Oh god! Science Fair!

Chestnut

We are collectors. Perhaps it’s the fact that we have more space; perhaps acquisitiveness is part of our personal DNA.  Or maybe we are just the slightest bit deranged about having things.  

Whatever the reason, in spite of the fact that the LAST thing we need is more stuff, we went to a craft fair on Friday and an antiques show on Saturday. Usually, JC and I part ways at these things, as our collections follow different paths. He looks for books and maps and Noah’s arks. I scan for cut glass and wooden ware.  Craft fairs are sometimes disappointing (no books, no glass) but are

fun to browse through. One never knows what people will bring to sell. (I once found a magnificent cathedral window quilt at a ridiculously low price at an antiquarian book sale… it pays to look, and to ask.)

In any case, I was looking for the wood craftsmen: the turned bowls, the handmade boxes, the scoops and ladles, the cutting boards—but I found a furniture maker. 

Now, I subscribe to the Jonathan Gash/ Lovejoy school of treasure. In Gash’s series of mystery novels, his hero, Lovejoy, is a divvy, which means that he has a unique gift. He can distinguish true antiques from reproductions or outright fakes, simply by his reaction to the object. The explanation he gives is that a true craftsman invests enough of himself in his work that the love of the maker lingers with his creation through the years, and is compounded by the love of its various caretakers. It is this emotional content that rings in his head and heart, and allows him to distinguish genuine from fake.

Wood strikes that kind of chord in me. Maybe it IS because of all the loving work that goes into making something from wood. Or maybe it’s just the texture and the grain, or the color or the polished surface. It speaks to me somehow.  I have a raft of bowls and vases and trays murmuring on my shelves at home. It is hard for me to resist a beautiful piece of wood.

And so, I stopped short in front of a desk.

Caramel-colored, simple in style; a couple drawers, a couple pigeonholes; beautiful grain, marked with tiny random holes.  When the chestnut blight killed the trees long ago, I was told, they were cut down and the wood was used as building material. This desk was wormy chestnut, the maker informed me, the piece built from chestnut boards he’d taken from old buildings and restored to life as furniture. The wood from the American chestnut tree has all but disappeared, except for this kind of reclamation.  Life, death, a period of structural limbo—and finally, a resurrection from the dead.  Literary connections popped into my head—“Under the spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands…”  “April in Paris; chestnuts in blossom..”  Literature. Music. A piece of American history. A parable of hope. What better inspiration could a writer ask?

I bought the desk.  It sits by my window with my notebooks and pens—a sort of tree heaven for the chestnut, I like to think, after all its travail—transformed by skill and love from forgotten wood to genuine art; speaking still, loud and clear--in a voice that perhaps only I can hear.

Room Mothers

I was waiting to start some laundry. The dryer was still spinning, so I couldn't transfer the wet stuff yet, but it wasn't worth going downstairs (my laundry is on the 4th floor, kitchen on the first) only to climb up again in ten minutes. So I was looking at the bookshelves. (Yes, we have bookshelves on every floor--doesn't everyone?) And I got sidetracked, which happens to me all too often.

Squeezed in between some art books and god-knows-what, I saw a spiral-bound book with a yellow cover. I pulled it out, knowing full well what it was: a cookbook, put together by the PTA of Terra Centre School, back in the 80s. I'd forgotten that I still owned a copy, and not too long ago, someone mentioned to me that that cookbook was one that they often used. Really????

I sat down in a nearby rocker (yes, we have them too) and started paging through. Apparently, I'd written an introduction for the book. Who knew? However, what was more interesting to me (even more than the recipes) were the names of the contributors and committee members.

These were people I saw every day, dropping kids off, picking them up, helping in the classrooms, doing all sorts of jobs for teachers, for the PTA, for the kids. We were room mothers, tutors, lunch moms, wrapping paper sale coordinators, substitute teachers, nurse's aides. Those were the days when I ran like hell from the minute I dropped the girls off until 2:30, when I collapsed on the sofa until they got home at 3. (I'm sure they believed I slept there all day…)

If I wasn't at school. If I wasn't baking cupcakes for some classroom event. (Am I the only room mother who always had two dozen cupcakes in the freezer, JUST IN CASE someone forgot to bring what they had promised?) If I wasn't in a meeting. If I wasn't typing the school newsletter. Or working with other room mothers to plan a class party, make little favors, figure out games, or organize class or school events like field day or Pioneer Day or the Greek Olympics.

And here they were, alive as ever in this cookbook. I doubt I'd recognize them or their children now. It's been over 30 years. Tamara and Hannah and Heather and Katie and Tim and Jeff and Brian and all the rest probably have their own kids now. Their moms are--I am sure--like me: graying and slowing down:  and playing with grandchildren. They are buying the wrapping paper, and the candy bars and the popcorn instead of organizing the sales;  applauding at field day and sitting in folding chairs instead of cross-legged on the grass. I would guess there are more nannies and fewer room mothers now, which is a sad fact, because I don't know who profited most from being room mothers--we helped the teachers and the kids, sure, but in the process, we helped each other. We learned from each other how to be moms, and our kids learned how to play and work together by watching us.

Being a stay-at-home mom is a tough job, despite what people might tell you. These people, I assure you, have never done the job they poke fun at and dismiss as boring. Thirty years after the fact, I wish I could go back and tell all these women how valuable their contributions were, and how much I learned from all of them. I was too busy, but I wish I'd done it then, when they (and I) needed it most.

But maybe we did exactly that by being there for each other. We affirmed each other with each class party, with each ice cream social, with each fundraiser. With that cookbook.

Thank you, ladies.

Chris Christie, Anthony Weiner, et al.

Apologies. We are taught from toddlerhood that the proper response when we offend someone is to apologize. Saying "I'm sorry"was the answer to almost any infraction: pushing, shoving, hair-pulling, biting, or just plain meanness. A few minutes in time-out, followed by an apology, and all was forgiven. Until the next time.

That works with toddlers. It might even work through the primary grades. But sooner or later, the world asks a little more: a little sincerity, a little remorse, a little responsibility--and maybe, more serious consequences than a minute or two in a corner; maybe, even an attempt at restitution, or at making things right. A little serious penance.

Somebody should tell this to politicians.

Recovery

The gay apparel that we donned for the Christmas season (read "ugly sweaters") are once again consigned to the depths of our closets. Fa-la-la-la-la! The round of parties and traverse afar, bearing gifts, has merrily tinkled to an end, like an off-key music box. The hugs, the kisses, the season of sharing colds and flu are done. The halls are un-decked, we have ceased a-wassailing, and our nights are truly moving toward being silent again. Heavenly peace, indeed!

Today is cold to the nth power. I'm not going outside at all today because the wind chill is in negative numbers and the temperature is lower than the age of most of the clothes in my closet. Perhaps I am getting old, and, like my mom in her later years, am far less tolerant of the cold. Or maybe I'm just enjoying the fact that I am no longer compelled by my employment to be at a specific place at a specific time. Whatever.   It's too damned cold out.

To add to the after-holiday cheer, I'm using this brief separation from the real world-- the freezing, polar vortex world outside-- to clear out multiple items that have been breeding in my storage spaces: the spawn of neglected plastic bins and Christmas wreaths, forgotten fall decorations and abandoned household tools. I'm still not sure that von Helmholtz was wrong. How else to explain the spontaneous generation of all this stuff? The weather somehow helps in the disposal effort; it is useful to possess a cold heart sometimes.

And, like it or not, this bitterly cold day gives me an excuse to pause between the gifts and their return, between Christmas cards and thank-you notes, between holiday excess and new year's resolution. Downton Abbey is back, and Sherlock is coming (back from the dead!) The movies released for the holidays are still out there, waiting for an unbooked evening (so rare in the past month.) Let's hear a truly joyous "Gloria in excelsis Deo!" I love Christmas and everything that goes with it--but I also appreciate the absence of decorations and boxes and holiday clutter as we move into January. Ah, inertia! Ah, normality!

I'm not so intolerant that I can't recognize that there are good aspects of winter. On a frigid day, there is nothing better than a bowl of hot soup (preferably tomato) and a grilled cheese sandwich--or, in the middle of the afternoon, a steaming cup of spiced tea. The word 'delicious' was no doubt coined by someone who hopped back under the covers after a brief foray into a cold bedroom of a morning. And a chair to snuggle into that manages to catch a stray sunbeam from the living room window?…well, ask my cat about that.

I'm looking forward to reading my new books, trying some new recipes, figuring out how my Roomba works,  seeing a few movies I've missed, and transporting all the excess stuff to the dump. But not today. Today has been christened  "Christmas Recovery Day." It's official.