February, 2019: Chicken Band

Yesterday, I bought a chicken band made of scrap metal: a guitar-player, a sax-player, and a fiddler. Lest you think I am nuts, yes. I am afraid I am. I am a sucker for the quirkier things in life, and--when possible--will bring them home and find places in my house for them. When I die, my daughters will have a veritable Museum of Quirky Stuff. I only hope it doesn't all wind up in a dumpster. It would be such a waste, and the world would be the poorer. I think.

There is an element of discovery involved in my acquisition of some of this stuff. Years ago, I was chaperoning a high school drama rehearsal with a like-minded friend of mine. We were dispatched to purchase some gaffers' tape, and drove cross-county to (apparently) the single source for it. On the way there, we passed a yard sale and caught a glimpse of what looked like a statue in the driveway. We both puzzled over it a while, and decided to stop on our return.

It was still there: a 7-foot tall fiberglass figure of a Coors Beerwolf, one hand raised in salute (tho it looked like he was being sworn in to office) and the other, crooked at the elbow in order to hold a six-pack of beer. Ann jumped out and spoke to the person in charge, "Hi! We're crazy. How much do you want for the Beerwolf?" After some serious discussion (in which the guy said he didn't want to sell him, but his wife had issued an ultimatum: the Beerwolf had to go, or she did), we agreed on a price and loaded him into my Jeep.

It was a hilarious trip home. We had to put down the back seat and slide the big guy into the back. His head rested on the console between the front seats, his ears resting on the dashboard. We were JUST able to shut the back lift gate on his feet. Any driver casually glancing over to our lane saw two women laughing uncontrollably, with a huge wolf-head between them. We decided that his first appearance would be at Ann's husband's birthday party--stationed on her porch with party hat and a bunch of balloons.

After that, Bob would live in my garage between engagements. Which came fast and furious. The high school all-night graduation party? Sure, we could dress him as a pirate. The high school musical? With a pink tutu, he could be part of the carnival for "Carousel". My brother-in-law's college fraternity annual reunion? Of course. He could even bring his own six-pack. At Christmas time, he came into our family room and was draped with a necklace of greens and lights. I didn't realize how much a part of the landscape he had become till a friend of my daughter's came in the back door with her and stopped dead at the sight of the beer wolf in the corner. Another teacher and I decided in the dead zone of winter that our principal needed a laugh, so (after she left for the day) we hauled Bob in and decorated her office to a fare-thee-well. We found out later that she walked into her office at 7 A.M. the next day for a meeting with some irate parents...whoops. (She did admit later that it WAS pretty funny..)

Of course, Halloween was made for Bob, and he managed to insinuate himself into almost every other occasion. When we moved to Alexandria, he moved with us, and took up residence behind the furnace in the basement. Unwary visitors who were sent to the basement refrigerator for drinks, or workmen who had repairs to perform in the area were startled by a quick glimpse of gleaming teeth and lolling tongue hovering above their heads--and their fears were dismissed cavalierly with an, "Oh, that's just Bob..."

Sadly, our move toward downsizing forced us to contemplate giving Bob up. I took a picture, and composed a flyer for the local coffee shop. On my way to post it, I encountered our carpenter. When I told him what I was doing, he stepped in and said he'd take him. So Bob moved on, currently (as far as I know) living, half-concealed in the shrubbery of Dan's backyard--and frightening people at parties. Carry on, Bob!

Sad to say (or maybe not) Bob is not the only bastion of weirdness we have attained. I have a collection of monsters that have infiltrated our lives. There's Sly Upcreet, the Monster Under the Bed; there's the Closet Beastie (who speaks for himself, and who I named 'Beasley'); Freda B. Fierce, a pink velvet vision (who looks like she might have some alligator in her pedigree) with baby-bead teeth and a pink suede tongue; Sophie, whose throat will store your pajamas; Dot, properly known as Dot.com, the computer companion; Princess, the cat, who is life-size and as immobile as any sleeping cat I've known; Coyote Sir, who I carried on the shuttle from NY to Washington because he could not fit in a bag; Winnie and Charmaine, who are the cutest of the lot--rather squirrel-like...all products of a warped, stuffed-monster-creating mind: Charlene Kinser. These guys are...alarming-looking, yet somehow endearing, creations. The real prize, however, is T.R. Bear (re-christened 'Carson' for his resemblance to the butler on Downton Abbey. ) Carson is a five-foot tall bear, rescued from anonymity in a consignment shop in La Mesa, California-- who currently resides in our guest room in San Diego. Sadly, Ms. Kinser has retired from the monster-making business, so there are no others forthcoming. No one will love these monsters as much as I do, I know. And somewhere down the line, my oh-so-practical daughters will decide that they have to go, so maybe I should think about distributing them before we reach that point, so that they will continue to be loved and treasured.

But for now, I am still keeping my eyes out for the unusual, the quirky, the stuff that makes me smile. After all, as I was once told, bad decisions make the best stories...

What Frightens Me

What Frightens Me

The dark.
My imagination fills a
darkened room with
scary possibilities:
monsters under the bed, a fire,
snakes, accidents, falling,
something I forgot to do--an important lapse,
losing my way, my wallet, my phone,
my health, my mind...
innumerable horrors that
people the dark with dread.

Narrow spaces.
The tunnel, where I am hemmed in,
or construction sites where I am
challenged to stay in lane,
and not crash wildly into tiled walls,
or concrete abutments.
Bridges, where the rails seem so fragile
between me and oblivion.
Escalators, where unheeding
mechanical stairs gnash their teeth,
anticipating a tasty, misplaced foot.


The future.
Or lack thereof.
Politicians and other crackpots
whose ignorant ambitions pave the way
to perdition.
Who pursue their own ends
without regard for environment,
economy, allies, or the well-being
of the people they purport to lead.
Who spit on the motto
E pluribus unum,
turning away the many
at the behest of the few,
splintering our one-ness
into irredeemable selfish shards.

Organization, Oh God, Organization!

Organization, Oh God, Organization

Right at the outset, I can tell you that I'm a big fan of organization. I love the feeling of being able to put my fingers on whatever I --or anyone else--wants, be it information, a lost object, or even an ingredient for a recipe. It's my superpower. And, as a mom, a wife, a teacher, a room mother, or just about anything else in my panoply of jobs, it is invaluable.

What they don't tell you when you sign on for this skill is that, instead of getting easier with practice, it gets harder. The volume of information increases exponentially, while memory capacity declines with each passing year. I am, to put it succinctly, losing it, just when I need it most. And when I say "when I need it most", I am speaking of the process of downsizing.

One ought to be able to express these things mathematically: number of years, size of house, number of storage spaces, number of people involved, acquisitiveness factors--all should fit into an equation that will quantify your level of 'stuff' organization with a nice, scientific, reliable number. I regret to say we are operating in the negative values, and have been for some time. The term 'absolute zero' comes to mind, which is about as low as low can go. It is the the point at which the fundamental particles of nature have minimal vibrational motion, retaining only quantum mechanical, zero-point energy-induced particle motion. In other words, everything stops. 

So, poised on the brink of paralysis, I am taking drastic measures. Drawing on my experience of teaching Franklin/Covey's What Matters Most, I have dragged out my planner and made three lists of goals: immediate, short-term, and long-term. "Immediate" is one step better than my weekly shopping list genetically crossed with my daily 'to-do' list. "Short Term" is stuff I need to do this month, like plan for our vacation with the grandkids, switch out winter clothes for summer clothes, take clothes to storage at the dry cleaners, plant stuff in my patio pots.  "Long-Term" is that mountain of tasks on the horizon that gets closer every day: replacing the car, installing a new fence on the patio, buying a new refrigerator in San Diego, getting the fireplace fixed... If you are unfamiliar with Franklin/Covey, you might need to know that their mantra is "Someday is not a day on the calendar." They espouse planning, above all. Putting small steps on your daily calendar that will lead to accomplishment of your goals. There will be lists; there will be check-offs. There will be progress, and that is what matters most.

In reality, to our credit, we've paid a visit to the storage space and hauled out two Subaru-loads of stuff, half of which went to the dump, the other half to a stack of boxes in the basement. We HAVE hit the DMV and acquired our REAL-IDs. We have taken winter clothes to the cleaners for storage. The trick is not to rest on those meager laurels; not to stop the process as soon as the lists are made, which is what I usually do. (I've WRITTEN about it; now, do I really have to DO it?)

Franklin/Covey's 'one step at a time' should take us from this overflowing house of collections (large and small) to a more streamlined life where I will once again know where things are. Marie Kondo will be our patron saint, and joy will be sparking all over the place, as our trash bins and donation buckets overflow, and our closets and bookshelves and dresser drawers empty.

Yeah. Right.