Conquering the Divide

We’re done!  The attic is now (sort of) nicely organized, vacuumed, and ready for more junk.

A discovery: We’ve discovered what the 8′ & 42″ lengths of wood (mentioned in my last post) are for – a quilting frame.  That’s the good news.  The bad (or sad?) news is that no one wants quilting frames anymore – hope Goodwill can put them to some use.  I’d forgotten that Mom was interested for a little bit in quilting (before she became besotted with stained glass, which was a longer-lived hobby).

One item we found was an old oscillating fan.  I’d remembered it being in use for many years; I looked at the frayed cord, the very wide-spaced blade protection, and thought to myself that no one would want it.  So I started carrying it to the truck (it weighs a ton!), and literally, when I’d nearly reached the truck, had 2nd thoughts and decided not to take it to the dump quite yet.  Am I glad I had that epiphany!  Don & I tracked down some model & patent numbers from the bottom, and it turns out it’s a worth keeping.  It’s a 1941 GE FM12S1, a hybrid model.   I learned through my internet fan research project that there are those who collect vintage fans (why should that surprise me?) – see, for example, www.dtvintagefans.org.  Word to the wise:  don’t throw out old fans.  Now, what are we going to do with it?  Without electrical refurbishment, it won’t be plugged in, but it may have a position of honor in our home or in our new project (more on that another day).  Here are a couple of pictures of it:

In addition to the fan, there wasn’t much more of value – sentimental or otherwise.  I did find a box of old 8mm film.  At some point, I want to take some sample reels to a conversion place to see if they may be converted to a digital format, but years in a very hot attic may have ruined them.  And I have a box of pictures and documents that have been brought down from the attic and are now residing in the den – my new (more convenient) attic.  One of these days.

Okay, we’re making progress. Our Virginia home is 16 sided (a hexadecagon, for anyone who cares).  So the attic is divided into 16 sections, and I’m proud to announce we’ve cleaned out 9 of them – we’re over half-way there!  Actually, well more than half-way, as much of the stuff was consolidated around the entrance (understandable, as the ceiling/roof is so low one can’t stand upright).  Thus far, Don’s done two dump and one Goodwill trip – the dump trips comprising mostly broken down cardboard boxes.

One thing that’s surprised me is how things that I would have never thought would deteriorate have done just that.  Plastic bags that have lived in the attic for 40 years do weaken and crumble.  Cardboard boxes holding items become brittle.  Even virtually indestructible laundry baskets suffer — and here’s the proof.  (I did discover, however, that likely before the laundry basket made it’s way to the attic, it had undergone some kind of traumatic event – hence an initial repair with filament tape.)

We’ve found things that we don’t have a clue what they’re for – for example, 4 lengths of wood, 2 of which are 8′; the other 2 are 42″, each with evenly spaced drilled holes, all wrapped in fabric sewn to fit them.  At first we thought it might have something to do with a bed – but the 8′ lengths are way too long for that.  My closest guess is that they had something to do with a boat that my folks had in the late 70s; Mom sold it shortly after Dad died in 1980.

I’ve made a couple of fun finds, but those will have to await another day.

Okay, it’s been way too long since I’ve blogged.  A combination of procrastination, laziness and being pretty busy are my excuses, and I’m sticking to them.  But now Don & I are engaged in a project that may serve as a impetus to get back to blogging.

First, a preface:  Don & I are spending more & more time in Virginia, where we have a new business project underway (more on that down the road).  Spending more time in Virginia means that we’re also trying to make my mother’s home of about 30 years into our own.  An advantage of keeping the home is that there was no immediate need to clean out – but now, the need to sort, recycle and discard has increased.  An expression that Don & I often share when undertaking a project — whether it’s moving, building, or cleaning out — is that we’re “eating an elephant, one bite at a time.”  Right now, the part of the elephant we’re eating is the attic.

My mother saved everything.  I’m not kidding.  Shopping bags, grocery bags, bows, pieces of fabric, pillows, foam, you name it, she saved it.  On this chilly morning, I donned a sweatsuit, turtleneck, knee-pads (the attic is not full height, so all work is best done on one’s knees), gloves  and kerchief.  I was in charge of upstairs; Don, downstairs.  In my mind, all would be divided into 5 piles:  dump, donate, save, offer to family/friends, and go-through another day.  95% of the items I went through today were in the first two categories:  dump or donate.

I thought it would have taken more of a psychological toll on me.  I thought I might be filled with sadness.  Instead, the project made me smile and brought back fond memories of my mother and her pack-rat, find-a-use-for-everything tendencies.  Perhaps because she lived through the depression, the youngest of 5 siblings and a widowed mother (thanks to the 1917-18 flu epidemic), she hated to throw away anything that may have any kind of value down the road. We found virtually nothing of value, sentimental or otherwise, though.  So off to the dump (where possible to recycling bins)  already has gone many, many cardboard boxes, foam, god-awful raggedy old pillows, coffee cans, and bags of fabric remnants – a second load is waiting in the wings.  Set aside for another day for a trip are items destined for Goodwill or Habitat for Humanity — bedframes, headboards, lighting fixtures, salad bowls, luggage and the like.

One of my smiles for today related to Mom’s penchant for making sure her luggage was identifiable on her travels — be they a bus tour to Branson, Missouri, an Alaskan cruise, or flying up to see me in Canada.  Her first modest attempt was fairly demure:  colored electrical tape around part of the handle.

A couple of years later, though, either her eyes got worse, or she became more creative.  I remember the first time I saw this lovely piece of luggage make its way around the the baggage conveyor.  Had I been younger, I think it would have been a circumstance where I would have like to pretend I didn’t know the person retrieving the luggage, but I was old enough to not care.

For those of you who wish to replicate the look, Mom was quite proud to tell me it was accomplished by painting Wite-Out on the black canvas.  And I can attest it has held up quite well.  I wonder if a purchaser at Goodwill will be similarly impressed?

So tomorrow there will be another journey into the house’s — and Mom’s — past.  May I be blessed with as many smiles as I received today.

I’ve spent the last nearly 7 years working for a wonderful software/tech company.  Truly an advantage of my job is the opportunity to work with people far younger than I – indeed the founder and president of the company is 8 days younger than my daughter.  While working with such a young workforce hasn’t staved off my grey hair or wrinkles, it does help me (I think) have a more youthful outlook on life.  In short, I thoroughly enjoy my younger colleagues.

Today, though, the company aged in a way none of us would have wished.  Last night, we lost a good friend, a well-liked and respected colleague, to pancreatic cancer.  He hadn’t reached his 40th birthday, and leaves his wife and two small children.  He was diagnosed only a couple of months ago.

We knew he was gravely ill, we knew that pancreatic cancer was not a “good” cancer to have (if there is such a thing).  But I think that we were all taken aback that his fight ended so quickly.  How does one prepare for or accept the death of someone so young?  I suspect that few of my younger co-workers have attended a funeral or visitation of someone so close to their age.

Jeff won’t be forgotten.  He was there when we were a small company; he helped us grow to the hundreds of employees we now have.  He started out as a worker-bee, but his technical skills and people skills led him into management.  I had the good fortune of being able to work with him closely during a difficult period in our company’s history.  I could count on him to help me out with good humor, patience, and accuracy.  I remember how happy he was to get married; I remember he and his wife bringing their firstborn to the office for the first time.  What a proud husband and father!

His children will know only second-hand the decency of their father.  His wife will have the dual challenge of dealing with her own grief while adjusting to single parenthood.

The reaction at the company today was one of profound and sad silence, a stark contrast to our usual open-office constant buzz.  The silence was a tribute to a wonderful young friend and colleague.  As an organization, we lost a certain innocence today.

And we’re left wondering why such things happen.

It’s been 5 years today since I lost Mom.  In some ways it seems longer; in other ways, shorter.  How my life, and lives of my family members have changed, yet stayed the same.  She would have loved to have seen her great granddaughter grow to be such an engaging little girl; she would have loved to have seen her three great grandsons.  She would have enjoyed that her grandchildren or their spouses are friends on Facebook, while separated by many miles.  She would have be disgusted with the political climate in both Richmond and Washington, and would lay blame at the feet of both parties.

It’s rare that a day goes by that I’m not reminded of her wisdom & counsel, or sharp intelligence, or pragmatic yet sympathetic approach to life.

I miss her, I miss our Sunday night talks, our internet chats, our frequent visits.  But I know she’s with me as I journey on.  That helps.

We’re in the midst of a new political season, and ergo I have a renewed urge to blog.  It’s been way too long – and much has happened in my life.

I’ll catch up with changes anon . . . at this point, my political frustration is at a boiling point with the Virginia legislature’s recent foray into helping us poor women with informed consent if we decide to terminate a pregnancy by basically forcing us to consent to a rape with medical equipment.  The House bill is here; the Senate bill is here.

I understand the issue of abortion.  I don’t like abortion, and I think that we, as a society, should make all efforts to decrease the numbers of abortions.  Yet after all is said & done, abortion must remain an option.

Women’s reproductive rights have essentially been unchallenged since I was a young woman.  I’ve never had to live without access to birth control (not that I’d need it now), and abortion has been legal throughout the US since Rowe v. Wade, decided in 1973, the year I received my undergraduate degree from university.

Women who are closing in on 40 have never known anything but freedom of reproductive choice.  Is this changing?  I hope not.  I fear so.

I’ve long struggled to understand the arguments against reproductive freedom.  Note that I didn’t say the arguments for abortion – no one is “for” abortion.  No one.  But it’s quite different to be pro CHOICE.  I’m not for abortion, I’ve often struggled with whether I could have one.  But that struggle is for me – the individual – to make, not for the government to dictate.

It’s so curious to me that the legislators who are so in favor of controlling a woman’s body and life choices are the same ones who scream about individual rights and freedoms.  There’s a huge fight right now in Virginia about whether to rescind the law that residents can’t buy more than one gun a month – one gun a month!  One interviewee said that the law was “inconvenient” so needed to be repealed.  Yet women can be subjected to any amount of inconvenience – and worse – that legislators deem appropriate.

It’s time for women to rise up.  I just hope it’s not too late.

Wicket enjoying his sunroom perch

Don & I lost Wicket this past week.  Variously known as Wicket, The Wick,  Wick-Wick, or just plain Wick, he came to us several years ago.  A Blue-Fronted Amazon, he was a handsome guy; bright green, with yellow and turquoise on his forehead, and red on the tip of his (useless) wings.

Wicket came into our lives through a pet sitter we used; she was aware of a family who’d essentially had Wicket dropped off on their doorstep by a relative who no longer wanted him.  The family was young, with an energetic baby and at least one dog; they didn’t need the complications of a parrot.  They were giving him away, complete with cage.  We went to see him.

Our first indication that something was amiss was when they asked if we’d like to take Wicket outside.  By that time we’d had Sam, our Congo African Grey, for a couple of years, and we knew it was quite dangerous to take a bird outside without having the bird’s wing’s clipped.  I asked if Wicket’s wings had been clipped, and the owner said no.  We declined the outdoor visit.

After we got Wicket to his new home, we quickly noticed he was wholly unable to fly.  More distressingly, when he fell, he fell like a potato.  We were educated enough parrot owners to know that when clipping a bird’s wings, one must make sure not to clip too close, because the bird should also be able to make a soft, gliding landing in case of a fall.  Wicket couldn’t.  We made an appointment to see Dr. Mike Taylor, an Avian vet at the University of Guelph.  Dr. Taylor examined Wicket, and told us that at some point, Wicket had sustained 2 broken wings that would forever remain broken and useless for flight.

Because of his broken wings, he could enjoy the outside without our fearing for him.

A couple of broken wings, though, didn’t keep Wicket on the floor of his cage.  Like all parrots, he scooted around his cage using his feet and his beak.  He was most comfortable perched rather high up, taking in the sights of the household.

With Wicket and Don, I think it was love at first sight.  Wicket adored Don, and, as a corollary, was not fond of me, as I was competition.  He would let Don pick him up, stroke him, hold him upside down.  He was gentle with Don – rarely did his beak pierce Don’s skin.  If on the floor, he’d waddle over to Don, and actually climb up his pants’ leg.  On the other hand, if I was holding Wicket, I had to make sure he was extended from me, because he would try to bite me.  Weekly parrot showers always had Wicket paired with his main squeeze, Don.

Wick had his peccadilloes.  While he was brave – much braver than Sam – he was extremely frightened of vacuum cleaners (which was the main reason I’d hold him – if Don was vacuuming).  He was a much pickier eater than Sam, except when it came to wood products.  He destroyed hand-built ladders that Don made for him, as well as countless perches.  We never minded, though – all that chewing was good for his beak.

He was generally friendly to all but me.  Don was always willing to take Wicket places, especially to teach young ones about amazing parrots.  Wicket went to school with Don, and even to church, where Don & Wicket put on a great demo for the children in front of the whole congregation.

“Careful” was Wicket’s favourite word, and you could count on him for a “hello” whenever the phone rang, or when someone was calling out.  He also picked up “okay”, likely from hearing one side of phone conversations where that phrase was repeated.  He’d also say “Wick-Wick.”  While he never had the talking skills of Sam, he was quick to mimic human speech cadence.  He and Don had a routine that was fun to watch:  Don would pretend to yell at Wicket, and Wicket would give it back to Don, syllable for syllable, all of which was nonsensical.

Bye, Wick. You were loved. But not for long enough.

Don awakened Wednesday morning to find Wicket on his back at the bottom of his cage.  Don picked him up gently, tried to get him to perch or at least stand.   Don knew immediately that whatever had happened would likely lead to Wicket’s death.  He held him, stroked him, then placed him back in his cage.  Within moments, Wicket expired.  We don’t know what happened.  Might he have fallen overnight, and broken his neck?  We’ll never know, other than his departure was sudden and not expected.

But Wicket waited for Don to come to him.  I’m glad they had their goodbyes until they meet again at the Rainbow Bridge.

Another Father’s Day rolls around, another tug at my heart.  Every year I’m reminded I don’t have a father to call.  But along with the heart-tugs that the too-commercialized day brings, it also encourages me to reflect on fatherhood in general, and what my own father meant to me.

Dad’s been gone now 31 years – I’ve lived over half my life without him.  But he’s still part of me – and not just my genetic makeup.

Dad was deeply religious and faithful to his Methodist upbringing.  When I was a child in Washington, DC, he attended McKendree United Methodist Church every Sunday; when we moved to the suburbs in 1960, he switched his membership to St. Luke’s United Methodist, outside of Falls Church, VA.  He didn’t just attend.  At various times, he was in the choir, he taught Sunday School, he was active in all aspects of his church.  He did this alone.

When my mother and father married in 1943, as my mother was a practicing Roman Catholic, my father had to agree to raise all children Catholic, regardless of his own faith.  He took that vow to heart as seriously as he took his vows to my mother.  While staying remarkably active with his own church, he was involved with our parochial education – even serving as president of a parent-teacher association of a Catholic school.

These were the days when we Catholics had a, well, rather disdainful view of non-Catholics (I’ve blogged before about the division of the world into Catholic & non-Catholic).  They simply weren’t as good as we were, and may even lead to a “near occasion of sin,” something to be avoided at all costs.  This meant that we were never to cross the threshold of a non-Catholic church, because who knows what might happen.  My mother told me that at some point – around Grade 2 – I told my father that he was good enough to be a Catholic.  I’m sure I meant it.

As Catholic as my mother was, she did keep some common sense.  She was not about to deny Dad and his family our presence as major events, even if they were to take place in other churches.  So even quite young, I attended, for example, the wedding of my cousin at the Friends Meeting House (Quaker).  However, there was no major event mandating the family’s presence at Dad’s church.  That is, until his memorial service.  That’s right – for the first 30 years of my life, I watched my father attend services every Sunday; I heard about his singing the choir; I heard about his leading the teen youth group, even met them when they came over to the house once.  But I was never in the church he called home for his entire life.  He needed to die first.

How wrong that was of the Catholic Church to deprive our family – including my mother – of the rich experiences that might have created.  How hurt Dad must have felt all those years, attending services with us on Christmas and other feasts, knowing that we would not – could not – reciprocate.  I wonder how he could have stepped inside church, let alone provided all the help and support that he did to ensure he kept his promise to raise us Catholic.  But step inside he did – and he always kept his good humor about religious differences.  Mom and I discussed this in her later years; she, too regretted that she didn’t question the logic of Methodist Church as forbidden fruit that would lead to sin.

But Dad may have had the last laugh.  I left the Catholic Church for many reasons about 10 years ago, and became active with the United Church of Canada.  This morning, I attended church service at Trinity United Church in Kitchener, Ontario.  Trinity United is part of the United Church of Canada, which is the product of a merger- called the “Union” – in 1925 of the Methodists, Congregationalists, and most Presbyterians in Canada.  Trinity, I learned, had been a Methodist church before Union.  This is the first time I’d attended a United Church with a Methodist background.

I felt Dad’s spirit with me.  I could see him smiling gently.

Miss you, Dad.

Four years ago today, Mom died. And with her beloved cottage, I’m moving from museum mode, replacing ancient (read: uncomfortable) furniture and doing a bit of modernizing.

I’ve been here in Virginia for 2 weeks, and have replaced her main living room furniture (sofa & loveseat) with a lovely red leather set, sofa and two chairs. This morning, the painters will arrive to paint her bedroom – now referred to as the master bedroom – getting rid of some more gold – walls and carpeting – that permeated the house since its being built in the mid-70s.  (Yep, Mom & Dad embraced the harvest gold/avocado green trend with gusto.) Mom had already painted the gold (yes, GOLD) paneling in the main room a neutral off-white, and replaced the gold carpet there with hardwood, so I’m just continuing her efforts.

At the end of the week, the flooring installers will take the gold carpet from that bedroom, and cover the floor (and gold linoleum in the master bath (en suite, for Canuck readers) with cork flooring.  By next weekend, another large chuck of the house will be de-golded, leaving only 2 gold rooms left – guest bedroom and den.

But in the midst of all this activity, I still take time – must take time – to remember why I’m here as a human, and why I’m here in Virginia.  In clearing out the bedroom for the painters, I ran across a note yesterday that Mom received just a few days before she died:

Dear Rosemary,

Was so happy that I got to visit you – just like “old times”. . . .  May God bless you, and may the angels accompany you and take you to your new home!  We will meet again! . . .

I thank you for being my wonderful friend.  Love, Lou

The note was written on lined baby-legal pad paper – 5″ x 7″ or so, one side only, just a short note written in felt-tip marker.  Lou was, perhaps, Mom’s oldest and dearest friend.  They met in Washington, D.C., where they were neighbors with young families some 60 years ago, and the close friendship endured through Lou and her husband’s moving to this rural part of Virginia in their retirement, and Lou’s later move away.  There was nothing that one wouldn’t do for the other.  True, deep, long friends they were.

I won’t forget the day Mom received the note.  Lou and one of her daughters had visited a week or 2 previously, and by the time the letter arrived, Mom was bed-bound.  I read her Lou’s note while sitting with her at the side of her bed.  I broke down while reading it when Lou wrote “May God bless you, and may the angels accompany you . . . “  It was an honest and hopeful approach to death and the beyond that Mom & Lou shared without question.  The note shows my tears – the last 3 lines are smudged.

So I’ll proceed with the sprucing up the cottage, but I’ll also keep that note as long as I’m around.  Sprucing up underscores that life is dynamic and goes on, and Lou’s note underscores that friendships can endure for life and beyond.

And Mom, if you’re up there (and I rather suspect you are) – I hope you approve of my choices, and know that you’re still missed by many.

Today I am 60 years old.  Age has never been a particularly big deal to me; I’ve never been reluctant to say my age (that is, provided I even remember how old I am).  But I’ve historically had a “youngest” mentality.  Perhaps that’s because I was the youngest of 3 in my family.  In my early career, I was the youngest to do this or hold that position.  Even when I start law school at 33, somehow I kept that youngest mentality.  The first time I internalized that I was getting older was when I began my current job, and my boss turned out to be younger than my daughter (by a matter of days).  And he was older than most of our co-workers.

Now I know that when one is 60, there’s no denying that youth is gone.  Oh, I know the sayings that 60 is the new 40, and in some ways I believe it.  I also think I’m mentally pretty young (some may say immature).  But when one gets down to the reality of longevity, the fact remains that my life is 2/3 over – and that’s assuming that I follow in the footsteps of my mother.  (I prefer Mom’s odds to Dad’s, who died at 64.)  But my feelings aren’t sad or maudlin.  Rather, I’m looking at having 1/3 of my life left in front of me – and again, if I’m blessed with my mother’s genes, 99% of that remaining time will be spent in good health.  My struggle is what am I going to do with that very significant time?  I don’t know the answer to that question.

For a lot of different reasons, I’ve come to Virginia to spend some significant, quality, quiet time by myself.  One of the goals of my trip is to discern what my path might take, what might realistically be in store for me.  I need to get in touch with myself, physically, spiritually, emotionally.  I know I won’t divine all the answers while I’m here, but I might at least get an inkling.  I do know I want to participate in something meaningful; some how, some way, I want to give more than lip service to the Charter for Compassion.  But meaningful need not be grandiose.  I’m not going to cure HIV/AIDS; I’m not going to solve poverty.  But I do want to leave this world a better place than it would have been had I not lived.

My choice of timing here in Virginia isn’t a coincidence; there were a lot of contributing factors, personal, work-related, and yes, even weather-related.  But March is also the time of year when my mother’s life came to an end.  Indeed, I began this blog 4 years ago today, just two weeks before she died.

So I’m looking forward to my 60s and beyond.  I’m looking forward to becoming wiser, kinder, gentler.  After all, life is good.