Birthdays

Today is my birthday. Today I am celebrating my existence on this planet, and the fact that I have managed to hang on for 62 years. If statistics don't lie, I should be entitled to another 16 or more years, if I take care of myself.

Compare that to our animal friends and I'm doing pretty good.

• I have already outlived the average donkey (and the scary crocodile) by 15 years.
• I am over 4 times the age that could be expected by the most optimistic chicken.
• The Queen bee, waited on hand and foot, only lasts 5 years at best, and her poor worker bees are doomed to a year, max.
• The pigeons that decorate my car survive only a third as long as I have (they have that coming)
• The ox (which I can be stubborn as) isn't so stubborn after all in the living department. Twenty years.
• The guinea pigs, dogs and cats and horses I've cleaned up after over the years (how's that for a prepositional construction, folks?) can't keep up with me. I will outlive them all--this a reminder to Jake, who woke me up this morning at 5 AM: I will prevail.
• And, to the squirrels that dig up my carefully planted daffodil bulbs: DIE! I can wait you out.

Of course, the box turtle has me beat: 123 years, which makes me wonder why we endanger life and limb and risk disastrous pileups to save them as they creep across the road in front of our cars. Squirrels we slaughter with abandon, apparently, but not those decrepit turtles.

All this aside, I am grateful beyond measure for every year I've had, or can expect to have. I am grateful for the family and friends who make these 62 years seem like the lifespan of a gnat. I am the luckiest person I know, thanks to all of you.

Oh, Lord, it's coming!

Christmas, that is. I really love Christmas. It's the getting ready that drives me round the bend. I'm not a great gift-buyer, so that cloud of anxiety starts hovering around this time. I also start thinking about Christmas cards and when I should start sending them. I remember a cousin of my mother's--Arminda, her name was-- who dutifully mailed out her Christmas greetings before Thanksgiving. I suspect she was either not quite right, or else, phenomenally organized (which implies the former state anyway.) In any case, I haven't bought mine yet--but I am sending out change of address cards, if only to spare the inhabitants of our old house the pile of Christmas cards that might go astray. They are on their own as far as catalogs go..and they will see a lot of them, I'm sure.

For some reason, I am also the editor of our church's Advent devotional booklet--allowing me the privilege of badgering people for contributions (literary, not monetary) and fiddling around with cover design (I frittered away the greater part of today on that), not to mention writing a self-assigned poem for the book. Done today! At least the first draft. And not a moment too soon, as I need to xerox the cover, print the assorted pages, collate and assemble--all before November 21. Gack.

To look forward to: cookies, figuring out how to decorate this new house, deciding whether or not to do a party of some sort, getting a tree (and maybe a second one for the front window)..the Christmas Readings at church (a delight that I never took advantage of until about three years ago!), the Scottish Walk, which I love...and so many more 'joys of the season'...

Anyway...attached is this year's poem in rough form which may or may not change, depending on the time available for further tinkering:

Perspectives

There’s a baby in our house this Christmas

and that makes all the difference--

A child’s eyes, unjaded by the past,

eyes that see a simpler world,

devoid of disappointment

and grim visions of the future.

Put a baby in our hearts this Christmas.

Give us babies’ eyes

to see as we ought to see—

through the Christmas-colored lenses

of belief and hope and love

that only the child in us can wear.

Make us children again this Christmas.

Tell us a story-- the simplest of stories:

that God keeps His promises,

through all the ages;

and, just to remind us,

He sends us a baby:

a baby at Christmas-time—

our new beginning.

--Mary McElveen--

Christmas 2010

Requiems

Autumn has not been kind this year. For two weeks running, we will have attended memorial services for friends stricken by cancer, and heard of and visited friends in hospitals and rehab centers. Is there an imaginary line somewhere-- like the International Date Line-- that marks the border between reasonable good health and steady decline? If so, give me the coordinates so I can steer my boat around it.

All of a sudden, all those admonitions to eat right and exercise and monitor my health sound less like ignorable nagging, and more like sensible precautions. My casual presumption that I will always be able to continue my current laissez-faire attitude toward what I do and how I do it is now subject to attack. Gone are the days of last-minute anything--everything takes longer, requires more effort, and leaves me more tired than it should. And then, there are those losses that remind me every day that life does not go on forever; that, impossible as it seems right now, I have a finite stretch of time and am definitely on the downhill side of the mountain.

I certainly plan on a few more decades, but suddenly, I am realizing that that's nowhere near a guarantee. So. It's time to submit my poems, to write that novel, to finish all those projects that languish upstairs, and maybe, just maybe, say a few 'thank yous' along the way.

Invisible

"If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is there to hear, does it make a sound?" If I return from a trip a day early, and no one knows I am here...hmmm. What could I do when no one knows I am available?

I am enjoying found time, a day when I should have been winging my way from Dallas to Little Rock to Baltimore and home. Instead, JC providentially noticed (as we approached the gate for our flight from Albuquerque to Dallas Tuesday afternoon) that a non-stop flight to Baltimore (where we'd left our car) was boarding. Although JC had business in Dallas and environs, I was faced with a flight to Dallas and a 4:45 AM wake-up call to make my Baltimore flight the next morning. I scrambled and managed to get a seat (in an exit row, no less) to Baltimore, and was home by 10 PM Tuesday night.

So what do you do when you are invisible? I've read magazines. I've done a little grocery shopping. I've puttered in the garden. I turned on the fountain. I'm thinking about getting some plants for my windowboxes. I'm thinking about some decorative ideas I happened upon during our trip. I'm uploading photos. What I'm NOT doing? Sorting through the accumulated mail.

Doing laundry. Answering phone calls. Paying bills. Cleaning. Except for the scattered kitty litter that Jake graciously distributed over the floor, the rug, and yes, even the coffee table. (I don't even want to think about that.) There will be enough time for all that when I rejoin my world tomorrow. For now, I am drifting, like the shadow I am allowed to be, if only for today. Invisible.

September 1

At last! As I write this, I am at long last sitting at the table in my 'garden' at our new house. It is lovely. We moved in early July, and between weather (horribly hot) and neighbors (who were having their patio redone--which meant a 4-week long parade of workmen and wheelbarrows trundling through my patio each morning) there has not been a quiet morning to carry my tea and my laptop outside and sit, listening to morning noises and making a few of my own clickety-clicks on the keyboard.

Today is all clear blue sky and cool breezes. While I have yet to figure out exactly what the patio will look like (there ARE no planting beds to speak of, so container gardening is all I will be able to do, unless I enlist my own parade of workmen to alter this brick box...) I have a fountain and several large pots of green things and flowers, three trellises, a bench and some chairs and a table. Also a few sturdy weeds popping out from between the bricks, but what are weeds if not reminders that there is no such thing as perfect?

I do have visions, just as I have for the house. Some of those have been put in place, others will wait for a while, percolating until their outlines solidify. For now, I am happy with some quiet time in a friendly place without interruption: my garden.

Evidence of Life

The brick box they called a garden

is coming into focus now.

The weed-packed concrete boxes

that crown the wall

will have to come down.

Planted with lavender or rosemary

like spokes around the wheel

of the fountain’s base,

they will anchor a garden

of herbs and annuals,

an oasis of green in that brick desert.

My geraniums already blaze

on the table and in pots

on the trellises that flank my bench.

Purple petunias explode

from the urns in the corner,

and holly bushes guard the gate.

My lamb curls up behind the impatiens

and bunnies hide amid the leaves.

The stone garden god waits on the chair

for his throne to be established,

and for the first time since we arrived,

today

I see a bumblebee.

ISO: Writing discipline

I'm not writing poems anymore. Maybe it's the past three years of producing them for any and all occasions. Maybe it is that I've not had a lot of free time to think about things in the particular way poetry demands. Perhaps it is simply that there has been no real demand now that I'm out of office, but...my poem production has dwindled to a low ebb. Even my other writing has been curtailed, for unknown reasons. I find myself with my writing group gathering looming, and I have nothing to take with me. This is unprecedented.

Maybe this is writer's block, but I don't think so. I have noticed things and thought, "Hmmm. I could do something with that.." only to get distracted by some other quotidian concern--like what to make for dinner, or whether I should do the laundry today or tomorrow morning. I think I am at one of those places where I have to impose some discipline upon myself in order to produce something, anything that is worthy of reading. (Blogs, status updates, and emails do NOT count.)

But for now, I need to get something for dinner, check on the laundry....and think really hard about something to commit to paper. Today.

Moving forward..

I've been writing about real estate and home ownership for far too long, but--unfortunately--that has been my life for the past few months. Hard to believe that 6 months ago, we hadn't even thought about moving...Obviously, life can turn on a dime.

Interestingly, the whole moving process has unearthed a number of ideas, themes, launching pads for new writings. As I file random papers, I come across the collected Christmas letters for the past twenty-five years. Reading them is a revelation of where we've been and what we've accomplished: a verbal photo album that begs for consideration. Every issue we encounter in the new house turns up memories of previous experiences. Boxes that have lived in storage for nearly ten years, unexamined and forgotten, yield unexpected treasures and equally unexpected associations: vintage linens from JC's grandmother, our daughters' baby clothes, a crumbling wedding veil from JC's mother, dolls and toys that might again get some play-time with Audrey...and pictures and paintings and prints and maps and mirrors--all with stories to tell.

And along with all this comes the question: who will tell all these tales? Who will remember that this quilt came from the old dresser in the hall in Rogersville and was appliqued by JC's grandmother? That this veil is the one in his mother's wedding portrait? Who will recollect the wild Christmas Eve dash to Toys 'R Us to elbow through the crowds and stand in the interminable line to buy the Cabbage Patch kid that had been ordered months before? Who will know that it was this impossibly small dress that disappeared up the steps of that immense schoolbus on the day Kay started kindergarten? Who will identify the aunts and uncles and cousins, unrecognizable in their baby portraits, their youthful snapshots?

Moving to a new house is a step toward the future, of course; there are new places, new people, new adventures in store. But, just as much, it is also a trip backward, a plow cutting through our lives, turning them upside down, revealing all the hidden pieces, and making way for new and fruitful seasons.

What next?

Moving is always a revelation. This move has been...interesting. Since we took possession, there have been a variety of issues that didn't show up on the home inspection, despite the thoroughness thereof. Weird.

First was the water. The outside spigot where one would normally attach a hose is attached to the hot water line. We could boil eggs in the water it spews forth. Obviously this explains why the previous owners had no plants. They must have boiled them all while attempting to water them. Yet they professed no knowledge of this phenomenon when we asked. You'd think they just MIGHT have noticed that the water coming out of their hose was steaming.

Next, the condensate line from our air conditioner was nowhere to be found. Normally this is not my first priority in settling in, but...our air conditioner stopped because the line backed up. Fortunately, our HVAC tech was able to find and clear it--after about 18 hours of non-air-conditioned discomfort. In his search, however, he also detected a live wire in the space behind our furnace that he claimed was sparking. Enter the electrician. Who confirmed that we had a 240 volt bare wire, attached to nothing, lying about behind the wall of our 4th floor study. Gee. Previous owners knew nothing about that either. I am detecting a definite Seargeant Schulz syndrome here ("I know nothing, NOTHING!")

Then, one morning last week, I attempted to adjust the angle of the showerhead. Big mistake. The entire assembly (and I mean down to the surface of the tile wall) crashed off the wall and whacked me on my ankle. Yet another bruise. Yet another trip to Ace Hardware. Yet another call to Lonnie, the plumber at Cropp-Metcalfe. Because the pipe in the wall would not accommodate the standard shower arm, it being threaded on the outside, rather than the inside. We were thus afforded the opportunity to check out the other showers in the house for a few days. I haven't bothered to ask the previous owners about this.

And then, there is the washer/dryer. The detergent/bleach dispenser was absolutely black with what looked like mildew when I first went to use it. I opted to run an empty load with a serious shot of Clorox poured through the dispenser, and that helped a lot. However, there's still a sort of smoky odor that comes from the washer/dryer. It's also in the upstairs bathroom, whose door had been closed to keep the cat out. And you can catch a whiff of it occasionally in the upstairs bedroom. Were the previous owners heavy smokers? The drapes don't smell...maybe they were cleaned. Perhaps we have a ghost who does laundry and frequents the 3rd floor...that ghostly couple on "Topper" were always smoking, weren't they?

For now, I am on tenterhooks, waiting for the next issue to arise. Who knows what will come next?

..and the inevitable poem:

Almost Home

Houses have a soul.

This one is no different.

It lives and breathes and speaks

in different accents than the ones before,

but, as with new friends, we decipher

as best we can

what our relationship will be.

It was chilly, dry and sterile,

its courtyard a blank brick box

with a thirsty black fountain

and sprouting weeds

in the concrete planters

crouching on the wall.

Inside, the mismatched colors,

the schizophrenic lavender-browns paired

with creamy yellow and grayed-out whites,

swallowed the token pictures on the walls:

like thick glasses framing the squinty eyes

of a child who had forgotten how to play.

But now, we have angels dancing along the kitchen counter,

and arks on every shelf;

pictures and colored maps embrace odd corners,

and a fan-shaped mirror hangs

above a fan-shaped window

like a silent play on words.

There is pottery in the windowed bathroom cabinet

and cheerful monsters on the windowseat,

and a lion doorknocker smiling

on a Christmas red door.

And the courtyard now has flowers:

Velvet petunias and firecracker geraniums

tempered with spiky purple plants,

with basil and mint, and pots of holly…

The leaves rustle, and the fountain almost burbles

—just a little—

when I come through the gate.

It’s almost home.

Eventful

Hard to believe my last post was less than two weeks ago. I feel as if I've been fast-forwarded to the end of the month, with little to show for it in the way of accomplishment. We have emptied boxes and put stuff away, but now we are down to the substantial residue of stuff that needs to be sorted, filed, disposed of, or thought about. These are the boxes of little covered china boxes, or the dozen or so cat sculptures I've brought home from trips, the dozens of planned-but-uncompleted projects that have whiled away the past few years in storage or in the attic. This is the pile of tablecloths, placemats, runners, napkins that speak to my inability to set a table twice with the same napery. Also to my unwillingness to iron napkins. It doesn't help that we have had (still have, in some cases) a variety of tables of various sizes, and thus possess an equal variety of tablecloth sizes and runners in coordinating colors.

And yet, and yet...in spite of our overabundance of stuff, the new house demands more. We have different-sized rooms that need rugs; a room or two that we have no furniture for (or at least not appropriate furniture); we need a toaster because this oven doesn't possess that function. A longer hose, a shorter curtain, a cushion for the windowseat, a paper towel holder, shelving to turn a closet into a linen closet....It's enough to earn us a place in the Consumption 'R Us Hall of Fame.

However, in spite of my protestations, I have accomplished quite a bit since the last week in June. Closed the sale on our old house, settled on the new, flew to Providence to meet my daughter's movers and sign off on the move-in, unpack, then fly back to meet OUR packers and movers and vacate the old house and move to the new. Once here, we've unpacked, had the HVAC system and plumbing vetted, phone, internet and cable installed, as well as the security system, WiFi network established, neighbors met, and a rough idea of where things need to be moved to and what must yet be done.

I guess I am just not satisfied until I have created a semblance of order out of the chaos we've created. Wish me luck.

Assortment

A box of nothing but vases
3 card tables
2 deep fryers
A mandoline
A box of piano books and music (no piano)
6 boxes of cookbooks
A box of wires, electronic connectors, and at least 10 thumb drives
11 umbrellas
6 sets of rigid plastic shelving
12 rolling storage bins, metal mesh
5 restaurant-grade aluminum cookie sheets
8 short, wide bookcases
2 matching taller ones
A box of miscellaneous cooking utensils
3 beds: a double, a 3/4, and a twin missing critical hardware and mattresses
4 sets of china
A double set of ironstone
An infinite variety of salt and pepper shakers and sugar bowl/creamer sets
Assorted pieces of milk glass
Assorted silver pieces, unpolished
Assorted cut glass bowls and dishes
Assorted crystal pieces: candlesticks, drinkware, etc.
Plastic storage-ware

A partial list of what has been unearthed in the quasi-archaeological expedition that we call moving.....and I haven't even arrived at the really mysterious level: the stuff that has been in storage for the past five years...I will be surprised if we don't find a missing person somewhere in this pile, or at least the ashes of a dead pet. But that was the garage-cleaning story...

Packing

I am abysmal at sorting and packing. What I end up doing is LOOKING, instead of turning into a packing automaton, filling boxes as if I were some assembly-line robot. Maybe it's just that I am too attached to all my stuff. Just this weekend, I read in the Washington Post magazine a first-person article on hoarding. (It was written by the guy who moderated a Creative Non-Fiction workshop I took several years back, so of course I had to read it..) What he was told by the experts was that the hoarder looks at his or her 'stuff' as a second self; that throwing things away diminishes himself.

Well, that may be true, because all my things added together DO comprise a pretty good self all by themselves. If you analyzed the contents of my desks and cupboards and drawers, you'd have a fairly accurate picture of who I am. Frighteningly so. There are dishes. LOTS of dishes. I like dishes; so much so that I have 5 sets of china and a double set of the same ironstone pattern that I bought before we were married. Can I help it that my mother-in-law liked the pattern too? Placemats and napkins and candles. I might have fewer of these if I didn't hate ironing so much. But tablecloths require ironing, as do napkins. So much easier to run out and buy a new set of placemats/ napkins at the Crate and Barrel outlet up Duke Street if we're having company. They tell me the 'bare table' look is becoming fashionable. YES!!!

Another telling observation is that there is almost no item of which I have only one. Good things come in threes around here, or multiples thereof. If one candlestick is good, six is even better. Maybe this reflects my insecurity--the fact that I always need a backup in case something goes wrong. Or maybe it's my aesthetic sense. I like the look of odd numbers of things, but almost all stuff comes in pairs. Whatever. Suffice it to say that my house right now looks like an explosion in a box factory as I inventory my life, drawer by drawer.

We took a dispiriting trip to the storage space yesterday as well. In order to hang all the framed pictures, prints, maps, posters, collages, etc, that we have accumulated, I think we'd need to rent the Louvre. And reading today in the Times about someone's father who owned a farm and a 30 000 book library, I thought, "So???" I've started waking in the night wondering where my daughter's mummified wedding dress will go, and whether there will be enough room for all my Christmas stuff, and what would they do to me if I just shoved all the boxes in storage out into the corridor at the United-Storall and walked away? Perhaps I could do a blind, grab-bag garage sale...tell the movers to deposit all our boxes (except the books, of course) on the brick patio of the new house, throw wide the gates, and sell the sealed boxes for $20 a pop. Cash, and most emphatically, CARRY. Who knows what treasures people could walk off with? And if I haven't unpacked these boxes from the last move (or maybe the one before) I obviously don't need the contents. Even I don't know what secrets they hold.

Retirement plan: Learn to use e-Bay and sell everything.

Sort of

We are about to enter the next phase of messing with real estate. As soon as all appraisals are in and all systems are go, as soon as we pass the brief but distressing "Omigod, what have we done?" period, once we have reached the conclusion that we have no more control over the situation than Indiana Jones had over that boulder that was gaining on him...we arrive at the packing stage. Known in our frequently-moved household as the "where-the-hell-did-I-put-that?" phase.

After our first couple moves, I came to the realization that, in every transfer of household goods, something disappears forever. I now figure that it's sort of a sacrifice to the gods: a gift of appeasement so that our moving truck doesn't drive off a cliff, or spontaneously ignite. I imagine that somewhere in the dark and spooky depths of every moving company, there is a shrine, decorated with the objects that somehow escaped from the truck: a sort of 'Island of Lost Toys' with no benevolent Santa to rescue them.

In an attempt to minimize those escapees, I always engage in my personal favorite exercise in futility. I plan. Yes, I am one of those people who measures rugs and furniture and has even been known to tape out furniture footprints at the new house to assure myself that certain pieces will fit. I figure out ahead of time where everything will go--and try to color-code my boxes and furniture to match the color-coded rooms in the new house so that the movers will know (even if I and my clipboard are otherwise occupied) where to deposit the items they are unloading. In the interest of sanity preservation, boxes are labeled with approximate contents. Anyone who has dealt with mover-labeled boxes will understand. Once you have opened a box labeled "DR dishes" only to find a lone stray saucer and the contents of your under-the-kitchen-sink cabinet, you tend to distrust those packers.

In this move, however, we are emptying not only our current house, but the storage space containing the detritus of past moves: all the stuff that didn't quite make it through these doors, but was deemed worthy of saving. A new chandelier that was never hung. An incredible number of cane-back chairs (which apparently multiply like rabbits in storage spaces). Boxes and boxes of books, labeled with their room of origin three houses ago. Christmas decorations that migrate in and out each year, along with the everyday decorative items they have supplanted. Forgotten treasures, like the half-moon mirror that used to grace the sofa wall of our family room--when we HAD a family room. I am forced to remember not only the contents of our current rooms, but that of past houses--and then map those boxes to new rooms in the new place. Complexity--and possibly chaos--reigns.

And yet, I keep at it, poring over the floorplan (whose dimensions are at odds with the property description on the same page of the brochure) and trying to imagine colors and locations and sizes of rooms and windows and doors and built-ins, so that I can integrate our pieces into the plan. I despair of ever fitting all the boxes of books onto the shelves available, of ever clearing all the virtually inaccessible corners of this house and then finding space for what I discover there. I wake in the middle of the night, asking myself questions about hoses and shut-off valves and where to put the trashcans.

It is--in short--the typical interim period when we can't get out of the old house or into the new, when all there is to do is worry that something will go wrong with one or both transactions. Planning and all the rest of it keeps those fears at bay. After 37 years, after all the moves we've made, all the deals, all the paperwork, all the agonies of waiting during that time, we sort of know that it will probably work out. Key word: "sort of". Sufficient to the day is the worry thereof.

By Fourth of July, we'll be...somewhere.

Waiting

I am not very good at waiting. From standing in line at the grocery store to sitting in traffic, from anticipating Christmas to planting spring bulbs in the garden, I am a person of little patience. I want to see results, reactions, closure, whatever. And I want it now.

This does not particularly suit me well for real estate transactions. Crafting a sales contract, dotting i's and crossing t's in a listing agreement, closing loopholes, creating others...observing the traditional dance moves of buying a house is painfully slow. Sign and initial, initial and sign endless documents that one person makes endless copies of, then passes to another person who reviews, copies, sends to clients so that they can sign and initial, initial and sign ad infinitum. Then copy again and send back to the originator to alter, initial and sign and start the entire process yet again.

When everyone tires of writing their names and initials in appropriate boxes and lines, we move on to the financial forms. More initials, more signatures, this time with numbers and percentages sprinkled through the pages. Then, whole pages of numbers assigning dollars to specific tasks and specific people at specific times. Wait to sign, wait to initial, wait for checks, wait for loan officers, wait for underwriters, wait for papers to be copied or signed or rendered useless. They should stop calling us 'clients' and start calling us 'patients'.

There are some advantages, I'll own. By doing this, we create a financial snapshot for ourselves and can see where we are. We establish some quality time together, digging through files and papers and assorted boxes of information. We spend more time at home waiting for the phone to ring, telling us of success or failure or yet another postponement while we await the arrival of yet another piece of paper or two. I've reduced my internet time by at least half. Real life is more challenging than any virtual world.

Success?

All the effort paid off. We sold our house in less than a week, making all the sturm und drang worthwhile. One would like to say that we can now breathe again, but that would be premature. The swift passage of our house from 'on the market' to 'sold' now necessitates an equally swift purchase of a suitable abode, so that we will have somewhere to live when our purchasers take possession. Which simply means that our frenetic activity has just entered a different arena.

Now, instead of creating an alternative reality for potential purchasers, we must see through what others have created for us. Wait a minute, sir! Where is the trashcan in this kitchen? And what is that chair doing, hiding in this closet? Do you mean to say that there isn't ROOM for it out here in the open? You can't fool me; I can see that that bed in the master bedroom is a double bed and not a queen-size. I know it makes the room look bigger, but I also know that I own a queen-size bed and that it has to fit here. I see that the brick patio is weed-free. Does that mean it's set in concrete, or (more likely) that someone has spent hours weeding and followed that up with a walloping dose of Round-Up? Here I am, creator of dream worlds, dragging agents, kicking and screaming, back to the ultra-real world of the potential purchaser. How far is it to the grocery store? And I don't mean from the edge of the development...I mean from MY front door. (Two blocks from the former; more like 5 from the latter.) I can't help noticing that the uber-efficient zone heating/cooling system looks a bit long in the tooth. How old is this unit?

And so it goes...the creation and destruction of real estate-selling myths. Our minds have to entertain and distinguish between several realities, and choose which to believe. I believe I will take a nap.

Selling the Dream

A good friend once said to me that when you sell a house, you are not selling reality, but a dream. The past two weeks have been no dream, but a nightmare instead. Fortunately, I don't have to sell those two weeks...only their end result.

I am afraid that my spouse and I would have been quite comfortable in the Victorian age. We instinctively clutter our habitat with whatever we are interested in at the time. Our house bulges with maps and books and wooden ware and Noah's arks and magazines and paper and dishes and candlesticks. Surfaces are littered with any and all of these, and boxes and bags bloom in stray corners. Laptops lie where they are most used; the afternoon mail occupies a corner of the dining room table. To eat dinner, I need to rearrange the piles of 'To Do" items that accumulate in the one place where we know they will be seen.

No more. Potential buyers apparently don't dream of our particular lifestyle, and so, for a while, we need to imitate the reality they (and we, were we to be honest) dream of. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Sleek bookcase shelves, with a smattering of books and room for well-placed objets d'art. A dining table, ready for setting. A kitchen where the maid (apparently) has just washed up and emptied the dishwasher, having stored all appliances in the ample cabinetry. A cozy fireplace, a reading nook, newspapers and magazines that miraculously disappear as soon as they are read, without spending a week or so in the limbo of an ugly recycling box parked in the hall. A cat curled on the windowsill who doesn't require unsightly kitty litter or scratching post. Man, if I could find a place like that, I'd buy it too.

And so, we have spent two weeks boxing up the books and the other excesses with which we've populated our life. We've moved furniture and doo-dads and pictures and papers until we are not sure we know where ANYTHING is. We've rearranged, reduced, and rethought every aspect of the house until it isn't really ours anymore. At times, it seems as if we have moved everything we own into storage: not an easy task. Our agent approves--up to a point. I think she would prefer that we move out bag and baggage, sleep on the floor in sleeping bags, and roll even those up each morning and put them in the car. We have taken firm stances on some things. No, I will not pack up my cookbooks in their entirety. No, we will not take off the top portion of the hutch in our entry. No, we will not empty the storage spaces in the house. But, for the most part, we oblige her in the interest of selling the place. After two intense weeks of preparation, it goes on the market tomorrow.

For sale: charming home in a secluded location in the heart of Old Town. Convenient to all, walking distance to shops, restaurants, trolley and Metro. Fireplace. Light and bright. Treehouse views from third floor, lovely walled garden. Dreamers wanted.

Sandwiches

It’s almost Mothers’ Day and I’m making sandwiches. Not for my family. I have long since graduated from the PB&J level of nightly lunch preparation. Today I am preparing 25 sandwiches for the homeless.

It started when I was still working, and hadn’t the time to do much in the way of volunteering at church. Helping with the congregation’s commitment to provide sandwiches for the homeless meant making 25 sandwiches once every couple of months, and making sure they reached the church’s refrigerator before 9:30 AM on the designated day. That was easy.

Today, though, it’s hard. With Mothers’ Day looming on the horizon, I am thinking, as I lay out 25 slices of bread on my counter, of the mothers who must have done this long ago for the same people. I am thinking of the mothers among them who performed this quotidian task—and now lack the wherewithal to do it for themselves. I am remembering the thousands of times I opened my lunchbox and groaned at my mother’s bologna –with- too- much- mayonnaise and her requisite piece of cake (whose icing always stuck to the wax paper) instead of the far more desirable Tasty-Kake I coveted. How many of the people eating my homely ham and cheese wish that it were something else, a remembered sandwich from their childhood? How many had no mom-packed lunches in their past? How many had no mom at all?

It isn’t a great act of charity, twenty-five ham and cheese sandwiches this week before Mothers’ Day. But as I slide them into individual plastic sandwich bags, I remember what it means to have a mom, what it means to BE a mom. I remember that I am one of the lucky ones—with a home and a family to care for. I am lucky enough to make a sandwich or two.

In honor of Poem in Your Pocket Day

Adverbial Ketchup


Assemble some words, all your favorite words,
your biggest and best, most delicious of words;
Grind them with verb sauce, and odd punctuation,
Pepper with rhyme (to suit the occasion)
Then, if you will, some adjective yeast,
To bubble and build to a metaphor feast:
Rising unchecked o’er the brim of your brain,
spilling, and spreading, again and again--
poetry dough to be punched, to be kneaded,
to be stretched, to be strained, to be coaxed, to be wheedled,
and shaped at long last into poetry stuff,
some rich with thought and some with pure fluff,
but poems in makeable, bakeable form,
wrenched from the oven-- and read while still warm.

Mary McElveen
April 2010

Purge!

When I was in college, I worked as a lab tech (at first summers, and then throughout the year) for a wonderful British professor of organic chemistry at the Johns Hopkins Med School. He was not only an excellent chemist, but a great teacher as well...subscribing to the Bear Bryant School of teaching: if it turns out well, then all credit goes to the player. If it turns out badly, it's the coach's fault. Anyway, C.H.Robinson was very generous with credit and quite sparing in his blame. And I deserved more of the latter than the former, I regret to say.

In any event, what brought Dr. Robinson to mind was one of his quirky habits: when the lab became too messy to deal with, he would barrel in the door one morning at full speed, announcing that we were having a PURGE. Glassware was washed and returned to cabinets, lab benches cleared, remains of old experiments poured down the drain. Forgotten tea mugs (and he had a quantity of those!) were located, drained, washed and bleached to pristine state. In short, the lab was restored to a state where things could be found, not only where they belonged, but in a usable state of cleanliness. Even lab coats were not spared. Concentrated, focused activity always produced the desired results. In retrospect, I think Robbie's 'purges' taught me more about doing science (and doing life) than any class I ever took. Mess around as much as you like with experiments, try new things, explore all the weird little corners of the subject, but when you come right down to needing an answer, FOCUS!!! And work your butt off.

The reason for this memory? We are having our own purge at our house. The top floor has reached maximum disorder, and chaos has started the trip down the stairs, invading the second floor--the landing first, then creeping into the bedroom and sitting area. The only thing standing between us and total disaster is one flight of stairs.

So we are setting ourselves the Sisyphean task of purging the third floor and all that has descended therefrom. The boxes are at the ready; the center of our storage space has been cleared; we have a surplus of black Hefty bags to load with discards. We have even sought out names of movers that will come to pack and load the detritus that we deem necessary for life as we know it, and transport it to storage. The first wave of labeled boxes has been moved today: a full jeep-load. This one is bound to take more than one day, but if we maintain our focus, and are willing to expend the requisite effort (and dollars), we should be able to transform our pig-sty selves into the clean and efficient household to which we aspire. Excelsior!

New Poet Laureate--Welcome, Amy Young!

As of April 13, Alexandria has a new poet laureate. Emerging from a field of six competitors, Amy Young was named as Alexandria's second laureate. I wish her all sorts of good luck, and know that she will enjoy her tenure as much as I did mine. Alexandria is so supportive of the arts, and over the past three years, I found that poetry is near and dear to the hearts of many of our citizens. One of the biggest pluses of this office is that you get to meet a great variety of people, in any number of situations...and all are interested in and curious about what a poet laureate does, and are extremely receptive to the idea of having what I often thought of as an ombudsman for the literary arts here in Alexandria.

Poetry Month

As a recently deposed poet laureate (my term expired March 1, and my successor has yet to be named) I am experiencing a weird sort of withdrawal. This is April! It's Poetry Month! But for the first time in three years, it's not my responsibility, and I'm wondering what to do. I still have a few gigs to attend in the last week of the month, but I am not scrabbling for venues, or looking for sponsors, or having meetings to decide exactly what is to be done to bring poetry to the city of Alexandria. It is strangely quiet around here.

Which probably means that I have the time to actually DO something this year, instead of thinking of ways to involve other people. I have pledged on a poetry website to write a poem a day this month. Since it is now 5:30 PM on the first day of the month, I have six and a half hours to do my first one. Not a good sign to break my pledge on the first day, despite the intervening dinner tasks and other items I've postponed till this evening. Hmm. Maybe I can do TWO tomorrow--it's a light day. Unfortunately, I can't just slip a quarter in the writing machine and have a poem pop out like a pack of gum. That in itself could be a poem. However, what has happened in the past three years is that I have all but abandoned my prose in favor of poems. No one asks me to read prose, and so I have needed to keep up a fresh supply of poetry for all occasions.

I have all but forgotten how to write sentences that don't break in the middle or lead to serious introspective conclusions. Perhaps I will turn that on its head and write comedy for the upcoming year. God knows I have enough material...But, for now, I am updating my blog--which constitutes the junk food of my writing menu. Do you want fries with that?

You never know...

I am a "You never know.." collector. That means that my house is packed with a variety of items that may someday come in handy. You never know when someone will call and ask if you know where they can find...a picture frame, a quick birthday gift, a certain color of ribbon..You never know when someone will ask you to put on a dinner for 50, or perhaps just table decor for that dinner. You never know when someone may ask for a notebook, a guest book, a gift wrapping, a card, a sign. I could provide any or all of these at the drop of a hat. Which is why my third floor, in the words of a likewise-oriented friend, has more levels than the Pentagon. This is why my daughters could 'shop' in my closet for anything from a shower gift to a birthday card, a picture frame to a printer cord. I collect things against those eventualities. This is why I have three hammers, a multitude of yardsticks, a drawer full of CD cases, an office-load of office supplies, and paper that, if reconstituted to its source, would probably be a giant redwood.

It says something about me, I suspect. It says that I enjoy being a go-to person; someone who knows how to do things, or how to get them done. It says I can make flowers bloom in the desert, if necessary, or produce something clever and creative out of (apparently) thin air. If you need something, I've got it. If I don't have it, I can craft a substitute. I am superwoman. I am prepared.

Perhaps this is what enables my lifestyle. I can afford to coast along on projects until the last minute, because I know I can always pull something out of my hat--or my desk drawer. There's always something to decorate with, or make something out of, or wrap prettily and carry along. Until now.

Today, I've begun the Great Disassembly of the Gift and Entertaining Factory. The boxes of silk flowers--gone. Baskets, likewise. I bet noone else has a box full (yes, FULL) of picture frames. Not old ones, not containing pictures, just NEW empty picture frames of multiple sizes and shapes, in case I need a quick gift. (Frame that poem or picture or recipe. Wrap it up.) How many colors of computer paper does the normal person have on hand. How many weights and textures and patterns? (Don't ask. I'll never tell.) Take a guess at how many boxes of Christmas decorations are required for a 2-person house? (You don't want to know.) Then try Easter, or Halloween, or Valentines Day...

The time has come. I am hopeful that I can find deserving recipients for my stash. A pre-school, perhaps. Or a day camp. The problem I face is parting with it all. After all, you never know....

Spring at last!

Spring at last! Spring at last! Great God Almighty, it's spring, at last! As I write this, I can look out my patio door and see daffodils blooming, lilacs budding, and my neighbor's Bradford pear showering the patio with white petals blown free by the wind last night. It is assuredly spring, though the temperatures aren't QUITE in tune with the scenery yet. I can deal with that.

It's been a long, cold, crazy winter and I'm looking forward to planting my assorted urns and pots and tiny flower bed with things colorful and interesting. (though, pessimist that I am, I will be waiting to do so till after the last frost date here...) I want to go back to the farmers' market and repopulate my herb garden with chives and thyme and basil and mint. I am anxious to rearrange furniture and toss out clutter and clear the decks for a less-encumbered summer existence. It's time for a clean slate, a new beginning, a new and improved me.

I might even diet and exercise.

Looking back...

Now that my three years in the role of poet laureate are coming to an end, I've looked back and tried to analyze the experience--both for my own benefit and for the sake of the program,. What might I have to say to my successor if he/she were to ask me about my lessons learned?

I think --in the most prosaic terms-- that you get out of the job what you put into it. From this end of the telescope, I can see that there were many instances where I could have done more, been more, reached out more. I tend to be more of an idea generator than an implementer. Hence, the Burns Dinner that never was, and the Poetry Month activities that could have been, but somehow, got lost in the shuffle. I have never been a long-range planner, and that, too, would have been a good idea. The program and its goals are better served by an action plan, rather than a hit-or-miss (ah, my style in spades!) series of activities.

However, given the nature of the post (essentially unpaid and without any historical precedent) it was difficult to know where to start and what to do. There was a limited amount of money available, but it was never really clear to me what I could use it for and how I would access it. It would have been useful to have a direct email account in the city system. Routing any messages from the public through a third party was not an efficient way to contact me or for me to send out messages. Knowing what I know now, I'd have opened a Facebook page for the poet laureate and cultivated fans. Or perhaps twittered. I'd have developed relationships with local newspapers to publicize not only poetry events, but the many poetry groups in the area. I'd have liked to have established some rewards for young poets. The League of American Penwomen sponsor an elementary school poet laureate program here. What about doing something for the high school poets? Or middle school poets? Even adult poets need love--and recognition.

Which brings me to the positive aspects of the role. I have found the poet laureate post to be a valuable--and unexpected--validation of my writing. I have had the opportunity in the past three years to not only write and read in public, but to talk about writing with a wide variety of people, ranging from recognized poets to people who think poetry is one of those lands populated solely by effete snobs. I have spoken to children, to teenagers, to adults, to senior citizens; I have written and read poetry with all kinds of groups, willing and unwilling (and that latter designation is NOT all schoolchildren!) I have talked about the importance of writing, and of writing poetry, in particular, to individuals at cocktail receptions, to friends and relations, to 6th graders, to the city council, to people who write, to people who Power-Point, to anyone who will stand and listen. I have had a platform to speak from, and it has been fun.

I have been challenged to do things I never expected to do. Writing poetry on demand for specific occasions is a task that presents its own set of difficulties. In doing so, I have learned much about the people, the places, the events that have occurred in Alexandria, and have gained a new appreciation of the city and its place in history. Furthermore, I've been given the opportunity to pass on what I've learned to others. In talking about Charles Houston, in explaining about the Freedmen's Cemetery, in noting the accomplishments of the women of Alexandria at the Salute to Women dinner, I hope that I've broadened the scope of the average citizen's knowledge of their city as I have broadened my own.

I am grateful to have had this wonderful experience, am grateful for the opportunities it afforded me to grow--as a writer, a poet, an Alexandrian. I am grateful for the connections I have made, the people I have met, and the events I have been part of. And finally, I am grateful that I live in a city that values the arts, that values literature and poetry, and is willing to step up and support them in concrete fashion. Thank you, Alexandria.

In praise of pockets...

I am not a purse person. I would far rather carry everything I need in my pockets, and did, for many years. I had a lovely little silver card case, just the right size for my jeans pocket, and it could hold (just barely) a drivers license, a credit card, and a twenty-dollar bill, which pretty much covered things as far as I was concerned. I have never been one of those people who carried tissues or makeup or any of the myriad items usually found in ladies' bags. I've always traveled light.

Looking through my current bag (and I spend a lot of time doing that nowadays, as I can never locate anything), I find a cell phone, a camera, a tin of hard candy, a checkbook, a wallet, three sets of keys (because I need them all at various times during the week and can't take the chance of not having them with me when I require them), two sealed teabags (because, god knows, someone has decreed that the only teas available in restaurants are Earl Grey and other perfumed varieties. I hate Earl Grey. And perfume.) Also in the mix is the latest book of Audrey photos, an assortment of notebooks and favorite pens because one never knows when inspiration will strike, and finally, two or three of those nylon bags for groceries that everyone wants us to use, but which I consistently leave in the car. I do sometimes carry lipstick and a comb..and now, bandaids-- as the least scratch (because of my Coumadin) bleeds so copiously that I have to have them handy. Occasionally, I'll have a flashlight, because our alley is pretty dark and hard to negotiate at night. And maybe an umbrella, if the weather warrants it. Beyond this, there is the normal detritus that accumulates, unbidden, throughout a day's errands: cash register receipts, appointment reminders, prescriptions, mail, to-do lists, ticket stubs, brochures, handouts from meetings, dribs and drabs of paper that I've scribbled reminders on.

Has my life become that much more complicated? Or do I simply have fewer pockets to accommodate all this STUFF? I think that both my purse and I should go on a diet. Bare necessities only. We'll both turn out somewhat lighter for the experience.

How much more?

I just reread my recent poetry output, preparatory to printing the newer stuff out and adding it to my book. (April is Poetry Month, and, believe it or not, I do get calls to read stuff at different venues.) In any case, I was rather disconcerted to find that I seem to have taken a darker turn recently. Almost everything I've turned out this winter (barring my Ode to Velveeta) has been pretty darned depressing.

Blame it on the weather, blame it on my health issues, blame it on my mother and her complaints...but it has been a bad winter all round. It's almost the first of March and I am still seeing piles of dirty snow on my patio and in the street. The alley bears the remnants of rock salt and ice melt; there are fallen branches (poor magnolias!) and ragged scars on so many trees that I wonder how misshapen they will be come spring. Even the river looks dirty and tired.

But, clearing up the fallen branches on the patio, I saw, peeking out from underneath the snow, a couple little inch-high spears of daffodil leaves. The lilac has what looks like a few leaf buds (I dare not hope for flowers...) Indoors, my scraggly-looking orchid from last spring somehow produced a flower stalk and still shows 5 or 6 blossoms. So this morning I walked down to Market Square, and while there are only a handful of hardy vendors, there was one who had pussy willows. I gathered some up and put them in a vase right inside the front door. There may be a threat of more snow this week--but those pussy willows are a promise.

(...and, in case you're interested, here's the last depressing poem of the season...)

Dark Angels

The reluctant river drags its heels
along its muddy bed,
turbid and brown-green
as the patchy ragged grass
and bony, lost-soul trees along its banks.
Above, dark angels spread their wings,
dirty –feathered, oppressive,
holding no promise of salvation,
inhabiting neither earth nor heaven:
perpetually suspended, as are we,
between winter’s dingy, sin-gray landscape
and lost paradisaic light.

Midwinter

The river is frozen and covered with snow. So am I. I sweep snow from my walk and chip ice from my windshield so that I may drive to places I’d rather not be. The sky is gray and threatening and so are all the unwilling drivers on the road. Chance of snow: 30% today. Chance of imminent blue funk: 100%.

What is it about this month? Is it delayed post-holiday letdown? The monster snowstorm? Or the knowledge that spring is still at least a month away? Perhaps it’s the dull depression of the monochrome landscape: sky, trees and river chalked in gray-brown boredom, with gray-brown snow mountains everywhere else. What the world needs is a spot of contrast, a little more red: a warm color.

When I worked, I left home in dawn’s first threads of light and returned in unraveling dusk. I lived a twilight life in winter—daylight being the exclusive benediction of the unemployed. I, on the other hand, paid taxes in sunlight, doling out the brightness of daytime, week after week, for the privilege of having a job. Some days the tariff was too high.

My world was circumscribed by the path from house to car to garage to office—and the circle was too small, too gray, and too coldly incestuous. In winter, I now move through my house, dodging the drafts, taking small comforts in my kitchen, baking what I should not eat and eating what I should not bake. I feel myself growing in apathy, age, and girth. I wallow in cups of tea and hot chocolate, and despair of summer’s return.

This is not an optimist’s month. It speaks in Eeyore tones, telling me that I am old and tired and incapable of pulling together all the loose ends of my life—at home and at work—and weaving them into some kind of meaningful whole. I contemplate my half-empty cup of tea, measure myself, and come up short.

The best thing to say about winter is… it’s almost over. Days are getting longer, albeit not noticeably. February brought Valentine’s Day, Presidents’ Day, a clutch of birthdays of friends and neighbors…February’s a short month, and March is on its heels.

Maybe, here comes the sun. You’re overdue, mister.

Snow Ugly!

Not a Poem

Not everything is a poem;

nor are all sights a picture.

When the blizzard came,

cameras blossomed everywhere,

recording intrepid journeys

to the mailbox, the sidewalk, the car..

immortalizing patio tables

in their fluffy white toques,

and trees and shrubs

bent and bowed under snowy burdens.

Not everything is a picture.

One arduous week later.

grimy mountains of ice

have erupted on streets,

on parking lots, on sidewalks.

Icicles dangle like Damocles’ sword,

ready to smite the unwary pedestrian.

And underfoot, snow angels and sleds

have given way to devilish commutes

and slippery side streets.

Not everything is a poem.

SnOMG

On January 16, I mentioned in this spot that January, the nadir of winter, was half gone. I was wrong. There is no low lower than February of 2010 in the Washington, DC area. We have been blasted, buffeted, blind-sided and battered by a series of storms that have made all past 'snow events' look like a chilly day in Miami. There is much to be grateful for...JC is at home, rather than somewhere on the road, as he has been in the past; we have plenty of supplies (I even had a 50-lb bag of ice-melt, which is, I might say, woefully inadequate); we are within trekking distance of a grocery store, a pharmacy, a bank, and even restaurants. We are hardly deprived.

But (and there is always a 'but') this winter has been wearying in the extreme. I've heard the jokes about what wimps we are here in DC (What is a foot of snow in Minneapolis? June) and watched TV weather people catalogue the many things that you should NEVER do in a snowstorm (like drive..) If this were a yearly process, I guess we'd be used to it and either deal with it or move south. But it's not.

This year has been historically the snowiest on record. We are not used to making our way each day across glaciers of refrozen pavement, or climbing mini-mountains of ice and snow simply to cross the street. I look out my window and see icicles that could impale a wildebeest if they fell, and all of a sudden, people have started talking about the imminent reality of roof collapse. I see gutters sagging or broken from local buildings, and yellow 'caution' tape strung across sidewalks. There are fallen wires, fallen tree limbs, ancient boxwoods bowed under towers of snow. The least errand becomes an exercise in logistics. Is a car required? Is there a place to park? Should I walk? Are the sidewalks cleared? How much can I safely carry and still keep an eye on my footing? How far, how cold, how slippery, how necessary? How long ago it seems when I could walk out the door, and with no further thought, jump into my car and run a morning's worth of errands on autopilot...

I am no longer amused. I am tired. I want my life back--the life before snow. Where I was ready to start an exercise program. Where I had control of my own little world. Where the sun shone, and the sky was blue, and the roads were clear. Spring is 36 days away. Have faith.

Extending...whatever you will...

On the night of the State of the Union address, I must admit, I was not at home listening to the talking heads of all political stripes prognosticating on what the president would say. I fear I agreed most with an early aside from an NPR commentator who said that this speech has largely turned into Kabuki theater. Applause analysis and the meaning of who jumps to their feet and when and why...well, I just fail to see the point. I can read the speech the next day; we pretty much knew what he was going to say: Times are bad. Suck it up. If it weren't for the pleasure of seeing and hearing an articulate president again, I'd skip the whole thing.

However, politics is not the tangent I wish to pursue--at least now. Instead of paying rapt attention to our TV screen, JC and I went to the opening reception for an exhibit at the Folger Library: Extending the Book. I was not overly excited by the prospect, but as with so many things that JC is interested in (there ARE exceptions, however), I was very glad that I went. The extension that the exhibit addressed was the pastime of essentially embellishing the content of books, adding information, illustrations, and sometimes, whole pamphlets relating to the text. It is, in a bizarre way, like adding footnotes to a text, though on a much larger scale. The additions put a personal spin on the book, much as handwritten notes in the margin would do.

Naturally, this "Graingerization" (named after the Mr. Grainger who popularized the activity) was particularly popular with the works of Shakespeare, incorporating portraits of actors and actresses, and even accounts and letters relating to parties given for them and for the productions they were engaged in. It was really quite fascinating to see the ephemera that people thought interesting enough to include in (and actually bind into) their books.

I couldn't help but imagine the results if the practice had continued to the present day. My organic chemistry text, laced with portraits of the dour chemists who had spent their youth perfecting reactions, perhaps a photo of the beach that I fantasized about in that class in the dead of winter..maybe even a few handwritten lab reports or notes of my own on the class...these would have been the stuff with which I Graingerized my text.

In fact, without knowing the name for it, I have a host of 'extended' books. I long ago made a point of annotating my collection of cookbooks with notes as to who had been served with what recipe, and many recipes bear my own opinions on the results I obtained.. some not so enthusiastic. I also have a habit of inserting various pieces of paper into the books at my favorite pages. I might find a birthday card I enjoyed, or a drawing or note from Kay or Sarah when they were small. There might be an envelope with a half-finished letter that takes me back to what was going on when I first essayed the recipe. More likely, the page has its own 'attachments'--spilled ingredients, teacup-sized rings, and wrinkled pages whose hard use indicates many preparations.

Upon further thought, I also remembered that I have a tendency to extend my own writing, even here--with photos, with illustrations, with different fonts that further contribute to the point, the mood, the information I'm attempting to convey.

In any case, the Folger exhibit is well worth a visit. It informs, it teaches, and even more importantly, it makes you think. A triple threat in this world of idiot TV and Kabuki politics.

Velveeta

This week, I was at a gathering of young women--and by 'young', I mean women who refuse to grow old, no matter what their ages, who are as sharp and current as this morning's newspaper (which they read) and are, to a woman, far more interesting to listen to than any commentator who appears on my television. In any case, we meet once a month for a bag lunch and conversation, for book and theater and film recommendations, and discussion of issues ranging from election results to global catastrophes. It is a great and worthy group, and I consider myself fortunate indeed to be included.

My sandwich yesterday was a purchased grilled cheese, as I was coming from an appointment and had just enough time to stop by a favorite cafe and pick it up. This sparked a discussion of the shop, grilled cheese, cheese in general, Philly cheesesteaks, favorite food sources, supermarkets and where the next Wegman's was to be built. But somewhere in the wide range of conversations that erupted, the subject of Velveeta arose, and with it, some confessions of the guilty pleasures of comfort foods we enjoyed as children.

It is a poor child indeed who has never enjoyed on a cold day the warm solace of a bowl of Campbell's tomato soup (preferably made with milk) and a crunchy, buttery, gooey grilled cheese sandwich on the side. (Potato chips and pickle are optional.) Most of my friends did not admit to purchasing Velveeta, but all remembered it and all the quick-fix recipes from the pre-gourmet era that included it in their list of ingredients. What easier sauce, what more adaptable product could one find, aside from cream of mushroom soup?

I cannot tell a lie. I am never without a package of Velveeta cheese slices in my refrigerator. They get rolled up like pinwheels in biscuit dough to top my tuna casserole; they are added to my scrambled eggs; they are mixed in (with a little milk) with vegetables for a quickie cheese sauce; they are there for quick cheeseburgers or chili cheese-dogs...and always, always, always for grilled cheese sandwiches. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Ode to Velveeta

O creamy wonder of the past!

Where have you gone?

Who will praise you in this brave new world

of natural, unadulterated products,

in this barren foodscape bereft of color,

preservative and additive?

Who has not luxuriated

in your gooey grilled cheese

with steaming tomato soup on a chilly day—

or longingly dreamed of mac and cheese

devoid of blue box and yellow powder?

You are the sine qua non of tuna melts,

the quintessential ingredient

in fine con quesos, and yet…

you stand without honor,

banished from the pantheon of comfort food.

O yellow box! O foil-wrapped brick!

Return once more to your rightful place

inside our refrigerator door…

Melt and pour in a golden stream,

gilding our pasta, Krafting our cheesesteaks,

oozing o’er hot dogs (with mustard and relish)

Spread your yellow cloak and offer disguise

to loathsome vegetables…

Children, young and old,

will bless you once again.

Here's Hoping...

It has been a hard winter, and according to the calendar, we're only a month into the season. I take heart in the fact that usually January is the nadir of the year--and that it is now half over. Easter is early this year, and, while that may not mean anything to the weather demons, it provides at least a breath of hope that spring will not be far behind. And I do hope.

Hope is something we need right now--a budding confidence that things will be different in the coming year. Resolutions always seem to me to be fraught with the possibility of failure, and personal failure, at that. Whereas hope seems to be a little more gentle, a bit more forgiving. I can work to make my hopes realities, but I can be content with small advances. Resolutions always seem to me to be all-or-nothing, labor-intensive propositions. It's easy to give up on resolutions, but much, much more difficult to give up hope. So, instead of New Year's resolutions this year, I propose a new tradition: hopes for spring.

This year, I hope for a better country.

• I hope for representation I can believe in, a government that believes in the power of its citizens, and citizens who believe in their government, and can accept that there will be no quick fixes for the problems that beset us. I hope for patience for us all.
• I hope for a kinder, gentler media to replace the attack dogs and scandal-scavengers we now employ.
• I hope for greater respect among our political office-holders-- for themselves, for each other, for their constituents.
• And I might as well hope, while I'm at it, for the same for everyone. When it comes right down to it, a little self-respect and respect for others would do a world of good nowadays.
• I hope for a return to some old values--not the George Bush version of 'family values' that translated to rabid conservatism, or (God forbid) the Sarah Palin crazy-quilt of sound bites that purported to express a value framework.
• What I hope for is much more simple: truth, integrity, kindness, tolerance, a work ethic that binds both employee and employer, a social conscience, loyalty, faith, responsibility...and once again, respect all round.

For myself,

• I hope for peace and good health and independence for all my family;
• I hope that we continue to have the support we all need from family and friends.
• I hope for wisdom to make good decisions, for the strength to follow through on my obligations, and for the humility to be grateful for the many gifts and blessings I enjoy.

Of course, all the other resolution-esque 'hopes' are there: losing weight, getting rid of clutter, more exercise, less Facebooking...but they may have already crossed the border into 'pipedreams'. Maybe what I've needed is a bigger canvas. Maybe what I've needed is hope.

Be careful what you wish for...

Perhaps it was only coincidence that yesterday morning, a truck appeared at the end of our alley and deposited a real live dumpster on the street. It is for the use of the renovation crew working on the house at the top of our alley, but it DID give me a turn....

New Year's Irresolution

Ah, the New Year! And instead of Christmas' "visions of sugarplums", I am dreaming of a dumpster. I have visions of JC and me tossing decades of unnecessary stuff out the windows of this house into the yawning maw of a deep green dumpster that someone will come and haul away. Life would be so much simpler; our house would have so much more room if we could only let go of all this STUFF.

The problem, I think, is not emotional attachment so much as it is financial memory. How can I simply throw away items that I paid good money for not so long ago. (BTW, what does the phrase 'good money' mean? If it was something I didn't need, wasn't that expenditure 'BAD money'???) I have an aversion to tossing things that I might have to buy again later. Or things that I might want to share with a friend or family member sometime--like audiobooks. Let's face it. I have an aversion to throwing almost anything away. I have to overcome it.

One of the best methods for divesting ourselves of stuff is to move to a new house. When faced with the prospect of paying someone to pack and transport things we haven't looked at in decades, it's a little easier to part with whatever it is. And after the fact, one can always shrug and say, "We must have lost it in the move.." and forget about it. But that solution is only a temporary one, and not exactly efficient, anyway.

The other factor in retaining our junk is the sheer physical effort of removing it. Working my way through closets and dresser drawers and shelves and cupboards..transferring stuff to bags or boxes and hauling them up and down stairs, to the car, to the trash, to the Salvation Army, to the recycling center...This is a mountainous task, and I feel as if I am required to move it, a teaspoonful at a time. There are far too many other interesting things to do than move mountains, particularly one that involves decision-making with every teaspoonful removed.

What we need is an arbitrary decision-maker: someone who will heartlessly label the junk for what it is, will call in their minions to jettison it in whatever direction is most appropriate, and will leave us with empty closets and cupboards and shelves....and relieved of the burden of unnecessary belongings.

I can dream.