SOLITARY TIDYING

My sister has been e-mailing with some regularity regarding my recent interest in tidyness. Being the older sister, she can remember the years in which I was nothing but a giant pain in her rear end, and a complete and unrepentant slob.  Slob as in "Taken to the Extreme." Fortunately for her, our home had two secondary bedrooms and, shortly before she reached the point of cracking, she was allowed to move out of the room we shared, and into the BIG bedroom and accompanying three piece bathroom.  The en-suite, so to speak.  Had I been the parent, I would have told her to suck it up, moved to the en-suite myself and created a cozy office in the abandoned master bedroom.  But, those were the '50s.

Both Mary and I can remember that our dear mother, for all of her good traits, was a habitual clutterer. An empty flat space (a table-top for example) made her nervous until she was able to cover it with something.  A flower arrangement, a set of placemats, a stack of magazines, last week's mail...it made no difference.  She breathed better when her spaces were cluttered.  My sister and I (I had an epiphany some years ago) breathe only when our spaces are either completely empty, or artfully arranged.  Mary is artful, I'm simply spare.  I'm suggesting we were traumatized by the clutter that surrounded us as children.

However, the more I look into Marie Kondo's book, the more I'm beginning to think that real Life. Changing. Magic. may only be possible if one lives by oneself.  Or, with someone who is even tidier than oneself.  Mine would not be the case in either of those scenarios.

As sweet as BC is--as smart, funny, thoughtful and loving--he (as my mother before him) has a deep-seated urge to cover every surface with stuff.  His stuff.  Stuff he found in the yard.  Junk mail that looks interesting. Magazine articles he will get to next week, or month, or never.  Or (and this is important to the subject) stuff he is currently working on: sorting and organizing and arranging and discarding (rarely) or any other number of important actions that demonstrate his intent to make me happy. These sorties into sorting bring a great sense of accomplishment to him but, so far,  haven't done much for me.  Marie Kondo is silent on this issue.  I believe she does not suffer clutterers gladly.

So--that's it for Tidying.  I will finish the book but, with a heavy heart.  Whereas, I will continue to tidy quite faithfully, I will also realize that only a small portion of my world will contain Life. Changing. Magic.  A shelf here, a drawer there; perhaps, even within the storage boxes under the guest-room bed. But, then again, even a little Magic is better than no Magic at all...      

SEVENTY

I grew up in an era when 70 was not the new 60.
70 simply meant you were damned old.
And feeble.
And forgetful.
And just the slightest bit irritating.

But not everyone reaches 70.
I know several classmates who didn't.
I'm one of the lucky ones.
I will, in all probability, awaken to see the sun rise tomorrow.
I hope I pay attention.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     .                                                                                                                        

SOMEDAY

If, reasonably speaking, you had a good decade or two ahead of you before the lights went out, how would you live?  I set myself up for that question in a moment of deep thought somewhere on I-40 between Gallup and Flagstaff.  I worded it differently because I was feeling poetic at the time and it came out:  "I choose to live my life based on the expectation that I have ten good years left. And, I choose to live each day as if it were my last."   OK.  Now what?  Damned if I know.  I've been trying to figure it out ever since it popped into my brain.  Introspection may not be all it's cracked up to be.

It's got to be the aging thing.  When you hit a milestone such as 70, your life does change.  There's no kidding about it...you will not have the opportunity you always counted on to start over as a budding journalist in 1965 New York City.  You will not have the opportunity to enroll in 1962 Kansas State University, study harder and major in something business-like.  Nor will you throw caution to the wind, transfer to Kansas University, take up a literary lifestyle and spend your weekends in dark and smoky watering holes in Kansas City.  Those days are gone, done, disappeared, dead.  You've had your chance, you chose what you chose and, now, here you are.  Or, as I dare to exhibit ownership--here I am.

I'm among the millions in my generation who spent a lot of years putting everything off until Someday.  There is a definite complication, however, in waiting for Someday until you are seventy. When you're ready, Someday may have gotten tired and wandered off with the sixty year-old chick down the block who just started her own jewelry business.  Or, Someday might have flown to Costa Rica with Judy for two weeks of zip-lining and bird watching.  There's no way around it:  Someday won't wait forever, no matter how much we expect it to.  Someday has a shelf life, and at seventy, it's bumping right up against its "Use By" date.  Someday, it seems, is perishable.

Actually, Someday is a common dilemma for all of us.  It's the rare bird who isn't hanging onto Someday for some unfulfilled hope, dream or expectation.  I shouldn't feel badly or sorry for myself or consider myself unique.  So, let's consider this exercise my little push for you to remember the Someday you're carrying around in your purse or pocket, and pull it out for some serious conversation.  Some really serious conversation because, as Karen Lamb has said:  "A year from now you may wish you had started today."  Let's get cracking!        

 

ENDINGS

On Thursday, January 15, 2015, my "Seven Habits" Franklin Planner suggested that I write my own eulogy.  (That would be Habit Two:  "Begin With the End in Mind.")  The "Seven Habits" don't fool around.  I was directed to be specific, but I was also to "involve as many emotions and senses as possible."  I'm not exactly sure how the senses fit in here, but the emotions are running pretty high right now.

Practically speaking, I would have to agree that having a eulogy on hand would be a good thing. I mean, really, why leave something as important as your record here on earth to chance?  In all honesty, your kids are busy and may only have time to fly in shortly before the funeral service, then drive directly back to the airport. If your eulogy hasn't already been written and edited, it could get very short shrift.

Finally, my Franklin Planner also notes that "This [writing of my eulogy] can be a very enlightening exercise." Well, I'm sure that may be true, but do I really want to be enlightened in that way?  I don't know.  I'm just a little ambivalent.

What should be included in this document?  Some might desire a lengthy list of accomplishments, while others would prefer a simple, quiet retelling.    Then again, a pack of outright lies could be entertaining. Would anyone really know the difference?  In my neighborhood, probably not.  We've all moved here from somewhere else at an advanced age and, if we're imaginative enough, can be anybody we damned well please.

My mother wrote her own eulogy when she was well into her 80s, or early 90s.  It wasn't long, but it covered activities and experiences important to her.  It was part of her funeral service which she had also detailed.  In all honesty, my Mom always intimidated me to one degree or another and, being the dutiful daughter, her eulogy--word for word as she had written it--was read by the priest at her service.

But, he never saw how gorgeous she was in college when she was nominated for Queen of this or that.  He had no idea of the professional men she dated in her 20s, finally throwing them all over for my quiet and unassuming dad.   This well-intentioned priest could never imagine how intelligent she was, reading, understanding and leading Great Book seminars.  He only knew a weak and wizened woman in a nursing home obsessively repeating a garbled Hail Mary.

I wouldn't suggest that "Seven Habits" is wrong, but eulogies may be best when they're written in love and remembrance.  In the small thoughts that made an afternoon brighter and a fever more bearable.  In the lopsided birthday cakes and the handmade doll clothes.  In the love and pride of a daughter who still believes her Mom was the prettiest in all the world.

I'm throwing caution to the winds, "Seven Habits," and I'm going to let friends and family express what they remember about me and what was important to them.  For better or for worse, that's the end I choose to have in mind.

Amen.
         

"STILLE NACHT"

On Christmas Eve evening, we were seated in the third row of a lovely Methodist Church located in a small farming community near the Kansas-Colorado border.  The church was decorated for Christmas--greenery and ribbons on each window sill, a crèche in front of the altar, and glowing stars sprinkled above.  Lights were low, altar candles were lit, and the spirit that is Christmas surrounded each family as they waited expectantly for the service to begin.

We'd had a busy day.  The Pastor of this church is BC's daughter, and the family had spent the afternoon baking and frosting sugar cookies.  Each year, Pastor Cyd gifts her congregation with a Christmas Eve gathering immediately following the service.  The cider was bubbling in its pot, and the cookies and candies were laid out as carefully as we could manage.  With a quick nod, Cyd signaled the organist and the congregation began a rousing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing..."

After Luke's beautiful gospel, a short sermon and Communion, the lights slowly sank from dim to none and, one by one, we began lighting our small individual candles.  A young man rose from his pew somewhere behind us and walked toward the front of the sanctuary.  According to our program, he would  sing "Silent Night."

As the organist began, the young man looked calmly over the congregation, then began:  "Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht.  Alles schlaft..."  I hadn't expected his beautiful voice, nor his choice of language.  In a heartbeat I was seven years old again in the living room of our little house on Oak Street.  The lights were dim there also, and my father stood near the record player.  He carefully placed the needle on the spinning, over-sized 78 record and crossed the room to sit in his favorite chair.  Slowly, he closed his eyes.  The rich, if slightly scratchy, contralto voice encircled us:  "Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht..."

My father's first language had been German, although he had no trace of an accent.  His parents immigrated to the United States early in life and, some years later, settled in Victoria, KS, where he grew up as part of a Volga German community.  His school lessons were taught in German in the morning and English in the afternoon.  He always prayed in German and I have his childhood prayerbook given to him in the years when he was known as Wilhelm rather than William.

I have no idea when or where he acquired that recording of "Stille Nacht...", but he loved it.  I don't think I'd thought about it for a long time...until that moment.  Tears came, love and peace and warmth and comfort filled my heart, and I hugged daddy one more time in my imagination.  And, yes, that night I did "sleep in heavenly peace", and God blessed us, everyone.               

CHECKING IN

We drove onto our driveway late Tuesday afternoon, smiling as we watched the outdoor air temperature gauge on our car register 78 beautiful, blessed degrees.  We were overwhelmingly grateful for each of those 78 indicators of pure bliss and comfort.  We were HOME.

Not for a minute would I want to suggest that we didn't enjoy our 19 day drive through the middle of the country during one of its coldest early-winter seasons in decades...well, years at least.  Nor, for a minute would I want to suggest that I wasn't grateful for the opportunity to bond even more closely with BC as we spent hours and hours together in our smallish luxury car.  That would be luxury as defined by the English, which does include beautiful leather and highly polished wood-trim.  It does not, however, extend to cushy seats or a gentle ride.  Because I am the one who chose this car a year ago, I stepped up and bought the Ibuprofen we so badly needed on our long-drive days.

Being something of a statistics person and, during a particularly dull stretch of the road, I figured that since we were spending 19 days on the road, during which we would drive 4,161 miles,  we would average 219 miles per day. But, because we were only driving long stretches for eight of those days, the figure was closer to 520 miles per driving day.  Either figure now sounds crazy for old people!

As I got more into the statistics thing, I noted that we spent our nights in four different homes in four different states.  All of the states were cold.  All of the states lay under the proverbial blanket of snow.

We spent the remaining nights in four different hotels in two additional states.  Those states were also cold and snowy.  Everyplace, beginning south of Flagstaff on Day #1, until back in Flagstaff on Day #19 was cold and snowy.  Some were also windy.

Obviously, we packed and unpacked daily.  We packed and unpacked in eight different states, misplaced one credit card and lost one bra.  How do you lose a bra?  And, for me, what's worse is that it was a very old bra that had seen its better days...you know, the kind your mother told you not to wear in case you were in an accident.  Well, I did, and now it's missing and I'm afraid someone may be able to trace it to me.  And, yes, even at my advanced age I can hear my mother lecturing: "I told you so."

But, then again, this trip was a totally worthwhile, so glad we did it adventure.  Why?  We had a few days to hug our five grown children and the five children-in-law. We had hours to laugh and learn with ten adult grandchildren, two grandsons-in-law, and one prospective grandson-in-law. We could snuggle and cuddle with three young grandchildren and two greats--the smallest of whom enjoyed it so much, she and her blankie took up residence in our bed at 2:30 one dark and quiet morning.  We spent precious time with one aging brother and sister-in-law, plus their numerous grands and greats.

And now, we're safe, and we're home, filled with memories for the months ahead.  I'd do it again--only with heavier long-undies.

Happy New Year!   

LET'S CALL THE WHOLE THING OFF

Back when Congress still showed up for work and passed the "Energy Independence and Security Act of 2007," I was on board.  It was in the midst of my environmentally responsible stage, and I believed with my heart of hearts that efficient light bulbs would, if not save the world, at least make it a better place for all mankind.  I couldn't wait to buy our first batch of CFL bulbs, but our incandescents just kept hanging on until finally, one cold afternoon--"pop, crack, fizzle"--and our living room table lamp was gone.  We raced to Home Depot and bought a 60-watt CFL lightbulb...not because we particularly wanted a 60-watt bulb (we needed one-hundred watts) but it was the only CFL available.  And, I guess it didn't really say it was a 60-watt bulb, it was a "replacement for"  a 60-watt bulb.  But sadly, it wasn't really.  We were about to learn our first lesson regarding energy-saving light bulbs.  Lumens.

Lumens are a measure of brightness and, apparently, are extremely precious or simply scarce.  If you replace a 60-watt incandescent bulb with a 60-watt equivalent CFL bulb, you will wonder where the light went.  So, forget about watts.  In today's world watts are meaningless.  It's all about lumens.  If you're replacing a 60-watt bulb, you will need at least 800 lumens.  It is not possible to purchase the 880 lumens that 60-watt incandescents used to put out.  That world has shut down.  Shop lumens.  But don't be surprised if they seem to be a bit stingy with them.

In order to make us feel better, we are told that CFL's, dim though they are, will last much longer than those nasty old incandescents and our savings will pile up amazingly fast.  I believed that until my first CFL burned out much quicker than the neighboring incandescent.  It seems, my friends, that a CFL rated to last 10,000 hours (vs. an incandescent at a mere 1,000 hours) will only perform that feat if you don't turn it off and on too much.  And, no, they didn't define how much was "too much." 

But, we are not finished yet.  We haven't discussed Kelvin.  New energy efficient bulbs will report their Kelvin--ie., their color temperature.  In this case, higher Kelvin  numbers mean the light will tend toward blue, whereas lower Kelvin numbers produce more natural light--more like sunshine.  If you grew up with incandescents and you like the way you and your house look in that light, go for 2700 K.  If, however, you want a whiter light move up from there.  But, be careful.  Right after we popped for a $25.00 LED bulb over our breakfast bar, put it in the socket and turned it on, our absolutely gorgeous granite (four weeks of shopping and months of scrimping) disappeared from sight.  Gone...washed out...blah.  Apparently, we went a little heavy on the K's.

All of which makes me want to say that I'm too old and set in my ways for this whole light bulb situation.  I did not stockpile incandescent bulbs because I felt it was un-American, and now look what has happened.  I'm buying bulbs that will live longer than I will, and if I don't get the Lumens and the Kelvins and the new Color Rendering Index just right, BC and I, plus some of the nicer features of our home, will look like hell for as long as we're here.  And that makes me sad--and just the slightest bit ticked off.