Old?

I'm not old. At least I don't think I am. I have 63 years of experience with this world, and I like to think I've made the best of them. I am technologically literate, if not on the cutting edge. I facebook, tweet, blog and pin, with varying degrees of regularity. I don't really check in from everywhere I go, but at least I understand what's happening when someone else does. I have a laptop, a Kindle, an iPhone an iPad and an eBay account. I shop online.

So it comes as a bit of a surprise to me that--even though I am not old--many of my things are. Someone complimented me on a favorite red wool scarf I happened to be wearing last week, and I quickly gave credit to the lovely person who selected it with her customary good taste--and had given it to me. My daughter's second-grade teacher. Hmm. That brings it in as approximately 28 years old..pretty old for an article of clothing, even when well-taken-care-of.

This week, I ventured forth to buy my mom a bedspread that she claimed she needed, and was appalled at the prices for a twin bedspread. This could be because I don't think I've bought a bedspread since I started grad school and was furnishing my apartment. We were given two lovely Bates Queen Elizabeth bedspreads as wedding presents--38 years ago--and they still cover the two queen-size beds we have in our house and look fine. Even the house in San Diego has its share of Bates bedspreads: when JC's mother died, there were two that ultimately found their way west, and God alone knows how old THEY were. But they serve their purpose in the master and guest bedrooms in California.

The more I look, the more I see. The mixing bowl set that I received as a shower gift is now collectible as 'vintage Pyrex'. I have some pots and pans and utensils that pre-date our grown children, if not our marriage. There are books from college and even high school that still grace our shelves.  The typewriter that saw me through elementary school, high school, college and grad school still sits on a desk in my bedroom. And I'd venture to say there are items in boxes under the eaves of our house that go back pretty far. (Who am I kidding? Jimmy Hoffa is probably back there...) I have crossed over the line from 'up-to-date' to 'vintage' and 'antique.' When I break one of my everyday dishes, I have to look in thrift shops and antique stores for replacements. They just don't make them anymore.

Well, okay. I can deal with that. I might even like the fact that I am a little bit 'vintage' myself, a little 'collectable' in my own right. The words imply a level of uniqueness, of being special, of having an unsuspected worth. I like the idea that, if someone looks closely, I might have more to offer that I do at first glance, that I have survived the years intact, and that all my bumps and bruises have simply added to my value. Antique. I like it.

Words, It's Only Words...

All right. I admit it. I am a word nerd. I can spend as much time selecting fonts and arranging words on the paper as I do writing the poem. Should I use script, or a jagged font, or a nice traditional look? It generally depends on the feel of the piece. Of course, I revert back to the accepted looks whenever I submit for publication, but I feel as if the appearance of the words accentuates what I'm saying.

Therefore, it comes as no surprise, I think, that my daughter gave me for Christmas a book called "Just My Type". I had seen a review, but hadn't mentioned it to anyone. Sarah, however, knows me too well and slid it under the Christmas tree.

I finally got around to starting the book this week, and it is crammed with all sorts of esoteric information about type and the people (men and women) who design or designed it. Stretching back as far as Gutenberg, and as far forward as today, the stories abound. There's the type designer who picks out anachronistic type styles in the movies that he goes to; there's the guy who, to protect the typeface he designed from being used inappropriately by his partner after his death, painstakingly removed every piece, literally bit by bit, as type is notoriously heavy, and dumped it in the Thames, to be lost forever. You have to picture this guy, in his late 70s, hauling packages of type, wrapped in paper and tied with string, and surreptitiously pitching them off bridges in the dark of night. Then there's the guy who decided to see what it would be like to experience a day without Helvetica, rejecting transportation, advertising, television, stores, clothes, food items--anything that bore that typeface.

But, over and above the strange goings-on among type designers, there is the information: where did the ubiquitous typeface in European airports come from? I never thought about the signage on our highways and how fonts contribute to the smooth flow of traffic. I never considered the value of labels in marketing products, or creating an atmosphere. In fact, I am the classic consumer. According to the experts, type should be like a crystal glass--what you should see is the content, not the vehicle that brings it to you. The ultimate success for a type design is that it disappears. At least until someone draws your attention to it.

And this book does just that. It causes you to look around and notice the printed items you encounter every day. Is that Helvetica on that sign? Or is that shop using Caslon? And why did they choose that particular style? It opens up a whole new world, whose existence I never suspected.

You may have noticed that this piece is written in one of my old traditional fonts. I guess I'm waiting till I finish my book to decide which font is me. Stay tuned.

I'm Not Writing...

 I'm Not Writing

It is January again, and if I ever tested my own hypothesis, I would find, I'm sure, that my productivity graph (writing-wise) reaches its nadir  at this time each year.  Perhaps it is the task of writing the inescapable Christmas letter that looms over the entire months of November and December. Or the Advent Devotional that does the same thing for October and November. Perhaps it is all the communication  that accompanies the season: eggnog parties and cookie parties and tree-trimming parties and New Year's get-togethers and all the other events and occurrences that involve being generally pleasant to all and sundry. Or maybe I am just naturally curmudgeonly at this time of year.  

Whatever the reason, in January, I am like the Jason Robards character in "A Thousand Clowns" (a movie that I love, to this day..) who emerges from his house in the final scene and says, sadly, "Campers, I have nothing more to say." One can only talk and be worth listening to for so long.  I've run out of pleasantries, information, witty remarks, and, even worse, ideas. The January well is dry.

The good news (for me, at least) is that this vocal and written paralysis always seems to run its course and be gone in about a month. This year, I am taking advantage of the cordial separation of me and my writing muse to tackle some of the more physical tasks that require more brawn than brain, more action than discussion, more motivation than actual work. 

So, on the agenda for this month are a number of tasks I've managed to postpone for far too long--the things that have been lurking in the back of my brain and have gotten so comfortable there that it's difficult to drag them to the fore:

• My typewriter. While I don't use it much anymore, it was my constant companion through high school and college and graduate school. It deserves a better retirement than I've given it. It is, after all, a vintage 1930s Royal portable. My grandmother gave it to me when I was a kid because it had been my uncle's, after whom I was named. When we moved, I took it out of storage and deposited it on a desk in the new house, promising myself I'd find someone who could restore it and at least give it a new ribbon.  Then I promptly pushed the idea to my mental back room, where it has been smirking and lolling about for over a year. (This week, I drove to Silver Spring and dropped the typewriter for cleaning and service at Kensington Business Machines.)

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• Claire's sock monkey: Okay, she's only six months old, but I bought the socks, the stuffing, and located my needle and thread. Then I decided that it would be much more resistant to wear and tear if I reinforced seams with a sewing machine. I had no sewing machine. Claire's monkey joined the other good intentions, smirking and lolling.  (I found an inexpensive sewing machine this week. It is threaded and bobbin-ed and ready to go. No more monkeying around.)

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• My printer. When we set up our computers and the wireless network in this house, I was told it would be easy to set up our printer as a wireless printer, so that I didn't have to carry my laptop over and perch on the chair next to it and plug in the cable every time I wanted to print. Well, I've been perching and plugging for over a year now. It's about time I do something about adding the printer to our network. The problem is that it requires the disk for our printer, which has disappeared to some physical no-man's-land where it, too, has decided to live, making snarky remarks at my expense. It made an appearance when I was clearing stuff out for the holidays, but I did not seize it and lock it away. Next on my list: fix the printer. Even if I have to pay a geek-for-hire in to do it .

The list goes on, as you might expect. I have a bathroom I've wanted to paint since we moved, but was always missing some critical item necessary for doing so. I have a great idea for something to hang on the wall after the painting's done, so maybe I will now force myself to do all the preliminary stuff and then actually apply paint to the walls. In any case, there are far more items to accomplish than I can possibly handle this month, or even in the next several months. What I need to do is to extend my procrastination rehabilitation program (PRP, anyone?) indefinitely into 2012. JC tells me I don't need a PRP so much as I need a PAK--a professional ass-kicker. I fear he's right. Maybe I can figure out a way to combine it with my so-called writing life. We shall see.

But, for the moment, I have a few accomplishments to point out for my dry January. If there is a moral here (and I'm not sure there is) it would be that there's always an alternative that will present itself. Or maybe the lesson is that if you leave something long enough, sooner or later, you'll get it done. Or what goes around, comes around. I don't know. Pick your platitude. I don't have to conclude anything. I'm not writing this month.

Post-Christmas

I have never been much of a 'leave-the-tree-up-till-Valentine's-Day' kind of person. Perhaps it is the fact that, for nearly 30 years, we gave a big Christmas party the second Saturday in December--which meant that the tree went up almost immediately after Thanksgiving. By Christmas, we were being stabbed by dried-out needles and had to put ourselves on fire-watch because of the pile of tinder we had stacked our presents under.

In any case, we are usually the first in the neighborhood to drag our tree to the curb, and by New Year's, our house has usually lost all vestiges of holiday decoration. The cookies and candy sometimes linger into the new year, but even they are looking pretty sad. Which puts me today firmly in the box-it-up-and store-it, or clear-it-out mode.

This year, I even added to the tradition by setting myself the Herculean task (and I'm talking Augean stables here) of clearing out the refrigerator. Who knew how many pots and jars of weird ingredients lived there? Salad dressings, dabs of jams and jellies too small for any use, orange marmalade, hoisin sauce..tortillas that predate the cliff dwellings out west. Why do I have 4 packages of bacon--two open and half empty, and two apparently awaiting some bacon orgy of the future? Capers and olives and relishes, cheeses and chili sauce, horseradish of a strange hue, and toothpaste-tubes of basil and garlic and tomato paste. I think it is time for a New Year's resolution to cook more simply, without all these bells and whistles. Time to start from scratch (and I'm not saying this just because a few of these items had expiration dates back in 2010...well, maybe), to move on to my pantry, and maybe even my freezer. I may end up finding the lost city of Cibola there, frozen eternally behind the chopped broccoli. Calling Indiana Jones!

Some people find it sad to put Christmas away for the year, but I see it as a breath of fresh air. Here's my new beginning, my new year...one where I will fix what's wrong and capitalize on what's right in my world. Starting with the refrigerator.

Pre-Christmas

Here I am, at the kitchen counter, before the day's customary chaos sets in. I know I should be making my lists and checking them twice...but I do enjoy having a few minutes of my own, unencumbered by the need for groceries or laundry or de-cluttering or last-minute shopping. Somehow, it will all get done in time--though I might have to shave a few frills and furbelows from my expectations.

On the plus side, JC has somehow found a radio station playing Christmas music that I like, and locked into it on my car radio. This means that I have heard my favorite song not once, but three times in the past two days. (For those of you who might care, it is the Bing Crosby/David Bowie duet of Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth. A totally unlikely combination, both of music and artists, traceable to a bizarre match-up in a Christmas special years ago. Played very infrequently, but I love it.) Additionally, I have baked SOME cookies, even though they are mostly gone already. I have wrapped some presents, and I think most of the ones I have ordered have arrived in a timely fashion. At least the major ones. I have a plentiful supply of tape, paper, and ribbon, though I do need to stock up on batteries this year. Most importantly, if we are thinking positively, I am more or less past the bronchitis that has plagued me since Thanksgiving. There are still a few coughs exploding now and then, but I no longer frighten people in the street. (You know you've been bad when the UPS lady says that you sound better...)

There is no snow in the forecast, and Kay and Paul and the little girls are due tomorrow, whenever they manage to struggle through the traffic and the trip from Rhode Island. The tree and decorations are in place, there is one more Noonday Noel concert today that I have promised to bring food for, I've sent off the January update for the Folger docents for JC, had my lab work done for the month, and am more or less caught up on laundry. Our house (to quote from a recent NCIS episode) still looks like we just finished taping an episode of "Hoarders"--but I can fix that in one of those gaps where I'm waiting for other stuff, like cookies to bake, or bread to rise.

All in all, life is pretty good right now. Christmas is coming, and I'm as ready as I usually am..which is 'not quite, but oh, well...'  Merry Christmas!

Help

I enjoy a rare privilege--at least, rare to someone of my background and heritage. I have a cleaning lady. I was raised in a world where one did one's own housework, or outsourced it to unwilling, but easily-dominated children. For twenty years of my life, my job description was short and to the point. I went to school and did whatever that entailed. I dried the dishes after dinner every day. I swept and scrubbed the kitchen floor every day. I cleaned and scrubbed the bathroom once a week. And I kept the room I shared with my sister in order--beds made, floor vacuumed, furniture dusted. I was never overly fond of any of those duties.

When I married, the dishwasher took over the dishes. I was a little casual about the rest, but it did get done--most of the time. Finally, when the girls took over all our spare time, we opted to hire someone to come in every couple weeks to spiff things up, and keep things from deteriorating too badly. For the past ten years or so, that someone has been Sandra.

Sandra is a little lady with tolerable English skills that do not extend to the written word. She arrives every other Friday morning, with a small army of smiling, non-English-speaking young women who very efficiently take over the house and leave it much better than they found it. We get along, for the most part. What we have found, however, is that the ladies have....a quirky sense of humor, perhaps? a desire to show us who's boss, maybe? In any case, they assert themselves in odd ways. It is a rare Friday that I return and do not find some evidence of their tricks. A bed is short-sheeted--not enough to look deliberate, but enough that it needs to be remade. Something will be missing, that won't be truly missed immediately.

Take the soap. One Saturday morning, I stepped into the shower to find that the soap was missing. A new bar, only recently placed in the dish. I looked around, but couldn't see it. Wet and irritated, I dripped my way to the cabinet, unwrapped a new bar, and continued...fuming..back to the shower. After getting dressed, I started looking, to no avail. Not on the counter, not in the trash, not in the cupboard, not in the drawer. Not even in the powder room. Who would steal a bar of Dial soap? Apparently, the ladies. It wasn't until the next week, when I dumped the contents of the laundry hamper into the washer--and heard a 'thunk!'--that I found it. Who would put a bar of soap into the laundry hamper? Yet there it was.

Paper towels! I am firmly of the opinion that Sandra runs a paper towel business out of her car. Each visit, every paper towel in the house would disappear, whether I had a single roll or six available. Poof. I will agree that paper towels are essential in cleaning mirrors, windows, maybe a final swipe for sinks and stoves--but the quantity in which they vanished boggled the mind. I am embarrassed to say that I have taken to storing paper towels in my car, leaving a maximum of two rolls available in the house. Explaining to passengers why I carry 8 rolls of Bounty paper towels is preferable to losing them to the cleaning lady mafia that has apparently cornered the market thereon.

And then, there is placement. I have things arranged in my house--on tables, on mantels, on counters. Not a LOT of things, but some. And I have them arranged in a way that I like: not lined up like soldiers, not arranged by twos in a parade line. Generally centered, generally symmetrical. Until the ladies come. Everything is then arranged in exactly the opposite manner. If something was squared, it's placed on the diagonal; if centered, it's moved to the right or left. If the line was staggered, it's straightened. Furniture, blinds, windowshades, rugs--all just slightly off-kilter. I spend the next few days simply adjusting things.

I have taken to unplugging my computer and printer because the connections were always jiggled to the point of disconnection. My printer never worked, nor my cable TV, nor my router when the ladies had been here. My toaster and coffeemaker were unplugged (usually discovered after an impatient few minutes spent wondering why they were operating so slowly.) My recycling bin held trash, and my trashcan held recycling. The parallel universe in which Sandra and her minions operate obviously has rules that are in conflict with mine. I have tried to explain my issues to her, but Sandra simply smiles and nods and says "Yes, Miss Mary." and no doubt goes home and laughs at how strange I am to quibble about horizontally vs. vertically placed throw rugs. Maybe I am. Maybe in Central America, candles are lined up like soldiers, and sofas are placed off-center, and soap is stored in laundry hampers. Maybe Bounty paper towels are their new currency. Maybe I should change ladies...but who knows what new quirks are out there waiting for me?

Providence

We've just returned from a 4-day sojourn in Providence with Audrey, our 3-year-old granddaughter. Kay had a conference to go to, and, while taking the baby was a must-do, she and Paul thought life might just be a little easier if Audrey were having fun at home with Nana and Papa instead of going stir-crazy in a hotel room in Montreal. Good thinking.

So I flew up Wednesday afternoon, followed on Friday morning by JC, and turned Audrey into a temporary only child. We kept to her schedule as much as possible, but there are a lot of spaces for ice cream, chocolate croissants (pronounced 'sur-lants' in Audrey-speak), and trips to the park, and dinners at restaurants in the interstices. We did a lot of watching Cat in the Hat and Dora and Blue variously solving the big issues of the day: a lack of honey! packing for vacation! what kind of boat to build for the Boat Float! We read all about everyone who goes to the potty. (Who knew that FIREFIGHTERS go to the potty? And construction workers! And waiters! And doctors and pilots and policemen and zookeepers...) We went to Whole Foods and bought a coconut, just so Audrey could hear the coconut milk slosh around when she shook it. And we got some brie with a fruit topping because they were giving out samples and she kept going back for more. (Which I hope explains the small wheel of brie and cup of topping in your refrigerator, Kay...) We found that, since August, Audrey has acquired a few new speech patterns: everything is 'super-' something. Super-warm, super-cold, super-hot, super-hard... and a lot of conversations start with "Do you know....?" The funniest of these was a discussion of dinner one night, when I suggested a local restaurant to JC. Audrey, listening in, turned to JC, tilted her head to one side, and said sweetly, "Do you know that Three Sisters (the cafe in question) has ice cream?" Needless to say, even though we did not go to Three Sisters for dinner, we DID stop by for dessert.

However, we did have a few obstacles to overcome. The hot water heater's pilot light gave out on Thursday, putting a moratorium on dish-washing, or warm baths or showers. Despite my attempts to re-light the pilot, we were without hot water for a day; but the landlord came through with a plumber to replace the pilot light assembly on Friday, thank god. We also encountered a few obstinacy issues--but who doesn't with a small child? Patience has never been my virtue, but JC had enough for all of us. And the storms passed, as they always do.

That is not to say that we were not totally tired out by the time we left. Home is so much easier. The older we get, the more we enjoy its comforts: hot water, knowing where everything is, and where to go to get things we need. We enjoy our own bed and television and wi-fi and kitchen sink, which is much better suited to our height than the one that Kay and Paul deal with daily. We like having a dishwasher and an ice-maker and going places without fumbling with a carseat and its 5 step fastening procedure, interrupted by a little girl who wants to know why Nana's car has a cargo cover instead of a trunk. Although the entertainment value of all these questions is well-worth the process. Having Audrey congratulate me ("Good job, Nana!") upon finding the place to pick up produce from the food co-op, and then bragging to the sign-in people that Nana FOUND the place was priceless.

We had a great time, but it IS good to be home. Especially when we know that they will all be here for Thanksgiving in just a few days.