Good Intentions, Resolutions, and Resignations: Part 1.

I know I'm supposed to be making resolutions on all the ways I can improve myself and the world around me, but..I don't usually carry through on those things anyway, so, this year, I have resolved to resolve (as in 'clear up') the remaining expectations I have of myself, at the ripe old age of 67.

I am never going to learn to ride a bike. I missed my window of opportunity due to a broken leg when I was 8. By the time it healed, I was too embarrassed to admit I'd never learned and it quickly became one of those 'someday' things that kept getting put off. I no longer bounce when I fall. Bike-riding is now off the table.

In the same vein, I am probably never going to regain my youthful level of fitness. I may exercise under duress, but I am never going to willingly run or lift weights or play sports. Goodbye golf clubs, tennis rackets, exercise mats...No, thank you.

I am never going to complete even a tenth of the projects I have materials for.  Somehow, over the years,  I have convinced myself that I will draw, paint, embroider, weave, quilt, collage, bookbind, print, construct, sew, compile, photograph, or learn about any number of things. I am an excellent salesman when it comes to this sort of thing. Either that, or I am an extremely gullible consumer of my own fantasies. I am officially giving up on almost all these vain pretensions. Materials go to UpCycle. Efforts go toward accomplishing a chosen few of these aspirations.

I am never going to use one hundredth of the recipes I have lovingly copied from, or dog-eared in, my vast collection of cookbooks. Nor will my clipping file ever be converted to neat index cards in my gorgeous wooden file box. I will accept the fact that I will continue to read cookbooks till the day I die, but, unless I am inspired to actually make the dish immediately, it ain't gonna happen. Cookbooks shall become recreational reading and I am not compelled to save and file anything.

I am never going to have an orderly collection of photos. The trunkload of family pictures, past vacations, and (regrettably) unidentified people and places will remain as they are: an occasional afternoon saunter down memory lane, with a desultory sorting into envelopes labeled with the approximate year and location. I would love to HAVE all these converted to a neat row of photo books on the shelf, but I don't want to organize the photos enough to actually MAKE them.

In short, I'm copping out on New Year's resolutions this year in favor of a good strong dose of reality. This list is barely a teaspoon from that bottle: there's plenty more where that came from. However, you will note that none of my resignations involve writing. That I shall continue to do...and herewith, another sample:

Good Intentions

I am surely on the road to hell;

I recognize the paving.

In fact, I think

I own the truck

and all the equipment

required to resurface

this slippery and sloping

path to perdition.

I’ve been at it for a long, long time:

books I meant to read,

diet resolutions,  junk removal,

aborted dinner parties,

the poems never submitted,

the classes that I failed to take ..

the multiple colors of my misled life

coalescing in one great mosaic of regret,

with a purposeful double line

leading to the flames.

What Remains

After the hoopla,

the cards, and the lists and the shopping,

the anguish

of choosing gifts for all and sundry;

after the baking and parties and eggnog,

the cookies and candy and

the well-documented visits to Santa;

after tree and lights and music,

the midnight magic of a semi-darkened church

with its candles and carols and greetings;

after the perfect storm of people, paper, tape and tags

that we call Christmas

is finally done…

When the last child falls asleep,

sticky-mouthed and cranky

from too much of everything;

when the last airport shuttle has departed,

and the final car abandons the driveway;

when the guest room is empty,

and the boxes crushed,

and the last strand of ribbon

trails out of the trashcan;

when the tree lies, dry and exhausted,

at the curb for pickup,

its ornaments boxed and stored;

when normal comes back from its Christmas vacation…

What remains

is the memory of  a baby

and the promise and the hope He brings.

What remains,

even when the world returns to black and white

from the red/green/sparkly snow-globe of December,

What remains,

like a warm, sweet treasure in our hearts,

even in the depths of disappointment, 

discouragement, and dreary day-to-day,

What remains is this truth, this wonder, this blessing::

He is here, and dwells among us.

A Poem for Christmas

I honestly cannot remember if I ever posted this, but this week, when I heard the Canadian prime minister speaking to the Syrian refugees who had arrived in Canada, his words struck a familiar chord, and I looked up my poem from last year. Here it is:

Poem for Christmas

I know the story bits:

no room at the inn,

a stable, wandering kings and

a star to follow; shepherds, lights

in a dark sky;

history and prophecy,

an evil king--

angels, sheep,

cows, and donkeys.

Then, camels!! And that star

converging on a nothing

town like Bethlehem....

This is a Radio City Music Hall

extravaganza, missing only cute puppies and kittens.

Stories! Signs! Wonders!

And the icing on the cake--a baby!

Whoever wrote this knew how to grab an audience.

Drama ensues.

But what’s really going on? Nothing.

No saving, no miracle,

no lesson, no evidence

that this is anything but an ordinary child.

(The halos were painted in later.)

The only voice we hear is the angel

(the Voice of God, perhaps?)

and he says, “Fear not.”

The age-old voice

of parent gentling a child:

don’t be afraid. I’m here.

I’ll protect you. Fear

not. I have happy news;

better than ice cream,

better than candy.

I’m here and you’re safe.

You’re with me, and you’re home.

God with us.

Glory be.

Saying Grace

Not one for public praying,

uncertain of my way

in the wilderness of custom,

I’d retreat to prayer by rote,

words unheard and unremarked

and almost unintelligible:

autonomic, without meaning:

triggered by expectant faces

ranged around a table,

food and flowers on the table,

china there, and silver,

linen cloths upon the table.

And an automatic prayer.

But my years of special moments,

of laughter, and of sorrow,

empty places at the table,

have taught me words that speak  

of what we feel, and hope, and long for

when we gather round a table:

the familiar warmth and comfort

of our friends around a table,

We smile and touch and hold tight

all those people round our table,                    

and share with them a gift,

a creator’s special blessing:

Grace.

A Life Worth Loving

An autumn day:

sky brilliant blue,  

yellow-orange-red leaves

crayon-bright among

the primary colors of my street.

I love this season;

I love my life, and that

is, indeed, the problem.

Not everyone has a life worth loving.

And sometimes, those who do,

lose it. 

What right do I have to sit

here in my sunbeamed house

and watch the light and shadows of my trees,

when half a world away,

someone else, who is not me,

watches windows drained

of color and life,

windows framed with fear   

grayed out with the absence of choice?

What God-whim chose

bombs and gunmen in Paris

and not here?

Why has it never been

my children in the line of fire?

I've sat in a theater;

I've walked down a street;

I've stopped for a drink with friends.

I survived.

Because I live where

those things never happen.

Except when they do.

At work, at countless schools,

at movie theaters.

Random bullets through windows.

Directed fire on campus.

Bombs in places unpredicted.

Unless everyone can live in that place

where these things don't happen,

unless the bombs and guns,

the insanity is stopped,

until the vengeful, bloody gods

that live in the horrific minds of men

are somehow satisfied,

or obliterated,

until respect for human life

becomes the norm for all.....

none of us can be sure of safety;

none of us can sleep in peace.

 

Why San Diego is Better than Alexandria (and vice versa)

As many of our friends and family know, we have been tossing around the idea of eventually moving to San Diego to live full-time, making occasional forays to the east coast: essentially reversing our polarities, so to speak. It's not an easy decision, despite our occasional certainties, which generally occur in the middle of the sauna that passes for a Virginia summer--or in mid- deep freeze, when we are inundated with the third major snowfall of the season. At those times, only total idiots would swear allegiance to the East.

For years, any move was forestalled by aging parents or existing jobs or other long-standing obligations. Either or both of us were embroiled in organizations or activities that we could not easily back out of. But now..retirement has freed us. Responsibilities are less immediate, and we have gradually disentangled ourselves from organizational hog-tying. Even the real estate market has calmed a bit. So, now what?

San Diego is a great place to live. The climate is outstanding, the current drought notwithstanding. With some exceptions, the temperatures are pleasant and the humidity negligible all year round. There is no snow. No more last-minute changes of plan due to weather emergencies. It's a beautiful place. Flowers, trees, the ocean and beaches are scenic wonders. Even our yard there is pretty scenic with its bougainvillea and its fountain. We have friends there; we like the library; we like the restaurants. We know our way around. It is--in its own way--home.

But, on the other coast (the other hand), Alexandria is home, too. There is no place prettier in the spring or fall, and the more unpleasant seasons are the price we pay. Watching the world come to life each spring is the reward for all that snow-shoveling. And never being here for the Scottish Walk? Inconceivable!

And there are all sorts of other things to do: theater (okay, SD has that too); proximity to NY (and no, Los Angeles is not in the same league); our docent standing at the Folger Shakespeare Library where we can each do a stand-up tour of any sort at the drop of a hat; our church (where we have friends who are family and more); actual family and non-church friends in fairly close proximity for all the holiday gatherings...Well, let's just say that Alexandria has its charms. While we can build new personae in SD, we are already established here.

And so we have made our home on the horns of this particular dilemma--temporarily. We have considered remaining bi-coastal, only with the emphasis on  the west: moving to that end and selling our current house here and establishing a pied-à-terre in Alexandria for extended visits in the spring or fall or holiday season. That would have us engaging in an extended course of fence-sitting, but there are worse fates. We could also throw up our hands, become California residents, and stay in hotels for any extended visits east. We could invest in prominent welcome mats for our eastern friends, to be installed  at all entrances of the California abode:

“Give me your tired, your poor, 
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, 
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. 
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: 
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

But no, I think that's been used already...

Dredging

I have finally come to terms with the fact that I will never complete all the projects I have materials for, read all the books on my Kindle or my shelves, or have a 'someday' when all the things I've saved will miraculously find a use. I have finally begun to see how crowded our bookshelves are, and how many chairs we have, and how few we actually need. Thank God we don't save newspapers and National Geographics, or we would probably be like those people you see on the evening news that have heart attacks and EMTs can't get to them because the paths between the stacks are too narrow. But I digress.

I am currently dredging the bottom layer of muck from each of the 3rd floor bedrooms, and am hoping to see floor by tomorrow evening. We have dumped three boxes of stuff at UpCycle*, rented a small storage space and bought shelves for same, and have been sorting through books, with an eye to which ones we could either do without entirely, or live without having them in our immediate vicinity. I see a visit to a Salvation Army or Goodwill shop in my future. I have several boxes and bags (anyone need a picture frame or 6?) ready to go.

The purported reason behind this is that our daughter and her family will be coming to stay a few days here--between Scotland and Tucson, just to reset their internal clocks from Dundee time to Eastern Daylight. They need places to sleep, preferably not covered with piles of books or linens or clothes ready to be discarded. The REAL reason for the clean-up, however, is that we simply need to pare things down. The time has come. The time is now.

Why is it so hard to get rid of things? I think I am genetically programmed to acquire, to collect, to save almost everything. There's an innate thriftiness that says I can't just GIVE AWAY something that I spent good money for, or something that might be worth something. And so I find myself looking for people and places who can use what I can't: the golf clubs that haven't breathed the air of a course in 10 years, the shoes that have sat on shelves in two different houses,  books that I want to read 'someday'...

The hope and consolation on the horizon that has spurred me into the world of discard has been the recent popularity of a little book by a Japanese lady that (in spite of her ridiculous admonitions to talk to your socks) has a saving grace. Her advice is to look at something and acknowledge how it gave you pleasure (or SOMETHING), say a brief 'thank you', and let it GO. Which makes sense. If the only purpose of that pair of shoes was to lift your spirits by the act of buying them...well, so be it. They served a purpose; they can be given away without guilt.

So, I am shouting huge 'thank you's to all my stuff--to the jackets I will never wear again, to the unread books, to the fabric and paper and pens and paints, to the great ideas I never realized, to the supplies I never used...thank you all for the anticipatory happiness you brought, and for the hope that I might, one day, have time to do creative things. And now....goodbye.

* UpCycle is a creative reuse center--sort of a combo of consignment shop/art store that carries all sorts of project 'fixings'. If you like to piddle around with stuff and make things, if Michael's is what I would call 'an occasion of sin' for you, you would love this place. And probably have stuff you could donate. Located at 1712 Mt. Vernon Ave. in Del Ray. Gray building, white trim. Enter on the side.

The Five Year Rule

People often used to ask us why we moved as frequently as we did. I've always been hard-pressed to come up with an answer, but I may finally have one. We have lived in our current house for a little over our usual five years. And the little things are beginning to grate on my psyche.

I've never been a big fan (stop laughing, JC) of the previous owners of this house. There have been several instances of 'Harry Homeowner' DIY repairs that defied explanation. We've taken care of them, calling in professionals who shake their heads and figure things out and do it right. I am always quick to tell them that WE did not engage in any of these do-it-yourself activities. Any call to these assorted professionals is usually preceded by a period of cursing on my part, directed for the most part at the previous owners, as well as at the home inspector who cheerfully overlooked the item before we signed the contract.

In any case, in the past two weeks we have experienced both an alarm system malfunction (now fixed) and a microwave meltdown (not literally: the control panel just decided to stop functioning, and decided to bemoan its condition at the top of its voice.) I am waiting for the next equipment failure to make itself known--that is the way of things when you live in a house too long. There are occasional repairs, sure...but when they start ganging up on you, it's time to move on.

Sometimes it is simply the aggregation of little irritations that make moving seem sensible. Our last house was just too small. Squeezing past each other in its postage-stamp kitchen for the thousandth time was just the final straw. Or, in the previous house, banging my head again in the low-ceilinged basement--or killing the umpteenth tennis-ball-sized cricket. Or opening the refrigerator door that blocked all transit through the kitchen. It is, above all, the little things.

Don't get me wrong. I love this house. As I've loved every other one we've lived in, in spite of the flaws, in spite of the repairs, in spite, even, of the bumped heads and critter control. I've come to terms with the fact that there will never be enough bookshelves, there will always be too much stuff, and repairmen will be required to infinity and beyond. It's just that I believe our tolerances change, and it takes about five years for that to become evident. Just as we get the externals under control--the patio, the paint, the pantry, the storage--a new problem presents itself and we're done. This time it may be the four floors and the effect of all those steps on our aging knees. This time, it might be having to empty the storage space to get at the electrical box. Or maybe...this time...the microwave.

Recipes I (still) Haven't Made

Okay. Those of you who want poems...not this time. I have been following a blog--a food blog--this week, ever since the title above showed up on Facebook. I thought it might be interesting to read what recipes have stymied even the semi-pro cooks who blog on food sites: sort of like finding out deep, dark secrets about famous chefs--like Julia Child hated cilantro (so there, all you nay-sayers who don't understand my aversion to the Ivory-soap herb!)

Well, I haven't read anything from anyone famous yet, but there are a lot of folks (fellow-readers) out there who balk at the same things I do. L-O-N-G recipes, for time and labor-intensive dishes (like cassoulet.) Itsy-bitsy quantities of odd ingredients. Things that just SOUND intimidating. Many of the recipes and procedures cited are on my own list: cassoulet (which has always been my Excelsior) among them. Roasting peppers. (I know it's easy, but they come in a jar, for heaven's sake, and nobody has ever shunned my antipasto salad because the peppers weren't roasted in my oven.) Ice cream. Perfect fried chicken.

I generally will try almost anything once--or even twice--and my results have been, shall we say, sometimes less than stellar. But that's the way you learn. I never would have known that I could roll a cake, cook a crepe, manage a souffle, or bake bread if I hadn't tried (and sometimes failed.) It's part of the sport. Imagine RGIII if he never got hit..(Ah, what a thought!) But it's mistakes that are the best  and best-remembered teachers. Not to mention the fact that they make great stories.

The other interesting thing is that many of the items on bloggers' lists include things that I scoff at: Never baked bread!? How absurd! Anybody can bake bread! Or maybe not. We tend to take our own abilities for granted. It's easy to magnify our shortcomings and minimize our talents...and to that I say,  not only "Guilty!" but also, "Stop it!" Do what you can do, and, like Jimmy Carter,  be grateful for it. Try some of the things you don't think you can do, and be grateful for that opportunity. Everybody seems to need to be first and fastest and best at everything. That's impossible. What the world needs right now is a little more gracious failure: more aspiring Indians than overbearing and unqualified chiefs.

So, yes, there is a long list of recipes I've still not made, things I've still not accomplished, places I've not seen, and experiences I've not had. I'll keep plugging along and doing as much as I can fit into this busy life--but, you know, I could be content with applauding people who've done the things I haven't, listening to their exploits, and being grateful for all the gifts that I HAVE been given.

York--Old York

At one point in this trip, I mentioned something I'd done in New York, and a granddaughter piped up and said, "...but this is OLD York..." And indeed, it was.

Old York is about as far as you can get from New York, I must admit. Both have rivers, but, given the choice, I'd rather walk along the Ouse (pronounced "ooze") than the Hudson. And while I haven't yet taken a walk along the Highline, I think walking along the old walls of this York is more conducive to the imagination.

Upon rendezvousing with Kay and Paul and the girls, our first jaunt was to Clifford's Tower, barely a five minute walk away from our hotel. I'm still not sure what its original purpose was, but it was up on a hill and had stairs to climb and a walkway around the top, and, above all, a gift shop to be explored. Just the antidote for a long train ride.

The next day, having picked up our rental car, we took off for Castle Howard--another Treasure House of Britain (of which Hatfield House had been one.) It proved relatively easy to find, and while I eschewed the house tour, the gardens were worth the price of admission. The roses, particularly, were fabulous, though we were told they were past their prime. All I know is that they perfumed the entire garden, and that I haven't had that experience in recent years. Have newer roses lost their scent? Or is it just me, the city-dweller, who has lost the experience of being in a rose garden?

The next day, we caught up with the Calverts, former neighbors who were in the York area visiting daughter Katie, son-in-law Rob, and their precious grandson. The kids ran around the Museum Garden--not too far from the York Minster, where we had toured and explored earlier in the day. Audrey was captivated by Monty--and vice versa. Claire meanwhile enjoyed the luxury of playing 'only grandchild' while her sister lavished her 'big sister' attention on someone else for a change. We had lunch at a cafe on the riverbank and caught up all round in one lovely afternoon. After our goodbyes, we took a cruise down the river and heard a bit of history before we left the boat not far from our hotel. I must admit, I was more enamored of the sit-down aspect of the tour than by the history and highlights of the Ouze River.

Somewhere in there, we also visited the Jorvik Viking Centre, remembered from our previous trip to York, when Kay and Sarah were much younger. The Disney-esque ride was still there (only instead of 'It's a Small World' playing incessantly, think Viking dirt and primitive trades and huts and market--sights and sounds and even smells provided for the full Viking village experience. The high point for the girls was the re-creation of an authentic Viking outhouse with a rather large Viking ensconced therein, creating some of the aforementioned smells.

Now, I'm not sure exactly when it was, but at one point Kay and I and the girls were walking back to the hotel and encountered one of the numerous ice cream trucks that populated the parks and riverbanks. In spite of Kay's warning, we got 'ice cream' for all. How bad could it be? It's ice cream, after all. No. It's not. It is a cold marshmallow fluff-type substance with a brown waxy stick embedded in its center. This thing is called chocolate flake. It's nasty. Beware these vendors.

On to Durham and Dundee...

We'd decided to stop at Durham on our way to Dundee, as JC had the need to see the cathedral there. So we booked an overnight stop, and visited the cathedral, which is indeed beautiful. More to come...

Herbs and gardens and castles, oh, my!

We've had more than a few visits to London, particularly in the past two years--and so, we have been knocking several items off our must-see lists. The only problem is that we keep accumulating more. This year, I began the garden tour at the Folger, and was introduced to the medicinal uses of plants and herbs in the Elizabethan garden. Naturally, I thought it would be a great idea to see some gardens on this trip--and so we did. However, one site that you don't really hear about unless you are googling things like 'medicinal herbs' is the St. Thomas Old Operating Theater Museum and Herb Garret.

We first visited Southwark Cathedral and were happy to note that there was a plaque dedicated to Wenceslaus Hollar--Folger moment!--who had drawn (from the bell tower of this cathedral) the map of London that we talk about on our building tours. We then had lunch at the Borough Market, which startled us by having an iced tea stand. (Iced tea is not easy to find in London...) We then found the museum in the shadow of The Shard. Climbing up to the attic garret via a spiraling set of tiny steps, we emerged into (what else?) a gift shop--and continued up another flight to the garret. If you wanted to motivate children to take their present-day fruit-flavored vitamins and medicines--and appreciate them--you need look no further than the Herb Garret. Chocolate worm cakes to get rid of intestinal worms, nasty-sounding syrups, and weird-looking plants make you glad not to have lived back then. Though not for children, the recipe for a delightful concoction called 'Snail Water' contained pounds of snails and earthworms, mushed up with spices and herbs like wormwood and juniper berries and stuff I didn't even recognize, and called for this mixture to be steeped in wine and water overnight before administering. I suspect that its curative powers were the same as my mother's home remedy for sore throats: my sore throat was IMMEDIATELY cured at the prospect of enduring her treatment. I am certain snail water brought about the same reaction.

Many pictures later, we descended from the garret, having also walked through the operating theater, which must have been a gruesome place when in use.

Our next venture was to Hatfield House. It seemed to be a short train ride away, and the guidebooks all said that the gates were directly opposite the Hatfield train station. What they didn't mention was that the train station was under construction, so there was none to approach about return trips. But the gate (unmarked) was across the road, and we arrived shortly before the house opened for the day.

Now, I don't know how the rest of the world approaches travel and sightseeing. I have a novel approach--not a NEW approach, but one based on my mental picture of places, based on novels that I've read. Somewhere in the distant past, I remember reading a book about the young Elizabeth, living at Hatfield House with her grumpy half-sister Mary; running through the gardens, and basically being a teen-ager with crushes on certain courtiers, antipathy toward authority figures, and affection for her seldom-seen father, the King. A romanticized version, but more palatable to a young reader than a strictly factual history lesson. My imagined scenario was crushed by the immediate statement that Elizabeth never lived in this house; that it was built after her death by the Cecil family. That's "SISS-el", if you please. So the staircases and halls and windows really didn't contain one iota of ghostly presence or a molecule of oxygen that Elizabeth breathed. Bummer.

But I'd reckoned without the gardens. They may not have been the same mazes and alleys and walled outdoor rooms that she actually walked--but they could have been. The hedges and plants and lawns and fountains, the statuary and the scent of roses all could make you believe she was just around the next corner, reading a book or writing a letter. Or daydreaming about being queen. Cool.

So. Hatfield House gardens--and really, the house itself--did not disappoint. Back to London, and eventually, on to York, where we climb walls, visit the Minster, discover Vikings, take a boat ride, and eat some of the worst ice cream ever. Next time.