He would be 89 years old this month…

I'd so wanted to write something last week about the inspirational Martin Luther King, Jr. But, how does one begin to find the proper words and then to combine those words in an emotionally significant manner to laud one so iconic?

I had this vague idea that I would begin my post with our five-year-old daughter excitedly bounding into the house to tell us, Sweet Husband and I, of the great person about whom her kindergarten teacher had spoken, “Martin Luther, the King” —her phrase so endearing to us at that moment that we still, smilingly, use it to this day.

And then I thought I would segue into a eulogy I'd heard. A highly-regarded attorney friend (caucasian) known for his eloquence, “borrowed” (his word, not mine) a quote from MLK to describe his personal feeling at his long-suffering mother’s death. He hijacked this as his closing statement: “...free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, (we are) free at last.”

And how there I sat there, in church, with a bitter taste of resentment forming at the back of my throat at my friend’s misappropriation of that quote. Like swallowing tainted food, it just didn’t sit right with me and does not to this day.

Then I might mention Martin Luther King, Jr’s education. Starting with his graduation from high school at the age of fifteen (the age where I sat zoned out in my high school sophomore history class, engulfed in a wash of ennui and staring blankly out the window.)

And how in 1948 he received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Morehouse College in Atlanta, and then in 1951 a second degree from Pennsylvania’s Crozer Theological Seminary as the elected president of a mostly caucasian senior class.

At the age of 26 he became “Dr.” King when he earned a PhD at Boston University.

When he was thirty-five years old Dr. King became the youngest male recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. He chose to donate his prize money of $54,000+ to assist in the continuation of his non-violent civil rights movement.

Would I then, I wonder, mention the spiritual revelation he experienced as the result of a threatening telephone call he received on January 27, 1956? Or, the explosion heard blocks away from his home, it’s epicenter, just three days later:

“Your house has been bombed.” 

I asked if my wife and baby were all right. 

They said, “We are checking on that now.” 

—(Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story, Martin Luther King, Jr.)

And would I include something about the burned cross he found on the lawn of his new house in April 1960?

I’m quite sure I would finish things up with his assassination using something like the poetic lyrics from U2’s “Pride (In the Name of Love):

Early morning April four 

shot rings out in the Memphis sky 

Free at last, they took your life 

They could not take your pride

He was 39 years old.

2018 marks the 50th anniversary of his death.

He was 39 years old,

He * was *  39 *  years *  old.

***

But the busyness of life, as it frequently does, ate away at my writing time… a nibble here, a bite there and before you know it, it has all but disappeared.

This day Sweet Husband and I are “on call.” Our almost four-year-old grandson, offspring of our “Martin Luther, the King” daughter, may or may not be ill. Daughter, son-in-law and grandson, live away —a two-hour commute. We have volunteered to drive into the city and care for Grandson, if he is too ill for preschool/daycare.

Concerned about Grandson’s reported low-grade fever, lethargy and disinterest in food, SH and I have readied overnight bags. We are prepared to dash out at 6 a.m., if needed. Like Minutemen, we are readily mobile and quickly deployable.

While I could not carve a slice of time for myself, I’ve instantly put aside all obligations to await word about the status of our little guy.

As I wait, I type. I look up and notice our digital photo frame, a gift from our “Martin Luther, the King” daughter. She gave it to us fully loaded with photos of our family throughout the years.

The frame sits in our living room and is triggered by motion. So on occasion I pass it or move in such a way that I trip the sensor. Out of the corner of my eye I will notice the display light and a photo of my past will flash before my eyes, the start of a slideshow.

Quite often I am in the photos and they are of moments that, for whatever reason, are not stored in my memory bank. I don’t remember that! And yet I recognize the photo as somewhere I probably would have been or some activity in which I might well have partaken.

Where was my brain on that occasion? Why did it not register this particular moment? I’ve a pretty good memory, so how do I not remember this scene? Can a person be so absorbed, comfortably ensconced in a moment that they miss it? No, more likely I was thinking ahead to some chore that needed tending or perhaps ruminating over some past disappointment. Tsk, such a waste to not be in the moment…

They say that your “life flashes before your eyes” when you die.

If so, what will my life show me?

Will it be similar to the ever-changing slideshow I have now in my living room?

Will I be able to fast forward through events I consider unimportant? —like my sophomore history class? "Alexa, skip."

Will I be able to hit a “slo-mo” or “repeat” button to savor treasured significant occasions?

—my oldest son playing Für Elise at his piano recital? 

—reading and re-reading my middle child’s written words?

—my 3rd and youngest child gracefully scoring a soccer goal?

—my husband’s sweet temperament?

—laughing uproariously with family and friends?

—all of the people who’ve motivated and inspired me?

—the birth and gift of each of my grandchildren?

—will I see myself baking and gardening and reading books?

—surely I will see each of my three children’s first smiles.

Will the snapshots be in sequence??

***

And then I wonder: What did Martin Luther King, Jr. view as his life flashed before his eyes?

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. removing a burned cross from his front lawn, with his son at his side

***

“The mortal heart of Martin Luther King was stopped by an assassin’s bullet. But no power on earth can stop his work.”

—Rev. Ralph D. Abernathy

A Stroll Down Melancholy Lane

I sit calmly looking out of the curved window of my intergalactic craft. It is a bay-type viewing area and it is my eye to the universe in which I am currently traversing. The space outside is still, serene, and in fact quite pleasing to my eye. But I know it to be savagely and bitterly cold —cold enough to cause grievous harm, or be of threat to my life. If I were to, even momentarily, step outside of the vehicle, and without proper protection let’s say, gently bump my hand, my hand would snap off of my arm and shatter into pieces. 

My thought process is disrupted as I view a creature zipping across the cold vastness. This is quite unusual. “Good luck, little being,” I think.

I glance at my horology apparatus. There are still three hours to go before the time I have determined most beneficial for my partaking in my allotment of nourishment —without depleting my current supplies, that is. So with a push of a button I procure a warm, non-nourishing liquid to quell my hunger pangs…

 ***

Ah shucks, I spot my nearest neighbor’s bold combination of neon, LED and other multi-colored pulsing Christmas lights. How the heck am I supposed to visualize in my mind that I am an alien being viewing outer space when there are these glaring, flashing, tacky lights going 24 hours a day. Can't they please put them on some kind of a timer? I mean, what the heck! What about the wildlife in the area that, for their defense, for their cover, for their very survival, depend on a portion of a day’s hours to be in darkness or semi-darkness. What about them?…

Where was I?… Oh, yes, fantasizing about being an alien traveling the universe and alighting upon planet Earth…

***

I will relate the account of my adventure, (actually “our” adventure since I travel with a companion) using a new software that will automatically translate into one of over one million of the most widely used and known languages in a dozen of the nearest parallel realities to where I am now visiting. Anyone who has ever used automated translation-ware will know that there will, of course, be the usual linear transformation and vector space mathematics errors, but also that language is just so doggone subjective… --For my own amusement, I used a bit of jargon in that last sentence. I wonder how that will translate. 

I was chosen for the mission because I am a polyglot.  

My companion was chosen for his engineering abilities. I use a male pronoun here to describe my companion. There are many parallel realities where there are primarily two genders, as there are also places where beings are endowed with a single neutral gender and yet successfully reproduce. And let us not forget, as some of you reading this will know, the plural locations with productive multiple genders, six of which are quite commonly known. But, for our purposes now, we will stick with two of the common genders, female and male…

***

Seriously, as I look out of the window of the back of my house, I feel at home, content, grateful for a wonderful life partner. But, when I venture outside and encounter my neighboring community members I feel like an alien being, like I live in a completely different parallel realm, or dimension, or spectrum. And it’s not anyone else’s fault. This is all on me. The people living nearby are generally quite kind and welcoming of friendship.

But if I had to point a finger of blame for my feeling a bit like a foreigner in my own community I would say it is more than the fact I tend to be what a behaviorist might label an “introvert.” The deeper alienation I’m experiencing at the moment, the feeling that has driven me under the shelter of my carapace came about just over a year ago, on the fateful day of the latest U.S. presidential election.  And since that day, I’ve found it difficult to view any but a handful of my neighbors without suspicion that they may have voted for our current president and thus embrace his philosophical ideals, (if you can call them that and by "that" I mean ideals.) 

The current president is a man who did not hide his agenda. It was there for all to witness —to witness his hatred, his misogyny, his sexual predatory behavior, his dishonesty, his bias against those less fortunate in acquisition of money and in physical appearance, his bias against those of any religious belief beside his so called "Christianity"and against those with preferences as to which gender to love, and, and --and if you can believe it, his desire to deny health coverage to the chronically sick… 

And then from "day one" in office, his horrendous agenda was carried out by his GOP cronies! He puts out easily provable lies (largest inauguration attendance?) And the group of them, like some kind of antithesis of the fabled Robin Hood and company, the bunch of them will collectively do their best to rob the poor and give everything they steal to the richest…

Despite all of this, I still occasionally drag my otherwise happily-introverted body to a local community social event. Like last Spring when I attended a meeting for women interested in participating in an informal golf league. Maybe two dozen or so women attended. We ordered lunch seated in a squared-off, skinny u-shaped table formation, which might have been fine for a UN meeting or a formal presentation of some kind where only one person spoke at a time, but…

Anyway, I found myself sitting near the bend of the narrow U, with women on six sides of me. How do humans do it? How do they listen and engage in small talk with so many people at once? —to my left is a someone describing falling on broken cement in front of J.C. Penney’s —kitty-corner to my left someone is telling an engaging tidbit about neighbors who locked themselves out of their home on a stair-less upper balcony (on a frigid day, no less.) —kitty-corner to my right a women shows off her new jewelry —somewhere nearby I hear an interesting story about how someone met her husband on a blind date. I begin to partake in a topic I love: gardening, but I am tapped from behind by someone I recognize as a fellow introvert, who says, “It is so nice to see you here.”

It is all too much for me and I can see it in the face of a friend, the one who encouraged me to attend this gathering and who is sitting directly across from me, staring at me in surprise as she recognizes that I am virtually struggling for breath in a din that is nearly drowning me.

So what am I getting at? What is the impetus of my writing today?

Today we are invited to visit friends we have not seen for a couple of years, friends from our former Chicago-area home. Plus, the visit will allow us an additional chance to meet up with a treasured friend visiting Chicago from Erie, PA. Friends I am missing so dearly at the given moment. But we have awaken to a -17 Fahrenheit temperature. Cautious Husband is not very keen on making the four-hour+ roundtrip drive in our five year old car. And not to put it all on Cautious Husband, as I kind of agree that it’s best that we stay home on this arctic-like day.

Do I really miss these old friends so much, or am I simply nostalgic from hearing Auld Lang Syne on New Year’s eve last night? Is this post-holiday melancholy after a lovely Thanksgiving and Christmas spent with loved ones and friends, beloved family and real friends who get my humor, who have political views similar to mine, people with whom there is often laughter until our tears flow, because we know each other so well…

I think of this statement that I copied from a recent NYT or NewYorker article:

...Stanford neurobiologist, …: “People who do best are those who have become more selective about whom they affiliate with… You don’t need a lot of friends; you just need a few very good ones.”

And I turn my electric blanket up to number five and I crawl back under my shell.

So sorry we won’t see you today, Jodie, Jen and Mike. Please forgive us. And do please visit us, if you can. You know where to find us: Planet Earth, just make a sharp right at the garish tacky Christmas lights that flash 24/7.

***

Here on planet Earth

The Chincoteague ponies keeping their heads above water, or struggling for breath??

I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars.

~~~ Martin Luther King Jr. 

***
Oh, yes and Happy 2018 everyone!!!

is there room enough?

Sometimes I am a virtual-babysitter for my young grandson, who will turn 4 years old in a few months. Occasionally his mom will initiate a FaceTime call to me and then dash off somewhere within their home to bring in the dog or to put clothes in the washing machine, etc. It is my task to (via IPhone) creatively engage the preschooler, who lives 120 driving miles away.

Flashback to a day when I learned to temper my virtual play: Grandson is about two years of age and I intone, “I’m watching you,” in a semi-spooky voice all the while slowly moving the IPhone camera lens nearer my eye, the sight of which causes him to squeal with laughter, albeit a laugh tinged with wariness, not unlike perhaps, the reaction elicited by a well-timed “peek-a-boo.” In his frightened glee he tumbles to the floor.

[Note-to-self # 263: Do not overstimulate a grandchild via FaceTime to the point of falling when both of his parents are completely out-of-vocal range.]

He picks himself up, “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! Are you okay, buddy?” “Yes, Mimi.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.”  "Alright, then let’s dust ourselves off.”  He follows my cue and we both make the semi-slapclap motion one might use if one were to satisfactorily remove the final dust from one's hands, I clean my hands of it, it’s time to move on. Only he says excitedly, “Do it again, Mimi. Make your eye big again, Mimi."

Today, nearing the age of four, he is savvy enough that if he can manage to get his hands on Mom’s phone he can FaceTime me all by himself. So as I loll in bed on a cool Fall weekday morning, reading a captivating bit of fiction, the phone rings. The clock reads 6:45 a.m., about the time that Grandson’s Dad would have just left the house for work:

“Hey, buddy, good morning."

“Mimi, will you watch, ‘Room on the Broom’ with me?”

“Where is Mom?”

“She is here. She can put it on the television for us. Hey, Mimi, look at this!” He walks, IPhone in hand across the living room and places his back up against the television, knowing to hold the camera so that I don’t lose sight of him. “Look, Mimi. I’m glued to the television,” he says laughing. A minute or two later, still immobile, “See, Mimi, I’m still glued to the television” he repeats in a lilting voice.

Mom tunes the television to Netflix. Grandson and I will be viewing a televised version of a book I first read to him a year ago, “Room on the Broom,” written by Julia Donaldson and illustrated by Alex Scheffler. As Mom goes about her morning prep, Grandson carefully places me, Virtual Grandmother, by his side on the sofa and together we watch the 25 minute show. (Mom peeking her head in every so often to check on our wellbeing.)

I'm familiar with the book, but it's my first viewing of the movie version. I'm pleased to find how carefully it follows the book’s plot, narration and theme. I sip coffee as we watch and I keep a running commentary (to let Grandson know that I am fully attentive.)

The theme is about developing friendship and the positive results of kindness, sharing and unity. The verse utilizes Seussian rhythm, rhyme and repetition, rendering it ideal for the open minds of young children (or even closed-minded adults).

Here is a sample of the cadence and rhyme:

"The witch had a cat and a hat that was black,

and long ginger hair in a braid down her back.

How the cat purred and how the witch grinned,

As they sat on their broomstick and flew through the wind."

From the above verse you can see that a witch and a cat live a harmonious life and that they traverse on a broom.

As the witch “cooks," (my interpretation of the witch’s bubbly and sometimes experimental cauldron concoctions) the witch keeps an array of earthly delights at her disposal. The ever-wanting-to-be-helpful cat angrily shoos away insects, that happen to be caught in the act of nibbling leaves the witch has gathered. Seeing the cat’s reaction, the witch indicates that there is enough for everyone by giving a whole leaf to each bug.

I ask Grandson, "Is the witch nice or not nice?" "She's nice," he responds.

In flight, the witch loses a series of personal objects that are of meaning or importance to her. As witch and cat search, they meet unique characters who assist them in recovering the lost items.  As each distinctive newcomer  joins the group, friendships are formed and each asks, “Is there room on the broom for a _____ like me?" The witch welcomes each newbie to share a spot, despite their added weight and the depletion of space on the broom.

The characters:

Witch: An mature woman who is kind, generous and accepting of others, peculiarities and all (or should I say “warts and all” as the witch, herself, has a prominent wart on her nose.) 

Cat:  The feline’s protective nature toward the witch is encumbered by his suspicion and jealousy of each seemingly odd newcomer.

Dog: Like most dogs he is eager to please (he also seems to suffer from itching due to fleas?) He incites uncertainty in, and yet displays respectful admiration for the cat, perhaps like a younger child might to an older sibling.

Bird: A lonely displaced green-feathered bird, who seems to have been subjected to painful rejection by her black-feathered flock.

Frog: An obsessively clean amphibian who dislikes the polluted swamp into which he’s been born.

Dragon: A villainous, hungry beast with a particular hankering for "witch and chips for my tea” (did I mention that the author is from the U.K.?)

From the moment the dragon spots the witch, his intention is to devour her, to abate or satisfy his hunger. He seems disinterested in her companions.

At some point the crowded broom cracks under the weight of its diverse occupants. The broomstick snaps in two and they fall to the ground. The witch and her motley misfits, on different broom sections, become separated.

The dragon, spotting the witch alone and vulnerable, and moves in for the kill.

As the dragon lifts the dazed witch with his claws, her companions, who have collectively fallen into a murky bog, emerge clinging together as a single form, unrecognizably mired in gunky muck. The dragon senses danger in the large, looming creature with multiple, odd-shaped limbs, heads and eyes, wide-open eyes, all fixed upon the dragon. And thus the dragon’s false bravado is exposed.

The not-so-brave-after-all dragon releases the witch and slinks away, you know the head down, mumbling to oneself, tail-between-the-legs kind of shameful retreat.

Reunited with the witch, the animals alight and rinse the muck from their bodies with fresh water. They take a look at the irreparable broom. The ever-optimistic witch begins to cook up a potion. Being aware of the array of diversity before her, she asks each companion to choose an item to share, something of meaning or value to add to the cauldron. Someone, perhaps the frog I guess, tosses in a waterlily. The dog, of course, throws in a bone, and so on. The witch takes a stir of the potion and pauses, perhaps sensing that something is yet missing.  She espies a red mushroom with white spots, an item with which she has previously had potent reactions, she plucks it and tosses it into the cauldron and incants, “Iggity-ziggety-zaggety-zoom."

**POOF**

Out comes a much improved, super duper state-of-the-art broom AND it has room to comfortably fit everyone (it even has a built-in shower for the frog.) 

My take on the magic of the spotted mushroom is that it is some kind of game changer, like love or, perhaps it is vulnerability, or compassion, but whatever it is: look out and hold onto your seat, because it is some kind of powerful...

The story is a good moral lesson about the benefits of helpful kindness toward others. A tale that recognizes the power of unity, and what can be accomplished when everyone’s input is valued, when we are fully accepting of the natural differences inherent in all beings and when we make an effort to discern what will best benefit everyone.

***

Happy Halloween!

and happy 5 year blogiversary to me ;)

***

the "Room on the Broom" witch's favored & powerful red mushroom

A real life "fly agaric" mushroom -thought to be poisonous or to possibly induce hallucinations?
It almost looks cartoonishly fake, does it not?

Is there room on the broom for a dog like me?

...for a skeleton like me?
...for a scarecrow like me?

...for a ghost like me?

I'm watching you...

---

"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble."

-- Shakespeare, Macbeth Act IV

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” 

—Anaïs Nin

"...As we live a life of ease, everyone of us has all we need...” 

— John Lennon and Paul McCartney

Part of Me...

Part of me is delighted to find a cute Halloween bag at my doorstep. It is filled with sweet treats and a note from a phantom ghost wishing me a “happier fall.”

Part of me basks in that sweetness for a moment...

Part of me reads more of the note and sees that it is a “chain” and thus further action, on my part, is suggested, further action within a 24-hour period.

Part of me becomes becomes piqued.

Part of me tries to think it through from the kind donor's viewpoint.

Part of me reasons that perhaps they envision a community of houses “sweetened” by good wishes and such a vision would require some kind of community involvement.

Part of me enjoys the goodness of that thought, too.

Part of me likes that thought enough to hope that every house is a recipient of such kindness.

Part of me knows that my participation will, however, necessitate my making two photocopies of the note, a 14-mile round trip by car to town to buy cute halloween bags and treats, assembling of the bags and then choosing a couple of friends to whom to deliver the bags.

Part of me is tired just thinking about the process. 

Part of me is also grateful that I don’t have a whole heck of a lot of friends out here.

Part of me wonders if that neighbor that so many people complain about on the far west end of the community will get a bag.

Part of me doubts it.

Part of me thinks that it would be a good idea for me to donate my bag to that phonophobic neighbor.

Part of me reasons that it would be an even better idea to give similar bags to every house in a neighboring small town that has an indication of children residing inside, like toys on the lawn, or kid’s artwork taped to the window.

Part of me thinks isolated farming senior citizens, like the widow who lives alone, from whom I buy fruits and vegetables, would benefit from such a sweet surprise.

Part of me says, you’d better shut your thinking up right now, and remember that sensible part of yourself that didn't want to drive to town to buy bags and treats and begin an assembly line.

Part of me wonders if this “you’ve been booed/phantom ghost” is some new phenomenon and looks online.

Part of me wonders why I never noticed all the folderol that proliferates online.

Part of me reasons that it’s because I don’t use FaceBook.

Part of me rereads the note and is shocked to notice in the verse: “Deliver at dark when there isn’t much light…Ring the doorbell and run, and stay out of sight!!"

Part of me is surprised such an action would be encouraged after the recent overreaction when a census taker came and rang someone’s doorbell in the evening arousing such fear that there was immediate talk of “gating” the entire community to keep stranger-danger out.

Part of me remembers that I have never been a fan of the “ding-dong ditch” prank.

Part of me virtually pats myself on my own virtual back.

Part of me wonders if I have any control whatsoever of my mind.

Part of me is happy that the weather will be nice for a couple of days and I can meditate and attempt to regain my senses as I work in the yard.

Part of me is hungry from all of this pondering. That part of me reaches into the bag, takes and bites into a snack size Reese's peanut butter cup...

---

Thank you, Phantom Ghost!

***

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”― J.R.R. Tolkien

(I know I used this quote recently, but part of me said, "Sorry, I got nuthin' else.")

Purging and Reacquiring

When we moved from our house in the city to the rural countryside, Helpful Husband and I had planned to downsize. Now empty nesters, we no longer needed a larger home, such as where we’d raised our three children.

The new house we'd chosen had less closet space, one less bedroom, a much smaller kitchen with fewer cabinets and, it did not have an unfinished basement that spanned the breadth of the entire first floor. A basement that could easily serve as an indoor roller skating rink during cold Chicago winters… -but, I’m getting off track here. 

Basically, we’d traded a older bungalow with a generous indoor capacity and a typically small city lot for a newer, smaller house with a spacious outdoor scape. No problem, I reasoned, we'll usually have guests during the warm summer months and after cozying down at night for sleep, our guests can all spill outdoors during the day. It amazes me just how rosy my positive-spin mind can paint a scene… 

We’ve all read the tales of Baby Boomer collectors, like Helpful Husband and I, who have then gone on to spawn Gen X-ers and Millennials who abhor “clutter” of any type. Nostalgia-based-on-tangible-objects is the enemy of my children, at least. On the other hand, I feel there is some hope for my three grandchildren who can accumulate and re-clutter with the best of them. Older Son and Lovely Daughter-in-Law laid out the rules early on, if their children were to be recipients of any new toy, said children must first purge an older toy, passing the discard along to a friend or family member, or by donating the castoff to charity. 

Oh, but it is often with agony that such decisions are made, for each toy seems to hold some precious value. “No, puh-leeze, Dad, not my one-eyed stuffed snake!! I cannot give him away!” 

As we prepared for our move, Helpful Husband and I began the painful process of purging our treasures. 

We are now beginning our 6th year in our new home and I am embarrassed to say it is showing signs of being filled to capacity. Closets, nooks and cabinets are stuffed.

Our carpenter friend was here recently to install a sliding door and handrail, and to resurface a wall and such. He asked if he could store the scrap material overnight in our garage as he’d forgotten to attach the trailer to his truck, necessary to haul away the refuse. “Certainly,” said Helpful Husband, “Give me a few minutes and I'll move some things around in the garage to make room.” His head thrown back in laughter, Carpenter Friend said, “Wait, what is this 'move some things around’ business? I thought I built that new shed for you last year for the specific purpose of your then having ample elbow room in your garage! What is with you guys!?"

On occasion Helpful Husband and I make a day trip to one of a handful of quaint and not-so-quaint river towns that dot the edges of the Mississippi River. We usually stop somewhere in town for lunch and then take in the sights. When it comes to antique stores in a river town, (as the saying goes) you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one. Audrey’s is a go-to favorite of ours. It’s a large two-story “antique, collectibles and useables” shop. I think I read somewhere that it takes up an impressive 18,000 square feet. 

Sometime back on a visit to Audrey’s I became smitten with a half-dozen little glasses I'd found tucked in a corner on her 2nd floor. The glasses were identical to glassware that I'd given away when we purged our city house of “stuff” years back. I just had to have them. The curve of the glass had the perfect feel in my hand. And you know it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if I was actually buying back my own, once purged, merchandise.

As I was purchasing my little glasses, Helpful Husband was standing about 20 feet away taking a last glance at merchandise near the entrance door. Audrey said to me, “Where  did you find these?” “On the 2nd floor,” I responded, indicating the north side of the building. “Why, I had a customer looking for these recently. I told her they were on the second floor. She must have missed them. You know those are wine glasses, right?” 

From his adjoining spot, Helpful Husband calls out, “Well, if they’re wine glasses then you certainly have the right buyer.” Really, Helpful Husband, really? I hardly know this woman and yet you feel a need to paint me with this unflattering broad swath? But, I chuckle aloud, as does Audrey. 

Just around the corner from Audrey’s we discover a new place. The purveyor sells a mix of vintage clothing, secondhand household furniture, and odds and ends. Price tags are attached to items with an original price & three additional dates, all with corresponding “non-haggle” but very reasonable prices. Every so often the price reduces. So if you desire an item you check the date. It’s gives an indication of how long the item has been for sale. Then you may gamble and wait for the final reduced price, hoping no one else has purchased it in the interim. Or you may grab it immediately, if it’s something you feel you cannot be without.

In our first visit to the the “just around the corner” shop, Helpful Husband quickly spots an object in which I, at some point, verbalized an interest. The item is in its first round of prices, with an opportunity to come down a few dollars, if I am willing to chance it and wait. Helpful (Financially-Astute) Husband reminds that we recently saw a similar one at Audrey’s for twice the amount. Too good to pass up, I grab it.

Helpful Husband’s critical thinking is invaluable to me on our forays among “junque." When I show him an item I can immediately detect from his facial expression whether it is merely a whimsy or whether it is something likely to bring some form (no matter how short term) of gratification to me or to our lives. He is also handy for keeping a running list in his brain of items in which I’ve expressed an interest. He is a much better “spotter” than me. Why I twice walked right past these darling sangria glasses that his trained eye spotted at once.

On our way back from Iowa recently we passed a new “antique” shop somewhere just west of Elizabeth, Illinois. Helpful Husband spotted it and made a quick (and legal) u-turn.

The multi-room shop is housed in a old schoolhouse, and construction workers were busily making repairs and updates near the front of the building. As is usually the case, the other dozen or so customers inside were people our age, retirees. Younger people simply have no use for old stuff.

But, to me it is like a museum visit. As I pass a woman, she looks at me with wide eyes and says, “It is all just so overwhelming.”

I smile and nod in agreement as I think, yes, just who is it that accumulates all of this stuff?

But, I immediately know the answer: It is me. 

And more is the pity for my children, who will have to give away, sell or donate all of it when Helpful Husband and I take leave of planet Earth.

***

"A bargain is something you can't use at a price you can't resist."
--Franklin P. Jones

darling sangria glasses (& a "bargain" at 6 for $2)

a full-basement/roller rink

four-stage pricing

must have, reacquired little glasses

metal watering can bought at "just around the corner" store  & outfitted ala Pinterest idea

"Junque" in an old schoolhouse

note the gymnasium floor?

***

"You can't have everything--where would you put it? "

--Steven Wright

I'd almost forgotten to post this photo of our shed (meant to alleviate insufficient garage storage)
built by our amazing Carpenter Friend -I described what I wanted to him and he built it exactly as specified...