Lessons Learned from Estate Sales

Carolyn J. Rose

 

A few days ago a neighbor and I went on the prowl for yard sales hoping to find a small stroller I could use for Bubba’s outings while her torn ligament heals.

We didn’t find the stroller, but we found a generous woman who gave me a front pack dog carrier she no longer used because she had a new one. It needed a little mending, but it worked well and Bubba seemed to like it. And the woman seemed to like that I took it off her hands and spared her a decision about whether to put a price on it or toss it out. 

On the next block, we found an estate sale and walked through a split level house with a shop stacked high with the kinds of things my father would have hung onto: rusty lawnmower blades that might work on another mower one day, hoes and shovels with broken handles that might get fixed when someone got around to it, jars of screws and nails that might be needed for a project some time in the future.

Upstairs there was evidence of sudden and unplanned-for departure: boxes of cereal and cans of soup bought on sale, a candy thermometer still in its plastic wrapper, a new package of napkins. Alongside these were things that were far from new: a battered strainer, warped cookie tins, an ancient pressure cooker. And there were oddities: seven lazy Susans, several bags of mismatched stainless steel utensils, a frying pan with a broken handle.

In a way, walking through the rooms of the house was like walking through a graveyard. The stacks of items, the racks of clothing, the books and Christmas ornaments, the recliners, and the pictures on the walls were like inscriptions on tombstones. They told me about the people who had lived in that house. The items gave me clues to their age and beliefs and relationships. They gave me information about what these people were planning and hoping for.

I came home and looked at my house and all it holds with fresh eyes. And for the next few days I’ll be asking myself, “Why are you keeping that? How many blue blouses does one woman need? Why don’t you admit you’ll never lose those six pounds? What were you thinking when you bought two of those? Are you really going off and leaving such a mess in the kitchen? If you can’t stuff in another shirt, isn’t it time you emptied the laundry hamper?”

That estate sale reminded me of my Uncle Donald’s saying: “There are no pockets in a shroud.”

I can’t take it with me.

And I may well be embarrassed by what I leave behind and the condition it’s in.

The Books of Summer

THE BOOKS OF SUMMER

Carolyn J. Rose

Recently I read Pecos Valley Diamond, a mystery set 90 years ago in southern New Mexico and told from the point of view of a nineteen-year-old young woman. The character’s voice and the gentle tone of the book took me back to the summers of my early teens when I had hours to myself, when I could stretch out in the shade of a maple and sink into a story. Within moments I would be in another place, another age, with real people or fictional characters. All of them were braver, smarter, and had more interesting lives than I did, but they all seemed willing to share their experiences, to confide their thoughts.

I had the ability back then to set reality aside, to let the words wash over me, to submerge as if into a warm lake. I would go so deep that all sound was muffled, even my mother’s call to dinner or my father’s shout that my chores hadn’t been completed. Sometimes I wouldn’t note the chill of evening, a rising wind, or the first drops of rain.

I read accounts of exploration and travel to far lands—Kon Tiki and Aku-Aku. I read the “traditional” books for girls—Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie and the adventures of Nancy Drew. I read tales of the detecting Hardy boys and the westerns my father enjoyed—stories by Zane Grey and Max Brand and Louis L’Amour. I read the books I found on my grandmother’s shelves, classics by Hawthorne, Melville, and Cooper. I read The Egg and I, and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

I didn’t always understand the themes and deeper meanings, but I connected with the characters, the settings, and the feel of those books. I lived inside the covers until I read the final words. Often, I read the books again the next summer.

Now I tend to read with one eye on the clock—Is it time to check that pie, meet that friend, turn out the light and go to sleep?—and one ear on the sounds of my surroundings—the dogs, the washer, the mail truck. Most of the books I read are as “busy” as I am, but Pecos Valley Diamond lulled my multi-tasking mind.

Was that due to Alice Duncan’s skill at creating her world, her characters, and the tone of her story? Or was that due to my unconscious desire to revisit and reclaim the reading experience of my youth while walking the sun-blistered roads of fictional Rosedale, New Mexico?

Even the most skillful writer can’t capture a reader who doesn’t want to be caught, so my conclusion is that it was a bit of both and Alice Duncan and I met each other halfway.

Comments? I love comments, especially about your reading experiences and the books of your summers.

The Internet Never Forgets

Carolyn J. Rose

It doesn’t seem fair.

I struggle to remember names and dates and places.

 The Internet never forgets. In fact, not only does its vast memory hold correct information, but it has room for erroneous information as well.

I lose addresses and scraps of paper on which I’ve jotted the titles of books I intend to read, chores I need to complete, and phone calls that should be made.

The Internet keeps everything.

I have to winnow out clothes and books and reorganize closets and shelves to make room for new acquisitions. The Internet just adds another shelf, another closet, another room, another warehouse.

And once something is stored on the Internet, good luck tossing it out or altering it.

I’ve authored books now out of print and no longer available, but apparently the Internet isn’t convinced of that. I have profiles I can’t seem to change on social media sites I no longer belong to. My father died in 2003, but I’ve found a place on the Internet where he’s listed as being in his 90s and living in a house sold years ago.

I find that weird and even painful. But I also find it oddly comforting.

I’ve started to think of the Internet as a scrapbook that’s been in the family for decades. The tape has yellowed and the glue no longer sticks. Pictures and notes have come loose, been stuffed behind others, or crammed into a rubber-banded stack at the back of the book. It’s all there. You just have to know where to look.

As I get older and begin to forget more little things and my mind starts to wander and betray me, I’m cheered by the thought that the Internet has my back. I’ll be okay. As long as I can find my password.

42 Defines Courage and Entertains


Mike Nettleton

Many people equate courage with violence. Certainly brave soldiers who face danger on the battlefield or police officers who pursue bad guys with deadly weapons and keep them from causing harm to other human beings deserve the label “courageous.”
But there are many shades of courage. As the film 42 demonstrates, sometimes courage involves not acting, not lashing out at those of small, cruel minds, not defending yourself against verbal, psychological and even physical abuse. Such was the courage of an African-American athlete named Jackie Robinson.
 

We’ve known the story forever, of course. It’s taught in high school history classes now. We read that Jackie Robinson, a three-sport star at UCLA was picked by Brooklyn Dodgers owner Branch Rickey to break the color barrier-that he was showered with racial epithets and faced discrimination and thousands of threats. We were taught that finally, his talent, determination and charisma helped the next generation of African-American players fully integrate baseball. What 42 does is bring the emotional toll Jackie Robinson submerged just to survive, up to the surface, where we can experience it with him.
 
Make no mistake about it, 42 depicts post-war America at it’s very ugliest, and, in some ways, most noble. You find yourself repulsed by the raw bigotry Robinson endured on a daily basis, yet uplifted by his struggle to maintain control, to prove himself a more evolved human being than his tormentors.

 
42 may be my movie-of-the year, pending whatever else comes along. Not only will it entertain you, but it provides a perspective on how far we’ve come and how far we have left to travel in our quest to judge our fellow human beings by their character and actions and not by some superficial factor like skin color, political affiliation or sexuality.
 
One of the points the movie makes so well is that attitudes and prejudices are learned behaviors—passed from father and mother to son and daughter. I hope families will see this film together and use it as a jumping off point for a conversation about compassion and understanding.
 
The visual details created by the filmmakers are striking, including a CGI generated version of historic Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. The acting crackles with energy, with Chadwick Boseman as the enigmatic Robinson, Nicole Beharie as his equally courageous wife Rachel and Harrison Ford, exhibiting impressive character-acting chops as Branch Rickey. Also outstanding are Christopher Meloni as Leo Durocher and Lucas Black as Pee Wee Reese. A personal side note; I loves seeing Max Gail, of Barney Miller fame in a short turn as Burt Wooton, the fill-in Dodger manager for Jackie’s first season.
 
As a certified clumsy person I’d like to offer all five of my thumbs way-up for 42.

To Mow or not to Mow

Taking a pass on grass

Or

Hell, no, we won’t mow.

Carolyn J. Rose

   A few days ago a young woman came to the door selling lawn care services. Apparently, looking at the 

scraggly grass, exposed roots, clover, dandelions, moss, and bare patches in our yard, she  assumed we would jump at the chance for a lawn makeover.

  Not wanting to damage her self-esteem, I controlled my laughter and contained my comments. The fact is that our lawn looks the way it does because we made a conscious decision not to get involved in turf wars. You know what I mean, those escalating battles for the title of best lawn in the neighborhood, battles fought with fertilizers and weed killer, thatching machines, sprinklers, mowers, edging tools, seed, sod, and sand.

All we do is mow. And we do that just often enough to keep our neighbors from flipping us off.

It’s not that we don’t appreciate an emerald expanse of neatly clipped blades. It’s not that we don’t enjoy the scent of a freshly cut field. It’s not that we don’t relish the cool texture of grass between our toes.

We just don’t feel the need to be pawns in the lawn game.

We have friends who devote hours to tending their turf, pampering their plots, feeding their fescue. We know men who, at the sound of a lawnmower engine—no matter how distant—get an irresistible urge to fire up their own and cut a swath through the St. Augustine grass. We have neighbors who patrol the boundaries of their Bermuda grass each day on the lookout for molehills, litter, twigs, and leaves.

Not us.

My lack of involvement with grass was nurtured during my childhood in the Catskills. The soil on the land my father owned seemed to be at least 50% pebbles, stone, and rocks. Those who could afford it, trucked in topsoil. Others built up their vegetable and flower garden soil through years of composting. Seldom was that effort expended on a lawn. Rocks and bumps, we were told, made croquet more of a challenge and roots and sticker weeds lent an air of danger to a barefoot game of badminton.

Covered by snow for many months, lawns in the Catskills were hardy, but seldom robust. If you saw a smooth, weed-free, dark green lawn, you knew the person who lived there had bucks to blow. For my family, a lawn was more a place to park a few extra cars and a way to keep the encroaching woods at bay. And at this point in my life, I’m not going to buck tradition.

Risky Business

BETTER SORRY THAN SAFE

Mike Nettleton 

        

        

        

        

         I started thinking about the concept of risk the other day after my 66-year old best friend Michael confided that he’d signed up for Scuba-diving lessons. Apparently, strapping on oxygen tanks and exploring the murky depths, had been a life-long dream; he was damned if he was going to let his heart issues and age stop him from fulfilling it.

         As a realist, who jokes he is a “drowner” as opposed to a “swimmer,” this sound like insanely risky behavior. (Keep in mind I never did earn my YMCA “porpoise” credentials as an 8-year old, settling instead for a certificate that labeled me “algae.”) I’m exaggerating, of course. If I capsized in the ocean, I’m confident I could survive. The strategy is simple; find the nearest person who knows what they’re doing and hold on for dear life.

         Our earliest recollections may include parental reminders to avoid questionable behavior at different ages and stages of our life.

          “Don’t touch the hot stove, you’ll burn your hand!”

          “Stay away from that boy, he’s got trouble written all over him!”

          “Invest in a company that makes running shoes? That's crazy talk!"

         When we become adults, (I’m still waiting for my certification) many of us continue to practice risk avoidance—settling into safe jobs, safe marriages, safe hobbies.

         But, reflecting on my past, much of what has been the most gratifying involved taking chances. Not putting myself in physical peril so much, as I have no desire to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, rattlesnake wrangle or spelunk. In my case, risk has involved making life decisions that left a major question hanging in the air. “What’s going to happen now?”

         I once took a morning show job in radio without having met the people I was going to work for. In fact, my job interview and acceptance consisted of a recommendation from a friend of mine and a five-minute conversation with the general manager.

         Shortly after, I found myself schlepping across the southwest part of America pulling U-haul trailer behind a skeptical (and shoddily made) Mazda. Neither my future-former wife or I had any clue what to expect from Albuquerque. In fact we had to stop in Flagstaff, Arizona and ask if, perhaps, we’d already driven past it and hadn’t noticed. And yet . . . yet . . .my dozen or so years in New Mexico proved to be some of the richest, most rewarding and memorable times of my life.

         As writers, we know all about putting ourselves on the line. After all, that manuscript you’ve toiled over for months (if not years) runs the constant risk of ridicule and disdain. That carefully crafted simile, as graceful as a wet dachshund, could easily provoke a reader to say or think; “That sucks like a nuclear-powered vacuum cleaner.” Yet, all it takes is for one reader to tell us she enjoyed reading our work and looks forward to the next, to make the negativity swirl down the drain—forgotten.

         In my retirement years, I’ve begun thespianizing again. (If it’s not a word, it should be). I acted (and acted out) regularly during my college and post-college days. The first post-retirement foray, two summers ago, was with Portland Actor’s Ensemble, a company that performs free Shakespeare in the city parks during the summer. We coped with traffic noise, barking dogs, car alarms, boisterous street punks and a drunk who, to paraphrase Janis Joplin: pulled his harpoon out of his dirty red bandana. This cretin wailed out harmonica blues riffs during my best speech in the The Tempest. We had to incorporate him into the on-stage action. The adrenaline generated by terror and generous audience applause during the curtain-calls left me feeling alive, relevant and craving another chance to entertain.

         Most recently, I’ve gotten involved with The Original Practice Shakespeare Company. These maniacs perform the Bard’s work faithful to techniques used n the 16th and early 17th century: no director; no rehearsal; scripts-on-a-scroll that only include your lines and the cue line before yours. Your tools as an actor are your interpretation of what’s going on, based on the words on the page, the actions of the other characters and whatever costuming and props you choose to bring with you. You’re encourage to include the audience in your antics. Act one, scene one, you’re on your own, go for it. Trust me, performing this way is undiluted fear of the most delicious variety.

         Now this endeavor is certainly not an equivalent risk to being lowered into the Mariana’s trench in a shark cage or schussing down the sheer face of various and sundry Alps, but it does share some characteristics. There is that moment, when you step forward and launch yourself into the abyss of unknown outcome that makes you appreciate the fullness of life and your potential as a human being.

         Leaving your own comfort zone, and pushing the limits of what you believe you’re capable of, is one way to reaffirm that you’re alive. Whether your risk-taking involves roller-blading blindfolded and nude through a busy airport or simply writing a haiku and posting it on the internet, I encourage you to go for it. Try something you’ve always wanted to try. Take a class on a subject matter that baffles and excites you. Risk ridicule by performing, painting, playing music or dancing. Tell the waiter at an authentic Chinese restaurant to bring you something exotic.

         Are there consequences for risky behavior? Sure there are. What you have to weigh is whether those repercussions are worse than knowing that fear kept you from living your life to it’s fullest potential.

        

        

        

Canine Confidential

An Advice Column for People Who Love Their Dogs (Possibly Too Much)

Max: (gnawing on a pencil) Remind me again why I have this.

Bubba: Not as a dietary supplement. We’re starting an advice column.

Max: Cool. (Runs in a circle) I’m jiggy with that. Let’s do it. (pant, pant) Uh, what’s advice?

Bubba: It’s what Mom always gives Dad.

Max: Oh. You mean the stuff he never listens to.

Bubba: Except when she bribes him with the last ginger snap.

Max: Ginger snap crumbs. Oh, boy, Oh boy! (Wrestles with the pencil) How do you hold this, anyway?

Bubba: Use your thumb.

Max: Don’t got one.

Bubba: Oh, yeah, huh? (Takes the pencil from him). Okay, then, it’s settled. We’ll type our answers.

Max: Answers. Yeah. I can do that. Uh, what do we answer?

Bubba: Questions.

Max: You mean those words with the hooky-dotty thing at the end?

Bubba: Right. (Rips open envelope with her teeth). Here’s one: “What’s the best time to take your dog for a walk?”

Max: Ooh. Ooh. I know. I know. “Right now.” (Spins repeatedly until he falls down dizzy on another sheet of paper and reads it). This one asks: “Should you train your dog to fetch?”

Bubba: Easy. “Not without checking your state’s dog labor laws and rules governing the weight of the object to be fetched.”

Max: Wow! Governing! You’re good at this.

Bubba: (Buffing her toenails on a sofa cushion) I know.

Max: So, do we just keep on making up questions?

Bubba: No, we wait for people to write them in the comment space down below.

Max: (peering under the sofa) I don’t see anything down here.

Bubba: (sighing) Down below this blog.

Max: (Chewing his tail) I knew that.

Bubba: Right. And I just grew an opposable thumb.

Max: Okay, so what do we do while we wait for people to write something?

Bubba: I guess you could always chase a squirrel.

Max: Squirrel? (Runs full tilt into sliding glass door then collapses in a heap). Where?