the time of my life being a grandma.
That single change makes things go better, and it's a bit of a gift to others, too, since negative energy sucks the life out of everyone around. Being open--loving life, things, people--makes us grow existentially; we expand to incorporate in our being that which we love.
I was thinking about these things last night while I couldn't sleep (which made today's Cryptogram a timely surprise). I started thinking about the prayer we were taught to say as children: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." My mother assured me that I was asking God to watch over me, but it sure seemed that I was inviting someone to snatch my soul in the middle of the night. What a creepy thing to teach a child. What did we learn from this recitation, except fear? How did it teach us to be good little people?
So at 2 or 3 a.m. I asked myself, "What prayer would I teach a child, if I were going to do such a thing?" I decided it would be something like, "I give thanks for this new day; please help me use it well." And later in the day, "Thanks for all the good things that happened today." And then we'd talk about good and not-so-good things from the day that offer teachable moments.
When Peter woke up too, I mentioned this, and we agreed that these are messages Augie and Vi are already getting. Mommy Abby is effusive and animated about pretty much everything they do and see in the course of a day, and any little gift or kindness that someone extends. They can't possibly just take things for granted when she is so relentlessly appreciative. I talk to Augie about this beautiful day, the beautiful garden, the wonderful sunny day... and now we hear him express his own appreciation of beauty...that's a beautiful cat, look at all the beautiful flowers, etc. And we all celebrate the kids' achievements, letting them know how clever, funny. strong, talented, beautiful, kind, and loving they are.
I sometimes have wondered whether we confuse the quest for happiness with spiritual growth. But I have no doubt that these life-affirming, positive, confidence-building messages are totally superior to anything I got from the Catholic Church of my youth. When happiness is based on authentic appreciation of what one has and is and does, it will produce children (and grownups) who are far more fully developed individuals, in pretty much every dimension, than we ever were. As for me, in my new-found blissed-out state, I am a better person than I have been for a long time!
Today's Cryptogram was "Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year." It's Ralph Waldo Emerson (not LL Cool J, who apparently posted it on his web site recently).
That single change makes things go better, and it's a bit of a gift to others, too, since negative energy sucks the life out of everyone around. Being open--loving life, things, people--makes us grow existentially; we expand to incorporate in our being that which we love.
I was thinking about these things last night while I couldn't sleep (which made today's Cryptogram a timely surprise). I started thinking about the prayer we were taught to say as children: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." My mother assured me that I was asking God to watch over me, but it sure seemed that I was inviting someone to snatch my soul in the middle of the night. What a creepy thing to teach a child. What did we learn from this recitation, except fear? How did it teach us to be good little people?
So at 2 or 3 a.m. I asked myself, "What prayer would I teach a child, if I were going to do such a thing?" I decided it would be something like, "I give thanks for this new day; please help me use it well." And later in the day, "Thanks for all the good things that happened today." And then we'd talk about good and not-so-good things from the day that offer teachable moments.
I sometimes have wondered whether we confuse the quest for happiness with spiritual growth. But I have no doubt that these life-affirming, positive, confidence-building messages are totally superior to anything I got from the Catholic Church of my youth. When happiness is based on authentic appreciation of what one has and is and does, it will produce children (and grownups) who are far more fully developed individuals, in pretty much every dimension, than we ever were. As for me, in my new-found blissed-out state, I am a better person than I have been for a long time!
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Facing the world through Facebook
I spend lots of time on Facebook these days. Too much, in fact. And it's not because I'm sharing the latest grandkid story or seeing friends' vacation photos, although those things do happen.
No, the extra time is because Facebook has become a source of information on endless topics, served up based on what you've already shown to be your interests. Some is from shaky sources (it's the internet, after all) but some is from news-gathering and news-reporting organizations with pretty solid fact-checking credentials.
So if a friend shares a link to a video in which scientists are literally watching part of an iceberg collapse into the ocean, and if I click "like" after reading it, Facebook will see that my newsfeed includes more stories about global climate change. Several friends share the latest quotes from Bernie Sanders, who has regularly opposed the way billionaire businessmen and corporations have bought influence with Congress at the expense of the middle class. Now when one of those quotes comes my way, Facebook also aggregates a handful of related stories, whether it's about regulating Wall Street or protecting health care or shifting our national priorities away from fossil fuels and toward cleaner, renewable energy. And because I'm interested in all those things (and more), I read them, perhaps "like" them, and voila! I receive more of them.
This is not the only way my newsfeed fills up. One friend loves animals and every day sends a dozen items about endangered species living in protected habitats. She also sends a dozen cartoons. Some are genuinely funny, but to find out which ones, I'd have to read them all. Other friends send inspirational messages, stunning photos of exotic places, or political commentary from the left or the right. These are not their own writing or photos, they are simply passing along things they like. And I compound the traffic flow, because periodically I "like" a message that resonates, or a political cartoon that nails an event or situation in what strikes me as a very clever and insightful way. When I "like" something, my Facebook friends get the same message, and a line saying that I liked this.
I can put an end to some of this traffic. I can tell Facebook that I no longer wish to see Minion cartoons, for example, or posts from other specific sources. I can even say I don't want to see posts from certain friends, and they'll never know. (In fact, I can continue to see a little preview of everything they have posted, just in case I want to check in sometimes.) So I'm about to regulate some of the volume.
But there's another aspect to all of this. I'm getting more and more information that documents ways in which we are losing natural resources that we need to survive as a species. Ways that our democracy is not living up to its promises. Ways that products we use every day--including food--are introducing poisons into our systems. Ways that progressives and conservatives misunderstand each other at the expense of social interaction and our governance. You get the idea.
We all have perspectives on these issues. A few of my blog friends write about them often, but most of us have chosen to focus on other things--daily life, families, books, aging, sometimes even religion. Anything but "politics." But I've been drawn to those social and political issues on Facebook.
Mostly, I read about them. My Facebook friends and I occasionally write a paragraph as an into to a link we are passing along, but we're not really having discussions there. It isn't a medium that encourages an individual user to write a thoughtful piece...blogging is better for that.
So I'm trying to decide whether to write a few pieces about my most pressing issues, and if so whether to post them here or open a new blog with a new name...because when I look at these issues I'm not exactly blissed out.
No, the extra time is because Facebook has become a source of information on endless topics, served up based on what you've already shown to be your interests. Some is from shaky sources (it's the internet, after all) but some is from news-gathering and news-reporting organizations with pretty solid fact-checking credentials.
So if a friend shares a link to a video in which scientists are literally watching part of an iceberg collapse into the ocean, and if I click "like" after reading it, Facebook will see that my newsfeed includes more stories about global climate change. Several friends share the latest quotes from Bernie Sanders, who has regularly opposed the way billionaire businessmen and corporations have bought influence with Congress at the expense of the middle class. Now when one of those quotes comes my way, Facebook also aggregates a handful of related stories, whether it's about regulating Wall Street or protecting health care or shifting our national priorities away from fossil fuels and toward cleaner, renewable energy. And because I'm interested in all those things (and more), I read them, perhaps "like" them, and voila! I receive more of them.
This is not the only way my newsfeed fills up. One friend loves animals and every day sends a dozen items about endangered species living in protected habitats. She also sends a dozen cartoons. Some are genuinely funny, but to find out which ones, I'd have to read them all. Other friends send inspirational messages, stunning photos of exotic places, or political commentary from the left or the right. These are not their own writing or photos, they are simply passing along things they like. And I compound the traffic flow, because periodically I "like" a message that resonates, or a political cartoon that nails an event or situation in what strikes me as a very clever and insightful way. When I "like" something, my Facebook friends get the same message, and a line saying that I liked this.
I can put an end to some of this traffic. I can tell Facebook that I no longer wish to see Minion cartoons, for example, or posts from other specific sources. I can even say I don't want to see posts from certain friends, and they'll never know. (In fact, I can continue to see a little preview of everything they have posted, just in case I want to check in sometimes.) So I'm about to regulate some of the volume.
But there's another aspect to all of this. I'm getting more and more information that documents ways in which we are losing natural resources that we need to survive as a species. Ways that our democracy is not living up to its promises. Ways that products we use every day--including food--are introducing poisons into our systems. Ways that progressives and conservatives misunderstand each other at the expense of social interaction and our governance. You get the idea.
We all have perspectives on these issues. A few of my blog friends write about them often, but most of us have chosen to focus on other things--daily life, families, books, aging, sometimes even religion. Anything but "politics." But I've been drawn to those social and political issues on Facebook.
Mostly, I read about them. My Facebook friends and I occasionally write a paragraph as an into to a link we are passing along, but we're not really having discussions there. It isn't a medium that encourages an individual user to write a thoughtful piece...blogging is better for that.
So I'm trying to decide whether to write a few pieces about my most pressing issues, and if so whether to post them here or open a new blog with a new name...because when I look at these issues I'm not exactly blissed out.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Threads
I have clothing and fabric strewn about my office, on our dining-room table, and on the floor outside a couple of closets I've been sorting through. The process of de-cluttering, it turns out, creates a lot of clutter while it's underway.
It takes a lot of energy, too. I find myself evaluating items that represent, literally and figuratively, the threads of my life. Should it go? Should it stay? These decisions can be complicated. The secret, I think, is in the timing. Am I ready to let go of this? Am I ready to stop being the person who needed this outfit? Can I see myself getting along without so many bins of fabric and craft supplies? Or, at least, with less of these particular supplies? (There is definitely a voice in my head that says, "If you get rid of this stuff you'll have more room for that other stuff you've been wanting.")
Sometimes an item represents a dream. For example, I came across a pink pinwale playsuit I began to make for ViMae seven years ago, when she was a few months old. The fabric was cute but too heavy for ruffles, and before I'd finished it she was growing so fast I knew she'd never get to wear it. I couldn't throw it away--I had long dreamed of sewing darling clothes for adorable children. But by now, I have sewn other things for both grandkids, and I have also discovered the joys of buying wonderful like-new dresses at Once Upon a Child. Realizing that my dream is intact and even improved, I am finally ready to throw away that unfinished project along with other hapless bits and pieces. Bonus: In the process I uncovered more fabric that the kids have decided will be perfect for some brand-new projects.
Then, of course, there's the matter of an entire work wardrobe--two, really, because summer and winter demand different clothing options here in Minnesota. I'd stopped wearing dresses for work long ago in favor of dressy pants and jackets or sweaters. To my way of thinking, I had maybe five pairs of pants for winter and five for summer. My closets, however, say there were more. And I had them in three different sizes. For a couple of years in my 40s, I wore braces on my teeth. Lost 25 pounds because I wouldn't eat in public. I did give away some of those clothes years ago, but I realized I was keeping a few "in case I ever get cancer and lose a lot of weight." I guess that idea stuck with me because my mother got cancer at 60 and did lose a lot of weight, and shopping for new clothes while you know you are dying is not that much fun. But I'm finally ready to risk it. Those size 8s and 10s are gone.
So are a lot of other clothes that don't fit, probably never will, and perhaps never did. Also gone: things that never were really comfortable, or didn't flatter, or that I just don't like.
Or that I no longer "need." Apparently when I was working I needed eight black long-sleeved t-shirts, differing only in length and in the shape of the scoop necks. Plus eight or ten in other colors. (I wore them, instead of blouses, with suits and jackets.) I can say with confidence that I don't need so many now.
The same is true with all the pants, both dressy and casual, that I'd accumulated in an array of classic colors: black, brown, navy, and, of course, tan, beige, taupe, sand, stone, khaki, and other synonyms for, um, tan. Tried them all on, found some in the back of the spare closet that fit better than ones I've been wearing, kept only the favorites. In another closet I found four pairs of pants I'd put in a bin to be hemmed. Kept two, tossed two.
Today we are taking three huge bags full of clothes to Goodwill (along with household items we've recruited for the trip). This will make room to continue the weeding process, which will eventually include books, collectibles, you-name-it. And I plan to revisit my closets in six months or so, because I know I'll be ready to shed some additional stuff.
Cleaning out my closets, and then decluttering in general, was going to be my first post-retirement project. It has taken four and a half years to get started. I think I feared the process; I thought I would have to summon brutal self-discipline to get rid of things that had been part of my life. You've heard, "If you haven't worn it in a year, it's gone." Well, no. Some things just have a longer shelf life than that.
So I gave away everything I was sure of, including some special-occasion clothes and some of the t-shirts I've collected over the years, bearing logos of favorite causes and teams and places. But I kept things to which I felt attached. A very worn shirt bearing the logo of International Women's Year (1976), in which I participated, for example. And my 1991 World Champions sweatshirt with a few Twins' autographs. And I was already feeling okay about that when I heard about a new best-seller with a rather grand title: The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing.
I haven't read the book, but in interviews author Marie Kondo says that when you are torn about keeping or tossing an item, hold it, touch it, feel it. If it makes you happy, keep it. Amen to that.
How about you? Have you mastered the art of decluttering? Organizing? Shall we form a book club to study Ms. Kondo's advice? Or have you found life-changing decluttering "magic" from another source? Do tell!
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| Quilt project and sparkly stuff |
Sometimes an item represents a dream. For example, I came across a pink pinwale playsuit I began to make for ViMae seven years ago, when she was a few months old. The fabric was cute but too heavy for ruffles, and before I'd finished it she was growing so fast I knew she'd never get to wear it. I couldn't throw it away--I had long dreamed of sewing darling clothes for adorable children. But by now, I have sewn other things for both grandkids, and I have also discovered the joys of buying wonderful like-new dresses at Once Upon a Child. Realizing that my dream is intact and even improved, I am finally ready to throw away that unfinished project along with other hapless bits and pieces. Bonus: In the process I uncovered more fabric that the kids have decided will be perfect for some brand-new projects.
Then, of course, there's the matter of an entire work wardrobe--two, really, because summer and winter demand different clothing options here in Minnesota. I'd stopped wearing dresses for work long ago in favor of dressy pants and jackets or sweaters. To my way of thinking, I had maybe five pairs of pants for winter and five for summer. My closets, however, say there were more. And I had them in three different sizes. For a couple of years in my 40s, I wore braces on my teeth. Lost 25 pounds because I wouldn't eat in public. I did give away some of those clothes years ago, but I realized I was keeping a few "in case I ever get cancer and lose a lot of weight." I guess that idea stuck with me because my mother got cancer at 60 and did lose a lot of weight, and shopping for new clothes while you know you are dying is not that much fun. But I'm finally ready to risk it. Those size 8s and 10s are gone.
So are a lot of other clothes that don't fit, probably never will, and perhaps never did. Also gone: things that never were really comfortable, or didn't flatter, or that I just don't like.
Or that I no longer "need." Apparently when I was working I needed eight black long-sleeved t-shirts, differing only in length and in the shape of the scoop necks. Plus eight or ten in other colors. (I wore them, instead of blouses, with suits and jackets.) I can say with confidence that I don't need so many now.
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| Future pillow cover and more sparkles |
Today we are taking three huge bags full of clothes to Goodwill (along with household items we've recruited for the trip). This will make room to continue the weeding process, which will eventually include books, collectibles, you-name-it. And I plan to revisit my closets in six months or so, because I know I'll be ready to shed some additional stuff.
Cleaning out my closets, and then decluttering in general, was going to be my first post-retirement project. It has taken four and a half years to get started. I think I feared the process; I thought I would have to summon brutal self-discipline to get rid of things that had been part of my life. You've heard, "If you haven't worn it in a year, it's gone." Well, no. Some things just have a longer shelf life than that.
So I gave away everything I was sure of, including some special-occasion clothes and some of the t-shirts I've collected over the years, bearing logos of favorite causes and teams and places. But I kept things to which I felt attached. A very worn shirt bearing the logo of International Women's Year (1976), in which I participated, for example. And my 1991 World Champions sweatshirt with a few Twins' autographs. And I was already feeling okay about that when I heard about a new best-seller with a rather grand title: The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing.
I haven't read the book, but in interviews author Marie Kondo says that when you are torn about keeping or tossing an item, hold it, touch it, feel it. If it makes you happy, keep it. Amen to that.
How about you? Have you mastered the art of decluttering? Organizing? Shall we form a book club to study Ms. Kondo's advice? Or have you found life-changing decluttering "magic" from another source? Do tell!
Friday, June 12, 2015
Stepping things up
Some days I get a reasonable amount of what I'll call exercise from my regular activities--gardening, mowing the lawn, tap dancing, whatever. Other days I sleep late, sit at the computer, read, watch television.
A couple of weeks ago I decided (again) that I need to be more deliberate about being active. Of course, I've known that forever and haven't changed my habits. So I bought a Fitbit to motivate and remind me. I bought a Charge HR, the model that tracks steps, heart rate, sleep, and stairs.
I began by letting it record my daily activities without making any special effort to step things up. In fact, the first day I wore it, I was so inactive that it thought I was sleeping all day. Then I had a few active days--walking through airports, volunteering at my dance studio's recital dress rehearsal, and the like--and without making any special effort I was logging 4-5,000 steps.
Yesterday was cold and rainy. I slept until noon, read all afternoon, and watched television in the evening. At dinner time I'd taken only 472 steps. Today, having walked to a nearby restaurant for dinner, I'm at 2,700. Now that I have a sense of what comes naturally, it's time to set specific daily goals. Most walking programs set a goal of 10,000 steps. I'm going to start somewhere lower than that and work up.
One step at a time.
I began by letting it record my daily activities without making any special effort to step things up. In fact, the first day I wore it, I was so inactive that it thought I was sleeping all day. Then I had a few active days--walking through airports, volunteering at my dance studio's recital dress rehearsal, and the like--and without making any special effort I was logging 4-5,000 steps.
Yesterday was cold and rainy. I slept until noon, read all afternoon, and watched television in the evening. At dinner time I'd taken only 472 steps. Today, having walked to a nearby restaurant for dinner, I'm at 2,700. Now that I have a sense of what comes naturally, it's time to set specific daily goals. Most walking programs set a goal of 10,000 steps. I'm going to start somewhere lower than that and work up.
One step at a time.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Peony time
I can't believe how long it's been, again, since I last wrote here. I have been over-thinking each potential topic and I just need to jump back into it.
So, with no further ado, here is a bouquet of peonies I cut yesterday. I had just returned from a five-day trip to Sacramento, where my nephew was married Saturday, and I was happy to see that the peonies had hung on long enough for me to enjoy them.
The wedding was great, by the way, and I'm very glad I went. More on that later!
The wedding was great, by the way, and I'm very glad I went. More on that later!
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Immersed in music
I love to travel. Peter loves to be at home. I knew it would be a
challenge to plan a trip he might actually enjoy, but I really craved
some time in a warmer climate, so I gave it a try. And I succeeded.
We decided I'd find a place where we could settle in and become part of a neighborhood for a week. We agreed on New Orleans, a well-loved destination we had visited several times, but not since Hurricane Katrina. We'd see how the city had recovered, but mostly we'd concentrate on music and food.
With music as a focus, it made sense to stay in the
Faubourg Marigny, a district just beyond the French Quarter, where a
three-block section of Frenchmen Street has become the place to
enjoy jazz and blues. On TripAdvisor.com, my go-to travel research site,
I found housing choices ranging from elegant to slightly shabby, and
then I hit gold: a rental apartment with big, airy rooms, 14-foot
ceilings, and the most wonderful balcony overlooking the street. The
second floor of an 1870s commercial building, it's been renovated to
include a modern kitchen and bathroom, air conditioning (which we never
needed), and lots of electrical outlets. It even has wifi, courtesy of
the bicycle shop downstairs. The only downside: a flight of 28 stairs.
Happily, Peter's knees cooperated and the stairs, while difficult, were
not impossible.
Some people might see another downside. Frenchmen Street is much quieter than, say, Bourbon Street, but it is not quiet. There are at least seven music clubs just on the block where we stayed. We had Snug Harbor and dba on either side of us, and The Spotted Cat directly across the street. Spotted Cat brings on a new group every two hours between 4 p.m. and 2 a.m. weekdays and from 2 p.m. and 4 a.m. on weekends (which in New Orleans can stretch from Thursday through Monday). The way the club is set up, music sashays right out the front door and into the street...and directly into our home-away-from-home.
Some people who stay there use earplugs when they want to sleep. We just let the music wash over us. Hot jazz, cool jazz, funky jazz, Dixieland, blues--it became the soundtrack for our lives. We went to other venues, too, most notably Snug Harbor where we heard two especially fine concerts. Who could have known that Dick Hyman, whom Peter and I both remember from the 50s, can play jazz with such virtuosity at age 88? He appeared with a quartet headed by Evan Christopher, my new favorite clarinetist, and the entire show was an experience in perfection. Another night we heard a jazz band led by one of the Marsalis brothers. The room is tiny--the very definition of an intimate venue--and Snug Harbor audiences are attentive and respectful, as you want them to be when you've paid a handsome cover charge to hear some of the best in the business.
After the shows at Snug Harbor, we'd walk next door, climb the stairs, and once again sit on the balcony enjoying the scenery and the perfect weather. People up and down the street were having a good time. Those in The Spotted Cat were whooping, dancing, clapping, singing along--not only enjoying music but participating in it--and the energy was contagious.
We've been back several weeks now, and still when I hear any music at all, my ear homes in, eagerly paying attention to the interaction among instrumentalists. Also, I crave hearing live music--blues, jazz, rock, whatever--in small venues, something we haven't done much lately. I've begun to watch the listings in Saint Paul and Minneapolis so we can do more, without having to pack our suitcases. Meanwhile I'm listening to Evan Christopher on YouTube and am about to order a CD, or two or three. He's a wonderful performer and a great scholar of New Orleans jazz, which shows in his work. Hope you enjoy this sample.
I'll be back soon.
We decided I'd find a place where we could settle in and become part of a neighborhood for a week. We agreed on New Orleans, a well-loved destination we had visited several times, but not since Hurricane Katrina. We'd see how the city had recovered, but mostly we'd concentrate on music and food.
 |
| On our balcony, overlooking Frenchmen Street |
Some people might see another downside. Frenchmen Street is much quieter than, say, Bourbon Street, but it is not quiet. There are at least seven music clubs just on the block where we stayed. We had Snug Harbor and dba on either side of us, and The Spotted Cat directly across the street. Spotted Cat brings on a new group every two hours between 4 p.m. and 2 a.m. weekdays and from 2 p.m. and 4 a.m. on weekends (which in New Orleans can stretch from Thursday through Monday). The way the club is set up, music sashays right out the front door and into the street...and directly into our home-away-from-home.
Some people who stay there use earplugs when they want to sleep. We just let the music wash over us. Hot jazz, cool jazz, funky jazz, Dixieland, blues--it became the soundtrack for our lives. We went to other venues, too, most notably Snug Harbor where we heard two especially fine concerts. Who could have known that Dick Hyman, whom Peter and I both remember from the 50s, can play jazz with such virtuosity at age 88? He appeared with a quartet headed by Evan Christopher, my new favorite clarinetist, and the entire show was an experience in perfection. Another night we heard a jazz band led by one of the Marsalis brothers. The room is tiny--the very definition of an intimate venue--and Snug Harbor audiences are attentive and respectful, as you want them to be when you've paid a handsome cover charge to hear some of the best in the business.
After the shows at Snug Harbor, we'd walk next door, climb the stairs, and once again sit on the balcony enjoying the scenery and the perfect weather. People up and down the street were having a good time. Those in The Spotted Cat were whooping, dancing, clapping, singing along--not only enjoying music but participating in it--and the energy was contagious.
We've been back several weeks now, and still when I hear any music at all, my ear homes in, eagerly paying attention to the interaction among instrumentalists. Also, I crave hearing live music--blues, jazz, rock, whatever--in small venues, something we haven't done much lately. I've begun to watch the listings in Saint Paul and Minneapolis so we can do more, without having to pack our suitcases. Meanwhile I'm listening to Evan Christopher on YouTube and am about to order a CD, or two or three. He's a wonderful performer and a great scholar of New Orleans jazz, which shows in his work. Hope you enjoy this sample.
I'll be back soon.
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