Blast from the Past

When you blog--even semi-regularly-- you find that almost anything that pops into your field of vision and hooks your attention for a bit ends up as an entry. I have been in San Diego for almost two weeks and have been luxuriating in the being and nothingness entailed by a prolonged stay far away from all my duties and responsibilities. I admit it. I am a shirker of the first order. Not very often, but now and then. And furthermore, I really enjoy it.

As part of my shirker schedule, I browse through antique (read "junk" ) shops, looking for the odd item that might grab me. Browsing in San Diego is harmless. Whatever you see has to be usable here, as shipping it back east presents the twofold problem of shipping expense and where to put it. Most of my browsing therefore does not result in purchases, but I enjoy looking.

This time, in a shop on Adams Avenue, I found a notebook labeled "Datebook 1906". It was the size of a paperback book, bound in brown cloth. I picked it up and started reading. It really wasn't much. The owner was obviously no writer. Most entries were short and dealt with lists of expenses for the day. That in itself was interesting, allowing me to compare 1906 prices with today's. A three pound 'heel roast' was 30 cents. Today, even if that meant the heel of a SHOE, it would cost more than that. I paged on, and found myself reading all the entries-- and finally decided to buy the notebook. A conversation piece, I thought. Leave it on my coffee table at home. It would fit in my tote bag.

It didn't take long to get absorbed into this woman's life. There was Roy, who must be her husband, who had chronic problems with his 'wheel'..which I suppose must be 1906-ese for 'bicycle', as my diarist mentions taking hers down to her parents' house along with Roy. Poor Roy gets stuck innumerable times, taking a car (streetcar?) and squandering ten cents a day whenever his wheel fails him. One can sense the head-shaking that goes on every time his wife writes down a new repair cost in her book for that incorrigible wheel. Occasionally, Roy will take it to Ansil (who apparently has a way with wheels) and will evade the cost of repairing the wheel for another day.

There is of course, Mamma and Pappa, who appear to host dinner all too often. Our dutiful diarist spends a lot of time at their house, shopping with Mamma, washing clothes at Mamma's, making curtains and hanging them with Mamma...how old IS this woman, anyway, and doesn't she have any friends?

Then, there is Harold, who may be a brother, but at least seems to be part of the Mamma/ Pappa cast of characters, along with Uncle and (infrequently) Auntie. Jennie and Byron offer some hope, as Dutiful Daughter occasionally goes for a walk with Jennie. There is also the list of visitors, who may (or may not) live in Los Angeles. (DD always reports on receiving the Inglewood News in the mail.) They pop up in the entries as arriving on the steamer or by train. People get sick, too, and no sooner has our friend recorded their fevers than she mentions the arrival of the doctor--who visits, then stops back the next day to check on his patient. (In case you had any suspicion that the timeframe might not be accurate...I think 1906 may have been the last time a city doctor made a house call.) On at least one occasion, someone dies. On another, Mamma is suffering from La Grippe, and dutiful daughter comes over and does her work. Other times, one of them stays the night with whoever is sick, fixing meals or just helping out. Sometimes, people spend the night for no apparent reason. Maybe they missed the last car home?

On happier days, the ladies call on other ladies, leaving their cards. They make blueprint postcards, which I think must be something like the blueprint pictures we did with our kids years ago--selectively exposing light-sensitive paper to the sun to get pictures. The ladies write letters and receive them and read them to each other. They buy material and make shirts for Roy (a black one. Is he an undertaker?) and aprons for him, as well. Mamma is making a white 'waist' and a skirt for dutiful daughter. They all go to church once or twice on Sundays, and there doesn't seem to be any devotion to a particular denomination. They go to hear the sermon or to hear someone sing or play. They go as a group to Mission Cliff (more on this later) of a Sunday afternoon on the car. And once, Roy rented a three-seated gig and they all drove out together.

The picture is of a slow-moving, but work-filled life: cooking, cleaning, doing laundry (or having someone in to do it at forty cents), visiting and returning visits, walking, and writing, and attending church, as well as some theatrical productions, club meetings, and excursions to parks, all facilitated by the streetcar system.

So, what does this say to me, here in my 21st century world, with TV and car and computer and modern appliances that can deal efficiently with all of the chores that Dutiful Daughter filled her life with? It really is interesting to think of this woman's life superimposed upon my familiar modern landscape. I can associate her comings and goings with actual locations. JC and I even visited the actual site of Mission Cliff--after googling it and reading an article on it in the San Diego Historical Society Journal. Here we are, more than a hundred years later, looking out at a view that DD might have seen herself (though blessedly free of freeways and shopping centers and housing developments. But, there is the stone wall they mentioned in the article, and a street sign marked "Mission Cliff Drive"...and the neon sign over Park Boulevard that labels the neighborhood as University Heights contains a street car image, and the support poles are surmounted by ostrich statues (there was a famous ostrich farm next to the park...) You'd think that  living in Alexandria would have brought this home to me long ago, but it didn't...until now. I'm looking at San Diego with new eyes, thanks to the nameless diarist I found. Maybe I will try and do the same in Alexandria.

Later note: Further reading of the notebook produced some interesting--and poignant--notes:


"April 18: I went over to Jennie's and while there Byron telephoned and told of the San Francisco Earthquake which happened early in the morning."


and another, written and dated some years later:


"Tuesday, 12th (of July) 1911: Harold LeVerne Calkins born. Lived one hour."


I even did some research on Ancestry.com to find out what I could about the diarist--her name, her fate; did she have any children after this lost baby? how old was she when she wrote this? was there a family somewhere who might be interested in this history? 


Her name was Ruby.

Past Tense?

Now that I am no longer Alexandria's Poet Laureate, when that topic comes up in conversation (and JC usually makes sure it does--I love him so) there's one question that always seems to arise. "Do you still write poetry?" The first time I was asked, I must have looked as flummoxed as I felt. Why, of course! Just because I am no longer paid my handsome honorarium (which amounted to about enough to have a hamburger each week) doesn't mean I don't see things and write about them. What an odd question!

But, as it surfaced time and time again, I became sadder and sadder. Apparently one is supposed to require payment--or at least some recognition or status--to do something, anything! I was a closet writer for over fifty years without any notice, without any pay. Most people never knew that I wrote sentences, much less poetry, for over 80% of my life. Then, by some inexplicable lightning strike, I suddenly was recognized as a writer, as someone with something worth saying. And then, my term ended. Does a candidate stop speaking when he's not elected? (We should be so lucky..) Does a reporter stop writing when he retires? Or a chef stop cooking when his restaurant closes? Granted, recognition is nice, but it usually doesn't last forever. Writing is like breathing, for those who do it. An autonomic response. Just as artists carry a sketch pad to catch on paper something that inspires them, so do writers scribble things down when a phrase or image strikes. It's a lifelong passion, a habit that doesn't quit.

Of course, I still write poetry. The audience may be smaller, but it's the one that counts most: me.

Big Brother

I had an issue with my debit card today, causing the bank to call me and suggest that I authorize them to cancel it and send me a new card. I of course agreed. But I stopped in at my bank to check on the bona fides of the caller, just to be safe. I'm not sure I feel safer, but I was reassured.

The teller at the local branch asked me to type in my social security number, and then, with a few keystrokes, proceeded to recount my activities from yesterday--from grocery shopping to the pharmacy, to Target--even to my parking meter in Arlington. Who knew that my debit card carried so much information? No wonder the first thing Gibbs does on NCIS is tell McGee to get phone and credit card information. It is a virtual diary--one that we are unaware that we are recording. Even I tend to forget where I've been in the course of a day, but my debit card is my own personal Boswell, faithfully following and recording my progress. I can only imagine the commentary of someone watching my activities. "Hmm..Safeway again? Didn't she just go there?" "A PARKING METER?? Does she not have a quarter?" Well, no I didn't at the time, and I truly regretted pulling out a debit card to spend a dollar so I could have lunch without fear of a ticket on my windshield. Had I covered dinner as well, the observer would have seen Taqueria Poblano, followed by The Dairy Godmother. All it would have lacked was the information on the flavor of the day (salt caramel, thank you very much.)

I guess what I am bemoaning is the fact that there is so much personal info floating around out there (she says as she updates her Facebook status) and the thought that my life can be reduced to purchases and services in an instant, given the right keys. I'd like to think I am more than the sum of my spending patterns, but in these days when demographics govern everything from TV schedules to advertising to political posturing, maybe that is more me than me. I spend, therefore I am. Food for thought...paid for with a debit card.

Gretel

One of my favorite poems is "Gretel" by..(I'll think of the name and edit it in) that explores Gretel's world after she and Hansel emerge victorious from the forest. As you remember, Gretel is the active agent in the demise of the witch and the freeing of her brother. Anyway, the line of the poem that always gets to me is "'Ever after' was the size of a kitchen.."

I think of that line often when I'm cooking dinner because sometimes, it does seem that that's the only important thing I do out of the day's activities. Sure, most of my errands are useful, but the world wouldn't come to an end if I didn't get to Target or the cleaners or the bank or the drugstore or the grocery. They hardly measure up to an 'ever after'.

From Martha in the New Testament on through 2000 years of pots and pans and utensils and inevitable, inescapable, relentless meals to prepare, 'ever after' has meant KP for most women. I'd hate to think that my happiness was defined by eternal meal preparation, however. There's so much more out there, and while some creativity is demanded (what's for dinner when you have tomatoes, onions and maybe a little cheese?) I am no culinary Michaelangelo or Shakespeare, worthy of commendation for the mundane stuff that issues from my kitchen most nights. "Ever after"? I think not.

So what do I pin my hopes of immortality on? What is it that I expect out of life, out of marriage, out of my personal fairy tale? Surely something better than Gretel's oaf of a husband. Surely a prince (whom I have, even though he might be in disguise). Surely some breath of wonder, of triumph, of larger-than-life experience. No matter what that is, there is definitely a page from Gretel's book that we all need to tear out and remember. There is no husband, no prince, no fleeting triumph out there that can give any of us what we want. It's a DIY world, ladies. We are responsible for making our own ever afters.

GRETEL

said she didn’t know anything about ovens

so the witch crawled in to show her

and Bam! Went the big door!

Then she strolled out to the shed where

her brother was fattening, knocked down

a wall and lifted him high in the air.

Not long after the adventure in the forest

Gretel married so she could live happily.

Her husband was soft as Hansel. Her

husband liked to eat. He liked to see

her in the oven with the pies and cakes.

Ever after was the size of a kitchen.

Gretel remembered when times were better.

She laughed out loud when the witch

popped like a weenie.

“Gretel! Stop fooling around and fix

my dinner.”

“There’s something wrong with this oven,”

she says, her eyes bright as treasure.

“Can you come here a minute?”

--Ronald Koertge

Woodlea

Here's to nostalgia..Today, en route to my mom's cardiologist appointment, we stopped for lunch at a little cafe in Bel Air. We've been there many times before, but this time, I took a seat looking out toward the rest of the shopping center, and saw...Woodlea Bakery. Now, if you grew up in Gardenville --or anywhere near Belair Road--in Baltimore, or went to St. Anthony of Padua School, you'd know the Woodlea Bakery. That was where you went after church on Sunday to buy a bag of doughnuts, or rolls to have with breakfast, or a cheesecake..or just about any baked goods that your mom didn't make. Forget this business of buying birthday cakes at the supermarket. Back then, it came from Woodlea's.

Beyond that, I went to school with one of the Hergenroeders--the family who owned the bakery. Almost everybody could say that because there were lots of Hergenroeders, and they lived in an apartment above the bakery. This was all rather exotic for me, as almost everyone I knew lived in a house with a yard and a sidewalk; certainly not above a shop.

But back to the important stuff. Seeing the sign, I asked my mom (who is not very dependable for information nowadays) if that was the same as the Woodlea Bakery I knew . When she claimed ignorance, I said I would just stop there after lunch if there was time and ask. Which I did, although it was unnecessary. When I stepped through the door and looked at the glass cases inside, I knew.

There were the doughnuts, the cakes, the lemon bars, the cookies...all the things I remembered and hadn't seen in forty years. I lapsed back into bakery nirvana, which generally means that I buy more than anyone could possibly eat while fresh. Cheesecake unlike the current two-inch-thick commercial versions with fruit toppings.. Woodlea's take has always had a bread-like crust, a layer of filling, and comes sprinkled with cinnamon. Doughnuts, marshmallow doughnuts. They were always my favorite--almost pure sugar. Honey-dips--now known as plain glazed doughnuts. Fat in its larval form. Bread and rolls and cakes of all sorts, looking just as they did when I could barely see into the glass cases.

I exercised great self-control. The visual was enough, really. I did get a bag of doughnuts for old times' sake, however. Two of the half-dozen were marshmallow.

Decisions, Decisions

I make a lot of decisions--of varying degrees of importance. It requires a certain amount of energy to decide how to order my day, to line up my agenda, to keep track of where I'm supposed to be and when. I have to decide every day what's for dinner and how long it will take to prepare, and whether I have all the ingredients necessary to do so. Not momentous fare, I'll grant you, but coupled with the bigger life decisions we all make every day, every week, every year, it's enough. And that's my problem: decisions.

What good is a blog if you can't use it to exercise your pet peeves? Right. I went shopping today for staples--you know? Those things that are far cheaper at a big box store than at your local supermarket; things you don't buy that often, but have to have on hand: paper towels, toilet paper, soap, laundry detergent...that sort of stuff. Perhaps you see my gripe coming...

I am tired of spending 10-15 minutes in the paper goods aisle, trying to calculate the best deal in paper towels and/or toilet paper. It is impossible. I am not even a math-phobe. I actually like math, and enjoy challenging myself on mental calculations of price per ounce or cost per sheet. Weird, I know--and supermarkets have taken a lot of the fun out of it by doing the math for you and recording the unit price. However, even these unit price stickers fail utterly when it comes to toilet paper. No two packages are alike, and therefore, you can't compare them. Ultra-soft, Ultra-Strong, Huge rolls, Mega rolls, Single rolls, Double rolls, Triple rolls: 8 rolls equivalent to 16 rolls, 5 rolls equivalent to 15 rolls. Or so they say. Then when you factor in the fact that at least one of the packages is on sale, and the unit price stickers are applied randomly to shelves with no regard for what is actually ON the shelf--you have a recipe for total mathematical meltdown, right there in the Target aisle. It isn't pretty.

Paper towels are no better. Single strength, double-strength, select-a-size, single rolls, double rolls, quilted vs. non-quilted, printed vs. white, recycled vs. regular. And then, the various brands vs. the generic models. There is no hope of figuring out the best buy in this case.

I'd like to say that these are the only situations that baffle me, but I am overwhelmed by choices in the supermarket as often as in the Target aisle. It's not even the esoteric items that bother me: it's the everyday stuff. Bread. Milk. Orange juice. Canned tomatoes. WATER!!! All in infinite variety. Literally. I have seriously considered mapping out the dairy case: Fat-free, skim, reduced fat, low fat, whole, soy...and that's before you even think about the size of the container. Orange juice? It should just be orange juice, but no. We have to decide the level of pulp we want and what additives we want--calcium, perhaps? extra vitamin D? Bread comes in wheat, honey wheat, white, white whole wheat, not to mention the rye and pumpernickle options. And what ever happened to canned tomatoes? Now we have whole, diced, diced with onion, petite diced, Mexican style, Italian style, packed in juice, large, small, Roma, with chiles or without. Even water, for heaven's sake, comes with or without flavors, vitamins, or carbonation, with a pop-up or screw-down top, and from a variety of springs, mountain streams or filters.

I am all in favor of open markets and competition. I know it's good for business to build better mousetraps and to seek out and cater to new markets. But when carried to this extreme, product proliferation is driving me back to the time when I bought solely by brand name, and usually the brand name that I saw in my mother's pantry. Vermont Maid syrup, McCormick's teabags, Minute Maid orange juice, Quaker Oats. Distrustful of the myriad of products, I retreat toward the tried-and-true basic versions of the familiar. There's a reason I only buy Pepperidge Farm white sandwich bread. It's one less conscious decision I have to make.

Winter Doldrums

Can I blame the weather for the fact that I've not posted anything since....well, since longer ago than I can remember quickly? There comes a time in the year when everything is old and tired and boring--including me. January seems to be that time for me: the post-Christmas letdown, the re-packing of all the stuff that comes out for the holidays, the search for the everyday stuff that I had to put away...After a while, you get the feeling no one would notice anyway if you left a few things out all year. (Come to think of it, the Nativity set that I was keeping out till after Epiphany is still on the shelf for Lent. Yikes!)

Anyway, three weeks in San Diego cured at least a portion of my January ennui--or at least pushed it farther back in my mind. It's now March, which is only a hop, skip and a jump till spring.