A Christmas Rummage Sale

Ornaments and More Ornaments

Ornaments and More Ornaments ©2008

All my kids are finally home for the Holidays and I made them all promise that, at the first available moment, we would all gather together for a special ceremony – Mom’s De-cluttering Hour.

In 33 Christmas seasons, my family has amassed an alarming array of Christmas decorations. When I went into the basement at the beginning of the month, I was surprised to find eight boxes marked Christmas Decorations. There were three boxes of tree ornaments alone. Way too much stuff as far as I’m concerned. After we decorated the house, gently decorated, not crammed with bric-a-brac everywhere, we had five boxes of decorations that we had once happily used, but that we no longer wanted nor needed. I immediately had visions of throwing all the extras in the car and dashing to Goodwill, but then inspiration struck.

My kids had grown up with these decorations. Just because the Santas and sparklies didn’t fit into my celebration mode now, it didn’t mean they held no importance for my children.  So I gave each of my kids a call, asked them if they’d be interested in a Christmas decoration rummage sale – with one special clause. There would be no price tags. They could come, browse, and take whatever they wanted. Then whatever remained we would donate to others looking for new holiday decorations. All three kids were enthusiastic about the idea.

And so we gathered this afternoon.  In less than 30 minutes, all the decorations were sorted into four boxes – older daughter, son, younger daughter, Goodwill. And in those 30 minutes, I discovered a little something about the different personalities of my three 20-something children.

My eldest picked up everything that caught her eye, loved the bright ornaments and table decorations, and often took a trinket if I told her it was something her great-grandmother had crafted. She even took slightly imperfect ornaments, certain she could make the necessary repairs.  (And she can – she supports herself as a maintenance person while going to school.)  She easily filled two boxes and then some. But at one moment, when she picked up one of the few items her brother showed an interest in, she quickly gave it to him without a quibble.

My middle child gathered the few things that were specifically his: a Baby’s First Christmas ornament engraved with the year of his birth; a miniature baseball slugger; an Oscar the Grouch in his trash can ornament.  He picked up an Advent calendar and remarked how he remembered moving the little mouse from hole to hole until the 24th hole was reached and he knew that the next day would be Christmas Day. He wanted that calendar. Then he remarked that he didn’t really want stuff to just have stuff. He filled a small shoebox, and he was more than satisfied.

My youngest picked all the basics: place mats; tablecloths; a dozen, plain gold baubles for the tree.  She asked for the tree skirt, the one I had embroidered more than three decades ago as a young wife preparing for my first married Christmas. She filled a box, but her items were quite bulky and all rather sensible.

It was interesting to see how each reacted in their own, different way, what things each one found to be important.

At the end, we filled another 3 boxes with very usable items that we will deliver first thing to the neighborhood Goodwill store. I know it’s very close to Christmas, but maybe some last minute shopper will be able to find a few decorations to add to their Holiday celebration.

And after the first of the year, when we return everything to the basement shelves for another year, I will have successfully done some serious de-cluttering. That’s a grand way to celebrate this season as far as I’m concerned.

As the years start to accumulate, I find that the simpler is the better.

Blogging and The Land of Enchantment

Hot Air Balloon over Albuquerque

Hot Air Balloon over Albuquerque ©2008 Bo Mackison

There are many reasons to keep a blog. When I started this blog just over a year ago, my goals were straight-forward. I wanted to practice my photography, a brand new skill then, and commit to a daily practice of posting a photograph. Simple enough.

In a matter of a few weeks, the blogging grew into a habit I enjoyed. Not only did my photos improve, but after many months they began to attract some attention on their own. Some people asked to buy copies; a couple of non-profits asked permission to use a photo or two in their various organizations. The exposure also led to a writing gig for a Wisconsin Travel blog. And I developed a core of readers who visited regularly, left comments, and whom I visited in return. And so I thought that is what blogging accomplished and I was quite pleased with the results. Little did I realize there would be more.

Last spring, I discovered a writers’ blog, red Ravine, and submitted a couple of writing pieces to the site. They were published and I found I enjoyed that experience. I also enjoyed the red Ravine community and began reading the blog regularly and commenting. I exchanged a few e-mails with one of rR’s founders, ybonesy. Ybonesy often writes about place on her blog. In her case, place is New Mexico.

When I began making plans to travel in the Southwest, I dropped ybonesy a note, telling her I would be in her neighborhood, in person.  Was she interested in meeting for coffee or lunch?  She responded enthusiastically and so we began our planning.

Last week, I arrived on her doorstep with my spouse and camper in tow. We explored her awesome piece of land, I met the snake and the turkeys and the dogs she so often blogs about. Her husband Jim greeted us as well, and shared his enthusiasm for the wide open spaces in New Mexico.  Then we went to the perfect local restaurant, Perea’s Tijuana Bar, where we indulged in carne adovada and tamales. It was a truly delightful experience – great food plus face-to-face conversation with a “blogger friend”.  I’m a self-avowed introvert and this was a remarkable feat for me. I had a great visit and I felt like I had rediscovered a long-gone friend.

When we all blog together, we do get to know a lot about each other, but the connection isn’t quite complete. It is very nice to actually meet someone from the virtual world in the real world. Very nice, indeed.

I hope, ybonesy, if you or another frequent visitor at the Seeded Earth ever visit Wisconsin, you’ll drop me a note. I’d love to share my part of the country in the same manner you shared your part of the country with me.

Blogging has a lot of benefits. Exposure, a bit of profit, new gigs, virtual friendships all around the world. Now I can add another plus – new friends to meet in new places. Wow! This is pretty awesome stuff.

Thanks, ybonesy, for the wonderful visit. It was great meeting you after learning so much about you from your writing and art. This kind of connection really makes blogging come alive.

Shrouded Cemetery

Roadside Cemetery in Dane County

Roadside Cemetery © 2008

Cemeteries hold a certain fascination for me. On my travels around the state of Wisconsin and in other parts of the country, too, I often see small cemeteries on private lands. Simple family cemeteries filled with crumbling spires and solid squatty granite blocks. Some are decorated with plastic flowers in every hue and variety, some with teddy bears and pin-wheels, some plain – but not forgotten, I hope.

My favorite grave markers are the ones that incorporate a bench. Not that I will have a bench near my eventual resting place, but I do like the idea of having a place for others to rest a bit, think quiet thoughts, re-consider and make new plans, go on with living. While still taking out a few moments of life to remember and honor.

I’m the cemetery visitor in my immediate family. I think, though, that I am the last in a long line of grave site caretakers. My great-grandmother and both grandmothers with whom I grew up  – they were all Sunday-morning-after-church-services visitors to the cemetery. I often accompanied them as I was the one with the young knees and strong arms. I could run along the gravel paths without fear of turning an ankle or falling. We often brought live plants that required digging holes, setting in, mounding, and watering. In Autumn, we brought rakes so that I could rake leaves off the long line of family plots. Even little clippers to trim the summer’s blades of grass that sprang up in the improper of places.

I still take my mother to the cemetery when I visit my hometown. We now decorate with artificial flowers that can be re-used every year.  And we decorate seasonally – Christmas poinsettias, then red and white carnations for Valentine’s Day, followed in quick procession by spring flowers, Memorial Day in red, white and blue, summer flowers, Fourth of July, and finally fall flowers. In early December we start with Christmas again. And the seasons recycle, each set of flowers returns to the cemetery at just the right time.

I’d rather just wander around, look around, examine. But the flower tradition has been in place for a hundred years in my maternal family. I don’t live near the family site. Hundreds of miles away, actually. So I wonder what will happen when I no longer have living relatives to visit in my hometown.

When in Rome, Do as the Romans…

Star

A Foreign Place ©2008

Good advice, right? So while I’m in the West, I’m thinking I should do as the Westerners do. Except I can’t find any Westerners to emulate now.

How on God’s earth do the people out here camp? I know they camp. Surely they camp. But I sure in hell cannot figure out exactly where they camp.

As a solid, card-carrying camper – hey, I belong to triple A, and they give campground discounts, correct? – I feel as if I know a little something about camping. Plus, I have been a camper nearly my entire life and I have camped in nearly every state in the country towing along three kids. I know how to pack, plan, and head on out into the wild, wide blue open. And it has always worked.

At least, it has always worked until now.

Now, I am not so sure, and I am having a hard time finding any Westerners to ask. I do know that campgrounds seem to be few and far apart out here in the Southwest. But in my prolonged searches, I seem to have uncovered three types of campgrounds.

Type I: The National Parks. Now this is my idea of a great place to camp. A bit rustic. Great scenery and knowledgeable rangers who want to expand your camping pleasure by offering you a choice of a hundred things you absolutely must do in the 48 hours you are going to be there. But here is an observation and a problem.

The observation? There are not very many Westerners camping in these campgrounds. There are many, many international campers in these campgrounds. (You cannot go by the license plates because most travelers from Europe and Asia rent a car and camp across the West.) In the last few days I’ve met great people from Germany, Holland, Japan, Denmark, Australia, Puerto Rico and the Netherlands. And just a couple of campers from east of the Rockies – one family from Ohio and a couple from South Carolina. I keep wondering just where are the people who live maybe a state or two away from these national wonders.

And the problem? I camp with a husband who seems to think it is every camper’s right to experience a hot shower in the morning before experiencing mind- and body-defying hikes through the wilderness. And, as hard as I find this to comprehend, he is rather stubborn about this idea. Cold water poured over his head and a bit of soap lather apparently does not count. He’ll appease me for one night, maybe even two if I really get desperate, but he’d really rather do his shower thing in the morning.

Type II camping spots – I’m guessing these are the places where the locals camp. The ten- or twelve-unit campgrounds tucked in forests and along streams on federal and state lands. Or a wide spot off the road in the same federal lands – National Forest Service lands, Bureau of Land Management lands, State Parks. Many of these are tucked away so you have to look for them. That’s not the problem. The problem is already listed under Type I campgrounds. No showers. Egad.

So that leaves Type III – the third category of camping places when you are a stranger in these parts, and you mostly rely on published materials. I’m referring to the private campground. These often come with many qualifications in writing.  Horseshoe pits, playgrounds, laundry, WiFi, sometimes a pool, usually a game room and a mini-store. More often than not, they note the availability of that most welcome of commodities – the hot shower.

They also usually come with pull through sites and 40+ foot RVs that most people on this globe would easily mistake as second homes for royalty, pop stars, and oil magnates.

All I really want is a shower for my spouse. Instead I get convenience which, when translated, means “next to a very noisy road.” And as a bonus, I also get next to the railroad tracks. I’m figuring every road of any worth west of the Continental Divide also has a train track nearby, complete with freight trains that run approximately every 30 minutes on the hour.

The trains –something I don’t see (or hear) too often where I live – were charming the first dozen or so times. The novelty has worn thin. Type III campgrounds, as far as the camper in me is concerned, are not really places to camp. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

The Type III campground I am writing from at 4 AM this morning is the worst of all possible Type IIIs.

We came in very late – I had a migraine much of the day which threw a big wrench in our travel timetables – and we couldn’t make our planned destination. I’m not certain, but by the light of the half-moon, this area is more than a little seedy. There are trailers parked here that I think have been here since the fifties. There is no WiFi as advertised (one luxury I admit to liking, though it is not at all in the same category as the shower). The showers here are unusable and the bathrooms require a “punch code number” to access.  And the 5 million watt lighting from the truckers’ parking lot next door makes it all feel a little too eerie for comfort.

So, though I am enjoying my trip and the places I am seeing, the camping has been off and on. Tonight is definitely one of the offs. I can hardly wait for daylight so that I can assess where I am, exactly, and then skedaddle as fast as I can away from the place.  In another day, we get a treat – a “not-camping” overnight with a friend who has kindly offered a real bed in a real house. And guaranteed showers, no howling trains for background music, no big rigs running generators all night.

And to sweeten the deal even more, her husband is a hobbyist brewmaster.

(Remember my Wisconsin roots?)

Yow-zaaaaaa!

Down on My Knees

Antique Flowers Shot While Kneeling in Grass in White Jeans

Antique Tin Flowers Photographed While Kneeling in Grass in White Jeans © 2008

Today – it is only 9:43 am – and already I have had one of those life lesson days. You’d think I wouldn’t have to expose my mind to such philosophical points of view so early, but lessons are not planned. They simply happen. Here’s today’s lesson:

Don’t Skip the Basics

How obvious! Yes? No!

I’m frazzled these days – change of seasons, change of life, changes in life. Ordinary and not-so-ordinary living kinds of things. My mind was full this morning chewing on all those nasty bits and I was giving it unlimited chomping privileges.

But there were things to do, whether or not I wanted to do them, and I had baskets of dirty clothes and a rainy day and a morning without a deadline or appointment. Good time for tackling the ever-erupting laundry hamper. Mind half on my task, I sorted the clothes in the appropriate piles and carried the first load down to the washing machine.

Whites were first. I hate white clothes – all that underwear and a dozen-plus tee-shirts to be sorted by sizes and folded. White socks without their mates.  A few cotton shirts that actually need ironing. (Why, I ask myself over and over, do I wear these shirts? Because they feel so clean and crisp when I need that clean, crisp feeling, I answer). And a pair of white jeans.

I pulled out the spot remover and tackled hard-to-erase grass stains from the knees of the jeans, stains that were ground in well. Ground in while I was kneeling in a thick, wet lawn to take a close up photo of an antique tin flower that had caught my eye. The stain came out, but it took a while. A rather long while.

After all the clothes were in the machine, I realized I hadn’t checked pockets. Water was spraying all over, the suds were bubbling, and I simply didn’t feel like putting my hands in the soapy mess.

“Nah,” I convinced myself, way too easily. “Nothing in those pockets. Just jeans.” And so I clunked the lid down and went off to tackle the challenges in my world. I planned on counteracting all those garbage thoughts with some wholesome journal writing.

I was really into my words when the washer stopped, and feeling more than a little irrationally irritable at the machine, I stalked over to it and dumped the clothes from the washer into the dryer. I was back in my favorite writing nook when a thought crept out of my brain for examination. “Do you want to check those pockets now?” it whispered.

“NO,” I retorted. It’s a little sad when you find yourself screaming – and you are sitting all alone in a quiet house.

So of course, you know what happened, don’t you?

There was a cheap black ink pen in my pocket. It made it through the wash cycle, but the plastic ink tube erupted in that warm dryer and leaked ink into my tumbling clothes. And then the ink tumbled and tumbled through those white clothes as they tumbled and tumbled through the dryer.

I retrieved my clothes when the buzzer sounded.

Jackson Pollock would have been proud.

So the few seconds it would have taken me to do the basics have turned into hours now needed to clean the inside of the dryer, salvage what I can of a mound of black spattered white clothing, and decide how to replace the necessaries that need replacing.

I just put my second load into the washing machine. And I paid more attention and did the complete job this time. Including pockets. That mindfulness thing. Be aware. Pay attention.

Oh, yeah! Mindfulness. I’m thinking it even applies to doing laundry.