A Weighty Problem

My husband absorbs the National Geographic the way bread soaks up milk. His eyes light up when his monthly copy arrives in the mailbox and whatever he was doing before is set aside as he dives into the magazine’s shiny, slick pages. I know not to try for his attention any time soon. Which is why he surprised me last week as we prepared our condo for installation of new carpeting.

We hadn’t planned to replace the nine-year-old Berber until next fall, but the stars seemed to align when we happened upon a sample of just the right shade of celery green and a small business owner with honest eyes and a low-key sales pitch. “My prices are low now because of the recession,” he explained. “Now is the best time to buy carpeting.” How could we resist?

Brian, the carpet man, arrived a few days later to measure our space and give us an estimate. He assured me, when I asked. “Yes. The price includes removing the existing carpeting and pad, installing the new, and moving the furniture. We do it all.”

Except, of course, we had to take everything off the shelves, tables, and out of the cabinets. Which was where the magazines came into play. One cabinet groaned under the weight of sixty-two copies of the National Geographic. (Another forty fill the shelf of a built-in storage area in our Wisconsin apartment, but they weren’t the problem at the moment.) We hauled a box from the garage and made the mistake of filling it with the yellow-bound treasures. “Help me lift this, Ralph. We have to put it on the porch.”

I thought my ears were playing tricks on me when he said, “We should probably get rid of these.” We’d had this discussion a month ago when I purged my bookshelves and hauled two cartons of my accumulated favorites to our Ocean Village library. When I’d suggested he do something with the magazines he assured me he used them as reference. I knew not to say more. I’d already reminded him we couldn’t find anyone who wanted the fifteen years of accumulated copies when we sold our home and moved to an apartment. “Yeah, I know. Everything is on the Internet,” he said dejectedly.

Last week the weight of the magazines became the problem of the worker on the recycle truck. I wasn’t here to see him struggle to lift the green bin, nor did I hang around to see the pain in my husband’s eyes.

So yesterday, when I brought in the mail and said, “Here’s this month’s National Geographic,” I was heartened to see his eyes light up once again. I didn’t bother him until I had dinner on the table. Hopefully, we won’t be replacing carpeting for another ten years or so.

The Traveler

“You have to go, I know—but I worry about you out there in such bad weather.” Ma’s plump face reflected her concern. “The temperature keeps dropping. Did you remember to put on your long-johns?” she asked. She peered at him over the rim of her glasses.

“Yep, I did. That must be what’s making this belt so tight. Or could I have gained a few pounds on your good cooking?”

“Now don’t try to change the subject by flattering me,” Ma said. “I just wish someone else could fill in for you.” She kept her knitting needles flying as she rocked furiously in her chair.

“How many times have you seen me off for one of these trips?” he asked as he laced up his boots. “And now I have GPS to help me and my smart phone to keep you posted. Before you know it, I’ll be back here with you, sitting in front of the fire, and telling you all about my trip.” He walked over to his wife, bent over, and kissed her on her cheek. “I’ll be ready for a hot toddy or two. We still have some of that good Irish whiskey in the pantry, haven’t we?”

“As far as I know—unless you’ve been stealing a sip here and there while you’ve been getting everything together for the flight. Do you have your list?”

“Of course I do. And my charge card if I need to pick up something—and my passport for the security checkpoints.”

“I still think you’re getting too old for this kind of travel. You don’t admit it, but you don’t remember things like you used to.” She paused and looked into his watery blue eyes. “I hope you’ll think of this as your last trip.”

“Ma, too many depend on me. He turned his eyes away from her steady gaze. “I can’t even think about quitting. He pulled on his gloves and said, “I’ll be back soon.” With that he was out the door.

She stopped rocking and waited. In a few moments she heard her husband’s whistle and then his voice calling, “Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer, now Vixen….”

She sighed and thought, I guess I’ll never get him to retire. Soon her clicking needles were keeping time with the crackling of the fire.

Sunday Morning at the Beach

The angry ocean roils; breakers crash one upon another, until one reaches the shoreline in triumph. Seawater whips into foam, like beaten egg whites, and tosses handfuls onto the shifting sands of the beach. I breathe in the salty smell as a steady wind pastes my sweatshirt to my body. I don’t bother to wipe the spray from my sunglasses.

The cacophony of the surf touches my soul like the voices of little children. I am at peace with the wonder and beauty of creation. The firm sand beneath my feet propels me as I play hide and seek with the waves. The tiny sanderlings are quicker than I. They race toward the sea to scavenge in the sand below the receding wave, then scurry back before the foamy surge wets their feet. How do they know when to turn?

Where are the pelicans? I wonder. Too windy for their soaring pleasure, I decide. I don’t mind. I’ll see them another day.

Good Intentions

I’m late for a date I made with myself. Well, maybe not quite late yet—there are three more days left in the month. When I began my blog I knew I wouldn’t be a daily blogger, but once a month seemed a very reasonable goal.

My intentions fired up again while attending the three-day Florida Writers Conference in Orlando last weekend. Wow! What talent abounds in this sunshine state! I entered my memoir, A Bowl of Cherries, in the published memoir category, with no expectations. Early in July I learned my book was a finalist. Way back in the recesses of my mind, I thought I might have a chance of placing in the top three, but realistically I doubted it. As I perched on the edge of my chair at Saturday evening’s Awards Banquet, I listened to the writing, publishing, and teaching credentials of the winners in the many categories. The more I heard, the more honored I felt just to have my book accepted in the competition. No, I didn’t win an award, but I eagerly wait to receive what matters to me most—the written rubric, or critiques, from the two judges.

Among the many inspiring moments of the conference, the reading of an impelling short story excerpt by a very young teenager with large rimmed glasses stands out in my memory. Her friend, a year younger, read her own touching and creative poem. The adults in the large conference room applauded exuberantly. What a pleasure to see young talent among us. Not many years from now, I expect these two bright, eager writers to be on stage claiming awards.

The nine workshops I selected to attend left me with prepared handouts and a dozen pages of my own notes. I learned how to manage back-story, write in the omniscient third person, and use proven techniques for self-editing. One presenter instructed us how to spice up our plots with character development and by turning narrative into dialogue. Now I have no excuse. As exhorted in the title of Judy Bridges’ outstanding writing reference book, I must Shut Up and Write.

With Kindles, Nooks, and Ipads as ubiquitous as bottled water, we couldn’t ignore questioning the future of book publishing. Some from publishing houses insisted there will always be a market for printed books. Still others said, “Forget about publishing hard copies of your work. Electronic publishing is here to stay.” Maybe, but I get a tingle of excitement when I hold my own book in my hand.

I doubt I will publish again in any format other than emagazines, but I can certainly put fingers to the keyboard once a month to add new musings to my blog site. November is just around the corner….

A Perfect Weekend

Four days of cloudless skies and perfect temperatures provided the background for an unforgettable weekend in Door County, Wisconsin.  The Country Inn Resort, tucked among forty-four acres of woodlands on a bluff overlooking Sister Bay, set the stage for our family gathering. Ralph and I basked in the pleasure of being with our son, Steve, and his wife, Patti, and our daughter, Laurie, and Jim. With grandchildren away at college or working, the six adults had our first opportunity to be together without distraction.

We walked, golfed, biked, and swam in the Bay. We shopped, toured the country roads, sampled the offerings of the Shipwreck Brewery, and enjoyed a wine tasting at the Stones Throw Winery. A roadside Farmer’s Market provided specialty wheat bread and locally grown apples. Back at the Inn, the inviting pool, steaming hot tub, and available shuffleboard court beckoned. Our cameras worked over time to capture the moments.

Each morning began with the Inn’s tasty breakfast offerings, featuring homemade breads, Door County cherries and vanilla yogurt. We packed picnic lunches and prepared dinners together in the well-appointed kitchen of the penthouse. With the breathtaking view from the balcony, and attractive and comfortable furnishings, we felt no need to venture out the first two evenings. The flat screen television offered U.S. Open Tennis and the Brewers game while we played dominoes until our eyes couldn’t stay open. Love and laughter punctuated every moment.

We asked each other, “How could this weekend be any better?” On our last evening, we had our answer. The six of us packed up our homemade dips, specialty crackers, supply of wine and beverages, and climbed into our SUV to head for the Ellison Bluff State Natural Area. A picnic table beckoned, offering the prime viewing point for watching the sun slowly disappear into Green Bay. With the setting so perfect, the sunset so beautiful, and our joy of being together so special, several of us had tears in our eyes.

Steve had selected the Shoreline Restaurant at Gil’s Rock for our final dinner together. Would it be a letdown after the spectacular cocktail hour? Not to worry. The seafood surpassed expectations and as we departed the restaurant the almost-full moon added to the enchantment of the evening.

But of all the special moments, none equaled the shared feelings of love and affection as we bid each other goodbye. How blessed we are.

Watery Delights

I invite you to visit http://pureslush.webs.com/waterydelights.htm to read my essay, Watery Delights, just published on Pure Slush, an online literary journal.

Your comments are welcome.

All this Stuff

Perhaps it’s an age thing—like talking about our health issues and comforting each other over the passing of yet another friend. Hardly a day passes without a golfing partner, neighbor or long time friend saying something like “I know I should get rid of some of the stuff in my closet”—or garage, or cabinets, or attic, or basement. She never hears an argument from me.

A dear friend, recently widowed, found herself faced with the need to dispose of saws, drills, hammers, every kind of nail or screw imaginable, and a myriad of tools she couldn’t identify. In preparation for a yard sale, she spent hours sorting through what had been accumulated over decades of do-it-himself projects. “He bought this drill at a rummage sale years ago. I remember how excited he was at getting such a good buy,” she told me. “That’s probably why there are so many duplicates here.” Her shoulders drooped and she said. “I just wish I didn’t have to deal with all this.”

Those are words I’m determined neither my husband nor my children will utter when I am no longer around. We had our own garage sale when we moved from our home after thirty-four years. Ruthlessly, we separated the needed-and-wanted from the nice-to-have but not needed. When we moved into an apartment we had a place for everything and very little to put into the provided storeroom. I felt free and unencumbered.

Last year I gave myself permission to take my mother’s elegant one-hundred-plus pieces of china to a resale store. I’d had the movers pack it for shipping when we moved from the house. Neither I nor my daughter or daughter-in-law would have occasion to use it in today’s casual entertaining environment. I did keep some silver and crystal. I have plenty of room in the buffet, I reasoned to myself.

But with a fresh vision of all those tools, I used the occasion of a family gathering to cover the dining room table with silver candy dishes, serving trays, and crystal salad bowls. “Okay, girls. Look this stuff over. If you want anything, take it now, because I’m going to take what’s left to the resale shop.”

“Were these wedding gifts?” my daughter-in-law asked.

“Yes. Everything here is over fifty-four years old.”

“Mom, I remember these trays…we put the Christmas cookies on them.”

I knew what was coming. Our sentimental daughter looked at the table and saw memories. Patti, our daughter-in-law, saw items that required hand-washing and silver polishing. She left empty handed. Laurie packed up what she couldn’t bear to leave behind.

Somehow I know years from now the day will come when Laurie and her friends will be saying to each other, “We really need to get rid of stuff.”  But before then, I’m determined she won’t be saying, “I wish I didn’t have to deal with all of Mom’s stuff.”