Morning at the Meeting House

Today I am sweeping…

needles and berries and fragments of twigs 

left behind from my work.

Others have hung the roping

of fragrant pine

and set the candles in place.

They have placed the wreaths and ribbons,

wrapped the church entrance

in garlands of green,

positioned the tartan bow

on the lamp post.

Inside I gathered upright juniper

with pliant pine and cedar

into festive bouquets that guard the altar.

And now, alone, I sweep

holiday dust, the molecules of celebration

lost between the floorboards,

extending back for centuries.  

I sweep and trim and smile

as I imagine women have done

since this church began:

we set things right, tweak a bow,

fractionally turn a wreath or vase,

then step back (as we always do)

to see the church and judge it ready--

fresh and clean and candle-bright:

dressed for Christmas.

Search and Rescue

Yesterday, we went to an estate sale. I haven't decided whether I like doing this or not. I used to think of these things--like yard sales--as golden opportunities to get neat stuff at bargain prices. And they are. However, those bargains have another cost attached to them.

I can't help thinking about the people who owned these things. Maybe it's the reminder that, inevitably, I'll grow old(er) and someday, it might be MY stuff that the hordes are pawing through, and dismissing as junk. Maybe it will be my treasures that are being sold for pennies on the dollar. Whatever the cause, I find myself walking through other people's houses feeling sad, paying attention to the boxes of glassware, the closets full of sad sweaters, the linen closets packed with yellowed tablecloths and napkins. The dust and dirt in the corners, the neglected flower beds, the threadbare carpet continue the story of decline. How does one come to this state? Where are the children who should have found a cleaning lady, a yard man, a handyman to fix the sagging cabinets and wobbly bookcases? Are they the orchestrators--and beneficiaries--of the sale?

I hope not. It would be unfair that neglectful heirs would gain from this harsh and cold disposition of belongings. But then, here we are, pecking away like vultures at this carcass of a life: the books, the records, the old unidentified photos of mystery relatives, the unused gifts squirreled away in their original boxes...even the ornaments and trappings of Christmases past.

I know it's not reasonable, but I always feel that I should rescue something from these sales: some thing that might have had personal meaning, and might again. I've saved chairs at one house, china at another, a crocheted tablecloth, a footstool...hoping to capture and reignite some spark of identity, some remnant of happy times that lingers within. If nothing else, when I look at these pieces, I remember a house, a location, a circumstance. They become stories to be told to friends and family, and, as such, they live again.

Yesterday I bought a set of Shakespeare plays: miniature leather-bound books, 24 tiny books with gold-stamped covers--each one the size of my palm--arrayed in a battered wooden box, furred with mold. Five dollars well-spent for someone's priceless memories.

Lunching at Nordstrom's

I went to Nordstrom's for lunch yesterday--all by myself, on the return trip from my Folger Docent Training class. It was odd. I hardly ever go there unaccompanied. It's some sort of self-imposed rule that seems inviolable, but has no basis. In any event, I wanted a salad, and--in case you didn't know this--Nordstrom's Cafe has a whole menu of great salads, including my favorite: their Chinese Chicken Salad. (I have to say that my previous statement about the 'whole menu' is based on other opinions. I never get anything BUT the Chinese Chicken Salad.) And I had parked at Pentagon City and caught the Metro downtown, so I had to pass Nordstrom's anyway...

While I waited for my meal, I lost myself thinking about how many people I've met at Nordstrom's Cafes. These restaurants are my rock. No matter where you go, if there is a Nordstrom's, there's a Cafe--usually tucked away near the children's department, or by the china section, but always there. The menu is always the same (my Chinese Chicken Salad!) and I know the drill: order, pay, find a table, and wait for your food to appear. Even the clientele is pretty predictable: ladies pausing in their shopping, groups of office workers meeting for lunch, moms with strollers and/or toddlers. It's surprisingly quiet, it's seldom crowded inside, though there is occasionally a line at the entrance. Service is prompt, and there's always a piece of chocolate on the tip tray afterwards.

Over the years, I've met friends there; I've taken a break during my Christmas shopping blitzkriegs there; I've discussed issues, problems, decisions with any number of friends and relations. It's been the scene of reunions, casual meetings, and farewell luncheons. I can barely remember all of them.

Some lunches stand out. The friend who initially put me on to the place has moved away, but I think of her whenever I walk in the door. "You've never eaten at NORDSTROM'S??!!!" she asked incredulously when I mentioned I didn't know they had a restaurant in the store... Whenever I order my salad, I think of another friend. She urged me to try it (me! who barely tolerates lettuce in any form!) and I was won over immediately. She died several years back, but she lives in the Nordstrom's menu for me. The co-worker who surprised me when I took her there for a 'ladies' lunch' when she told me she'd always wanted to go there because the GUYS in her department always did.

My favorite story was another 'lunching alone' occasion. I had flown to Providence to meet my daughter's movers. She and her husband and their daughter were driving cross-country and the movers beat them to the east coast. I arrived at 2 PM the day after the movers had pulled in, landed at the airport, rented a car, picked up a key at the real estate office, tracked down and paid the housecleaner who had cleaned the place the week before, located and paid for a storage unit, contacted the movers, met them and transferred a portion of the van's contents to the storage unit, arranged to meet them at 8 am the next day at the house, had myself located and gone to the house and bought some basic supplies after finding the nearest Wal-Mart and supermarket. All this in a city I had never before visited. A city where streets are erratically plotted and often unmarked. In short, I had spent the entire afternoon going the wrong way, making u-turns, missing turns entirely and being frustrated beyond endurance. In unprecedented 90-degree heat. And with no AC at the house.

Finally, I was ready to find my B&B and collapse. I tried. I really did. But downtown Providence defeated me. I found myself on the road to Boston, made my thousandth u-turn of the day, and headed back toward downtown. I missed the turn onto the road I needed, and saw ahead, like a beacon in the distance, the sign for Providence Place--and the Nordstrom's logo. I took the exit, parked in a dark and confusing garage, and walked into the mall. I found Nordstrom's. I found the cafe. I found a table overlooking the state capitol building, and relaxed for what seemed to be the first time in a week. (Did I mention that the day before I'd left home, we had closed on a new house ourselves and had been packing for a week or two already?) I had the move-in the next day, unpacking galore ahead of me, and I still hadn't found my bed for the night, but for one brief dinner-hour, I was back to normal. It seems anticlimactic to add that, when I pulled out of the garage, there was, miraculously, a sign that pointed me toward the street where my B&B was. I arrived within minutes.

My port in a storm--Nordstrom's and the friends I've lunched with there. They go together.