Monday, October 30, 2017

Coat Conundrum

Nearly every woman I know has kept her wedding dress.  Not all have kept their husbands, but the dress is separate, existing as it does, skirting the line between fantasy and reality.  I even kept mine and it was just an eyelet lace dress, not a real wedding gown.  The point is, there are some garments one may certainly outgrow but which never quite make it to the Goodwill bin.

I have a laundry basket filled with such items.  There are favorite shirts, worn at their creases and faded; dresses my late mother sewed for me replete with tiny hand stitches I cannot just discard, and a couple of handmade quilts I earned during my time living in Vermont.  One item stands out. 

When my mother moved in with me in her very old age, she brought her old Borgana coat.  Borgana, or Borganza, as it is sometimes called, looks and feels rather like beaver fur but is a synthetic.  When I was 14 she bought me one and I did not appreciate it.  As a short person, the last thing I needed, especially at that age, was something that added width, subtracted visual height, and made me self-conscious. I accidentally ruined that coat by leaning up against a hot radiator.  Though Mom was angry, she did not replace it with another.  Instead, I got a pea coat, which was what I wanted in the first place.

When Mom died, 10 years ago this month, I got rid of all her clothing the next day.  That sounds unfeeling, but I knew if I kept them, they would only deepen my grief.  Later, I found her coat and could not part with it.  Every year since then I’ve debated what to do with a coat older than my grown children, stylish as pillbox hats, and as likely to be used as the hatpins they required. 

A few weeks ago, I tidied up my office and took the coat out of the closet.  I thought, “It’s time.” So I gave it a little more thought and found the perfect use for that old, beloved, besmirched, coat.  I’m giving it to Clark, my 14 year-old black lab.  Mom liked him; buttered English muffins for him and loved his gentle ways.  But Clark has a quirk.  He won’t come inside the house and in recent years I have kept him warm by creating a bed for him out of an old pack-and-play lined with blankets.  Before I retire for the night I tuck him in.  This winter he gets Mom’s coat. 

I went out last night with it for the first time and tucked in my crazy old dog.  He groaned with joy as he felt the furry warmth surround him.  Even this morning, I saw him return to the bed and nuzzle it happily, preferring it to his usual hole in the ground beneath my bedroom window. 

Somewhere, I think Mom is both mad and smiling that someone finally appreciates that coat! 

Saturday, September 30, 2017

Button Up!

Too dressed up (Thanks, Mom)
As far back as I can remember, I’ve worn shirts.  Not blouses, not tee shirt, shirts.  As the youngest and only girl, I was sometimes dressed in my brother’s hand-me-downs, paired with what we then called dungarees, and I preferred them to the fussy clothes my mother would lovingly sew for me. I eschewed tiny buttons, ruffles, and (horrors) crinolines.

It is no wonder then, that now that I am out of the workplace where I once sported suits (remember Dress for Success?), silky blouses with bows at the neck (the ’80, yeah), pumps, pantyhose, dresses and skirts, I now stick to comfortable shirts.  Now that I am either retired, or part of the gig economy, (depending on how you look at it), I work at home, in the comfort of my own office – dressed in shirts.

Me, happy in a paisley shirt!
My collection is made up of either shirts I’ve gotten for free, for instance from my significant other, my younger daughter’s high school boyfriend (now middle-aged), my dead brother, or from finds at second-hand shops.  I will admit to once or twice finding a fabulous shirt at retail, but that was when I was working and could easily afford a $20 shirt.  Now my limit is $5 a pop and the thrill of the hunt is part of the fun.

I do have a few shirts made for women, but I avoid those that are weird, with oddly placed pockets, strange darts, embellished collars, or those awful tiny buttons.  Most I own are men’s shirts. I look for patterns; paisley is my favorite.  They are few and far between but I’ve hit pay dirt a time or two. I usually stay away from stripes and plaids, so that helps me narrow the field down significantly.  Solids come down to fabric.  I prefer a high proportion of cotton or linen, and any I can find on the rack that have a soft feel might persuade me.  I do have one plaid shirt I wear for my grandson who loves plaid. 

This week I looked at one of my favorite shirts as I donned it for the day.  It’s one I bought maybe 15 years ago when a local department store went out of business.  The collar is beginning to fray.  I almost panicked.  I eventually wear out all my favorite shirts and jackets at the collar and I hate it. So much so that I have a laundry basket filled with old shirts with tattered collars I keep thinking I will somehow fix.  This discovery of this newest defect told me it was time to hit Goodwill and Salvation Army.  I scored!  One paisley in a dull green/grey I wear well, a red shirt in a tiny check that just looks sharp, and one in a very soft cotton with a feather motif.  Love ‘em!

My pet peeve in men’s shirts is the permanently stiff collars and cuffs.  Why do they do that?  Ugh.  I have a few shirts like that but I don’t wear them often.  Mostly they remind me of people, so I keep them. 

So today, among the things for which I am grateful, are my shirts, garments that fit me to a T.

Monday, September 18, 2017

A brother's death

Broken Oak by Jim Cole
It's been a tough year.  I lost my brother.  Jim was my oldest brother.  Floyd, the middle brother, died some years ago and Peter, the brother closest to me in age, took himself out of the family picture as soon as he left home at 18.  So, Jim was really like my only sibling.

We were 15 years apart and different in many ways. He was an engineer and spent his career working on the early Apollo space shots and later working in high-powered jobs that took him all over the globe. I was just a writer and potter, usually just scrapping by.  He bought all the homes and toys his substantial salary would allow; I've struggled just to keep my modest home and keep my car running. He was a Republican, though not exactly a true right-winger, having eschewed religion some years ago;  I have been a liberal Democrat since attaining voting age. Yet we had one thing in common.

Jim had his photography and I had my pottery and my writing.  This bridged a significant gap in our years and lifestyles.  Jim had his photography equipment and studio; I had my pottery studio and tools.  We understood that about each other. We understood art and the need to create.

Jim's motto, if he had one, was to try to have a little fun every day.  At the end, he was having no fun and he chose to refuse treatment for his ongoing problems in April and died.  I even understand that.  He fought as long as he could but when he was done, he was done.  I suspect I will leave this life much the same way. There is something to be said for retaining control over one's death, as one has in life.

Still, it has been hard.  Jim went into the hospital for an elective surgery about a year ago.  It went all wrong and led to another, major surgery, which in turn led to a major lifestyle change for Jim.  It sapped a lot of the joy from his life. It turned him into a patient. In March, he returned to the hospital for another surgery and it all went downhill from there.  Five years ago he beat lung cancer but when he contracted hospital-acquired pneumonia in March, it was all over.

He was in and out of intensive care, had repeated procedures, and finally he just quit eating.  I had to get in his face and make sure that he understood that not eating would lead to his death.  He understood.  When his wife and I walked out of his hospital room that day, it was grim. His final words to us were, "I love you guys." The next time we saw him was in hospice.  He was unresponsive and so ravaged by the pneumonia that we had to gown up and don face masks and gloves to go into his room.  It was more than his wife could bear.  We did not go back.

It was a beautiful day at the Cape Canaveral Military Cemetery when we finally interred Jim's ashes.  They played Taps and folded a flag, presenting it to his widow.  I held her hand.

Grief is complicated.  A lot depends on one's relationship with the departed, how close it was, its quality, its essence.  Sometimes grief cuts a relationship short that is unresolved and that adds a measure of angst.  Sometimes it creates such change for the one left behind that added stress can make it intolerable.  For me, none of that is so.  I am simply without my brother.  I have his photos, and they are like part of him.  Here is one I like.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

I highly recommend this blogger:  She is an author of high merit and worth your time.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Of Statues, Free Speech, Hate, and More

Our country is at a turning point.  This happens maybe once in a generation but the ramifications carry on for generations.  I am 66 and I believe this moment in history is more significant than any I have witnessed in my lifetime. 

I was raised in New Jersey and have lived most of my adult life in the South so I have personally seen the issues of the Civil War and slavery and the resultant white supremacy from both ends of the historical spectrum.  I am even distantly related to one person honored with a Civil War statue. My father helped liberate the camps in Germany following WWII.
Charlottesville revealed that the racism that has simmered just below the surface of our lives, breaking through in episodes largely ignored by whites, has come of age and the white supremacists have tossed off not only their sheets, but also any cloaking narrative, revealing pure racism, anti-Semitism, and ultimately hate.  Since Charlottesville, more who speak for these groups have vocalized repugnant ideas with enthusiasm, including vile comments about the young woman who died at the hands of one of these neo-nazi groups. 

Emboldened by comments made by an incompetent and narcissistic President, these groups have crawled out from under their rocks and made their presence known.  While thoroughly appalled at their rhetoric, their actions, their belief system, I am also partly glad they have finally revealed themselves for exactly what they are.  There is no gray area.  White privilege can no longer pretend that racial prejudice is some construct of poor people who want to be supported by the large working masses of white people.  Racial prejudice is real and exists outside of any such argument.  It is toxic.  It is reprehensible.  And it must finally be repudiated.

Facts matter.  The truth matters.  It is a fact that the Civil War was fought over the issue of slavery.  Maintaining it was over “states’ rights” or “economic issues” is a smokescreen.  The southern states wanted the autonomy to refuse the authority of their own federal government regarding this issue and they took up arms against it.  That is called treason, not states’ rights. 

It is a fact that white supremacy is a belief system whose ultimate goal is the separation and eradication of all non-whites from those who somehow believe they are genetically better than those with a different skin color or religion or belief system.  It is also a fact that genetically, few – if any – of us, are purely white, or purely African, or purely Irish, Italian, etc. It is a belief system that is entirely flawed.

It is also a fact that the white supremacists who marched with torches in the night, took up arms for their march in the day.  They arrived with long guns, clubs, in combat gears, and desirous of confrontation. Did the protestors who showed up to raise their voices against this group strike back? Yes, that too, is a fact.  But making the two morally equivalent shows an utter lack of rational thought.

According to witnesses at the scene, the protesters on the left only struck back to protect those being physically attacked by the white supremacists.  This is more equivalent to a bystander throwing a punch at a purse-snatcher.

There are ideals and beliefs worth standing up for, worth being willing to brave violence for.  Our service men and women do this day-in and day-out but our civilians do it, too, when they stand against repulsive beliefs and actions.  Free speech is not uttered with guns and clubs.  It may be true that we must tolerate abhorrent beliefs in others to preserve such speech for ourselves.  But there is no requirement to tolerate these beliefs in action.  We must make them as socially repugnant as they truly are and we must refuse to normalize such beliefs and actions.   The first step in this, I believe, is to remove our current President as unfit for the office he holds and disgraces.

As for the statues, they are nothing but symbols.  When more people realize they attempt to immortalize a failed attempt at treason, they will naturally be relegated to the back halls of local museums, complete with notations about their racist past. 

Monday, June 12, 2017

My love/hate affair with the phone

Back when everyone's phone attached to the wall, I refused to even have an answering machine because its existence seemed to convey the erroneous message that I would a) immediately listen to the messages and b) act on them as instructed.  I felt like it turned my phone from a convenience for me into a tool for the others in my life.

Now, of course, things have changed.  Everyone carries their phones around with them everywhere. They take them into the bathroom. They sleep with them. They text while driving! I've gotten used to seeing people in meetings with two or three phones spread out before them on the conference table, their attention flicking back and forth between them and the matters at hand.  

I just recently let go of my wired, home phone and have struggled to get a cell phone that works for me.  There's my work cell, which I'm comfortable with, of course, a nice iPhone 5s, but it's not mine. So, I signed up for the free (yes, really, actually free) service from FreedomPop but I had to buy a phone.  My word, they are spendy! I chose the cheapest and got exactly what I paid for.

I struggled for months with the phone and thought maybe if I upgraded to a  better cell plan it would be better, but no, the phone itself is a piece of crap, unable to accommodate its operating system and more than three apps. And then, there's Sprint, the line on which it operates.  I got a different phone and still got just one or two bars in my home.  Everywhere else it was fine, but not at home.  

Consternation.  So there I was with three phones, none of which were up to the job except the work phone, which I don't own. So my partner of 20+ years had a solution.  He gave me his old phone, a Galaxy4, and just got a second line on his account.  It's not entirely free, but it's cheaper than my upgraded service and it is now my own, fully operational, phone.  

I don't love my phone the way some people do, but I do rely on having some means of reliable communication.  So if you have my number, leave me a voice mail.  Maybe I'll even return it!

Monday, May 29, 2017

In Memoriam: Ronnie Young

It was the 1960s.  I was in high school.  The boy next door was handsome, kind, friendly.  Three years my senior, Ronnie was a casual friend of my brother and I doubt he ever knew of the giant crush I had on him.

His parents had died young and he was being raised by his ancient grandmother, a dour woman I did not know well.  He had no siblings.  After finishing high school, Ronnie joined the Marines and the last time I saw him he was in uniform, heading for his first deployment in Vietnam. He died there and his grandmother died shortly after.

Every year on Memorial Day I think of Ronnie because there is no one left to honor his memory.  Every year his death reminds me of the cost of war and ultimately, the cost of freedom.  Though I believed that war to be wrong, the sacrifices there were no less noble.

Ronnie never saw his 20th birthday.