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Ramblings by Rose Mary (column archive Sept-Oct 2007)
Please refer back to the
Ramblings by Rose Mary main page for columns published in other issues. Rose Mary can be contacted via e-mail at
rwclarke@mibor.net.
Family Recipes: Get 'Em While They're Hot
I feel as if I’ve arrived too late at the station only to see the train going down the track. Labor Day has passed, and another summer of my life has sped by before I fully appreciated it. What a change from the slow summers of my youth when a day seemed to last forever, let alone a whole season! Perhaps our lives are crammed so full of TV shows, Internet, E-mail, and work that we don’t notice time’s passing.
For one thing, school let out before Memorial Day and didn’t start until after Labor Day so that summer vacation was longer. By the end of the rather humdrum summer, we were more than ready to go back up the long diagonal walks to the old Academy building down which we had so joyfully skipped on the last day of school. The older kids returned to their lunch-hour perch on the iron fence on the west side of the schoolyard to flirt and gossip, and in the wintertime we had basketball.
When my grandsons say, "I’m bored." I have little sympathy for them. They don’t know the meaning of boredom! There wasn’t much to do in Knightstown during the late forties and early fifties--no swimming pool, television, computers, electronic games or malls. Ho hum . . .
Summer brought picnics out at the Springs that used to be by Road 40 east of town, 4 H, the carnival at Sunset Park, tennis at the athletic field south of the Keesling farm, our annual trip up to Aunt Laura’s for Sunday dinner and a pilgrimage to the Old Home Place, and occasionally at the drive-in theater up on Road Three south of New Castle. (What was it called?)
It was a fun to swim in the round pool at Greenfield’s Riley Park or at Baker Park in New Castle. Some teenagers, rumor had it, skinny-dipped at the Classified Forest. (Not I, not I!) The Nine Nifty Nicitinos went to see and be seen at the Sullivans’ Drive-in East of Town. Some went dancing at the Indiana Roof or out at Westlake in Indianapolis.
One of the best things about summer was the food that you couldn’t get any other time of the year because produce wasn’t shipped in from California or Hawaii. What a treat it was to eat the fresh bounty of a Hoosier garden! Come summer, I’d hear a man coming down the street, singing out "Strawberries . . . Strawberries!" I’d run in and call to Mother, "Strawberry man’s comin’!"
Mother’s strawberry shortcake was different from that of Bill’s mother who made the biscuit kind. Mother baked rounds of her short pie crust and layered them with the small strawberries which were, according to the taste that lingers in my memory, more flavorful than the huge tones that we get today. She also baked a luscious, double-crust, strawberry pie.
Daddy and she had a big garden up by the greenhouse. "We’re having a garden dinner tonight," she’d announce. This consisted of whatever was ready: slow-simmered green beans seasoned with bacon and sometimes cooked with potatoes, corn on the cob or perhaps fried corn, slaw, Big Boy tomatoes, cucumbers and onions in vinegar, mangoes as they called them back then (green peppers), lettuce wilted with hot vinegar and bacon grease, corn bread and her homemade lemonade. No fancy restaurant meal tastes better!
After dinner, the neighborhood kids played kick-the-can or bicycle slips until dark. Then I’d join my parents on the swing until the house became cool enough for sleep as there was no central air back them. Back and forth, back and forth we’d gently swing to the thrum of the cicadas and the chirp of the crickets interspersed occasionally with the deep-voiced "Katy-did.". (Haven’t heard one in years!) It was on that swing that I learned many of the stories about my family and the olden days.
Every summer I try to make Mother's other’s corn fritters--actually thin, lacy cakes—but they aren’t the same. Some things such as Mom’s Hoosier, home-cooked comfort foods, the games of yesteryear’s summers with the neighbor kids and hanging out at the drive-in can be savored only in memory . . .
Folks, get those recipes while you can!
Sounds of Childhood Games Still Echo
Memory is a many-layered thing. Last week’s piece was a catalyst that caused some readers’ recollections to rise to the surface of their internal ponds. In turn, their reminiscences set me off on another ramble down memory lane--sort of a boomerang effect!
Niece Barbara wrote that my column made her hungry and that my brother, Earl, didn’t pick corn until Toots had the water boiling. I agree with Father Tim in the Mittford books who puts corn in boiling water and cooks it for exactly three minutes. When I’d visit my sister, Christine, we’d drive to a farm south of Knightstown and pick out several ears of the best corn I’ve ever eaten. Alas, she has been gone these two years, and I’ve had no more of that corn just as my mother’s corn fritters are only a distant memory.
Montaigne, wrote that each of us bears the entire stamp of the human condition. I He was right. Put simply, if you scratch a Hoosier you’re apt to find a love of roasting ears or fond memories of clam bakes in a Down Easterner, just as our friend, Vadel, talks about the couscous of Mauritania.
Paula Nicewanger, Operations Manager of the Eastside Herald in Indianapolis was a big-city girl, having grown up in Indianapolis and is twelve years younger than I. She wrote, "We lived the same lives!" What a compliment to know that one’s writing resonates with others. That’s what writers hope for.
Paula’s favorite treat was her mother’s homemade hot chocolate sauce that was poured on toast and topped with a big pat of butter. Her family also ate polk salad. An "everyday" treat that Mother gave to Wanda and me was bread and butter with sugar on it.
Paula’s e-mail refreshed my own memories. She asked if I had played rock school. Yes, indeed! The little girls played it by the iron fence on the east side of the schoolyard. The "teacher" held out her closed fists. The student had to choose which hand had a rock in it. If she guessed correctly, she was promoted to the next grade and moved up. We played king-of-the-mountain on a big boulder that was near the elm tree that stood near the junction of the walks. Later, touchy-feely officials had it removed lest the kiddies be hurt.
Kids like a little danger: Paula wasn’t permitted to have a bicycle as her mother didn’t consider it safe for girls. However, she played a game called "Slits" with the neighborhood bad boys where they threw sharp pocket knives at each other. She still has a scar to show for it. Needless to say, her mother never knew about this game just as Mrs. Frazier and my mother never knew that Wanda and I used to swing down from a tree and balance with no hands on the top of a nine-foot-tall fencepost back at Zimmerman’s lot.
Paula also made hollyhock dolls. Wanda and I would pull out their stamens, and then skewer a stack of hollyhock blossoms on a toothpick. Another toothpick was run through the top of the pile, and a partly opened bloom was put on each end of it to form sleeves. We carefully pulled a section of the leaf off the bud end, and--hey presto!--there were two little eyes. The finished dolls looked like tiny Martha Washingtons with green wigs. Then we floated our dollies in saucers of water.
Oh, the games of childhood: red rover, Mother-may-I?, statues, hide-and-go-seek, kick-the-can, tappy-on-the ice box, softball, and Chinese tag . . . Why that name? Dunno!. When you were tagged and became "it" you had to hold onto the place where you had been touched while chasing the others. . . No wonder we weren’t fat--we ran off Ma’s big meals rather than sitting in front of a computer. Each game had a location set in concrete: the school steps for Mother-may-I?, Carey St. for kick-the-can, Auntie Kelly’s big tree for the hide-and-seek base, softball on the vacant ground by the Big 4 Railroad.
I still hear the voices of long ago in my mind’s ear: "Over the can with Mardella . . ." "You’re out, Rex Mattix . . . " "Five, ten, fifteen, twenty . . . " "You may take five dishpan steps " No matter how much time passes or what changes take place in my life, my old chums are all there within my interior being where they remain forever young.
Weddings Not So Blissful Behind Scenes
People of every heritage have rites of passage such as coming of age. I’ve witnessed several recently: my own entrance into my seventieth decade, the twins’ graduation from high school and starting college, and their brother Bill’s wedding.
Ah, yes, weddings! Weddings are a huge event in every culture and are freighted with traditions. Picture this: the beautiful bride and blissful groom decked out in wedding finery, the tearful mamas, smiling guests, prayerful ceremony, music and food. A veritable Ode to Joy!
Then there’s what happens behind the scenes! I wonder if in India, say, or Latin America or Japan or among the Alaskan Eskimoes the same level of angst and irritation exists behind the joyous picture that the public sees on the great day.
I have a pretty good idea of what really goes on at a big wedding.. First, the opening salvo is fired off: The groom: "Why can’t we just go get married." The bride: "Sniff . . . I’ve dreamed of my wedding day all my life." The father of the bride: "We’ll have to mortgage the house to pay for this affair." The mother of the bride: "Sniff . . . I’ve dreamed of our daughter’s wedding day all my life."
Then comes months of negotiations, decisions and planning: Where will the ceremony and reception take place? Will it be a simple cake-and-punch reception or a meal? The caterer? The cake? We must have visited a dozen bakers before we found one who’d bake the square cake that Vicki wanted. Ordering the invitations, squabbling over how many each side can invite, choosing the florist and photographer or videographer take on the significance of a World War III.
Wedding attire is in a class of its own. In the old days, the rules for a formal wedding were set in concrete.. These days the bride often envisions the nuptials of Charles and Diana while the groom wants to wear blue jeans and athletic shoes.
Round one: Megan wanted a Cinderella gown. Bill wanted to wear shorts and athletic shoes. He broke the impasse by announcing, "The guys and I are wearing kilts." Why kilts? Dunno since the groom has very little Scottish heritage. I suppose that was as close as he could get to shorts. He has really loyal friends because they all agreed to it, except for brother Chris.
Round two: Shoes! Their shoes didn’t match, and they wouldn’t rent them. Sandals? Those didn’t match either. "Fine! We’re going to go barefoot," announced Bill--and they did! (I daresay that there was motherly displeasure.)
Round three: Vicki volunteered to make the bride’s gown and the guys’ attire.. "You’re crazy!" quoth her mother. The dress turned out beautifully as did the groom’s kilt, jacket and shirt She didn’t get the measurements and material for some of the fellows until four days before the wedding. Doggedly she sewed, sewed, sewed. At 10:00 AM on the great day, she still had a kilt to finish and five shirts to make. I was to sew grippers on the kilts while she went to get her nails done. I’m a rotten seamstress and finished only one set. "No problem," I said. "Use safety pins!" When she returned, we said, "No way can you make five shirts." Bill and her friend, Tom, went out and bought the shirts. Vicki didn’t even get to take a shower before the wedding as she had to pin the kilts on the groomsmen.
The ceremony was held outside next to a lake where a swan was swimming. The bride was lovely, and the hairy legs and bare feet of the fellows sticking out from under the kilts caused smiles, but didn’t destroy the mood. The bride and groom both cried. It was a wedding that none of us will ever forget! Round four: Megan’s parents cooked a delectable dinner for the big crowd, and this brought back fond memories of when Bill’s brother, Rick, sister-in-law Esther, and English cousin, Anne, spent the week before Vicki’s wedding, helping us fix food for 150 people. A big wedding is the worst of times and the best of times. That week turned out to be a wonderful Clarke party. I suspect that all of us had a much better time than the bride and groom!
Parade-Shy Cat Bolts in Blur of Flying Fur
I thought that I was done with writing about the past for a while, but I’m not. Various events have caused me to ramble away from my plan to write about the adventures of the son and daughter of one of my acquaintances whom I interviewed last Spring. I always worry that one of these days I’ll dry up and have nothing to write about. Thus, when a new topic strikes my fancy, I hop on it and save the old one.
People seem to enjoy the nostalgia, but I try not to dwell too much on the past. Remembrance is a double-sided coin: Thinking about the good old days brings warm fuzzies, but it can also fill one with melancholy and a tremendous sense of loss and longing for what was and will never be again.
Two events catapulted me back into past time, willy-nilly, in spite of my plan to move on. First, we saw Thornton Wilder’s Our Town at the IRT the other evening. To my mind, the best American play ever written, I’ve seen and read it several times and never tire of it. Even though I thought that this performance was over-acted, nothing can detract from the play's quicksilver charm. On the surface, it seems so simple, clear and easy to understand, and yet it portrays the depths of life and the universality of the human condition. Its message is that once this life is lived, one cannot go back.
Then when I perused last week’s Knightstown Banner I saw pictures of the Fall Festival. As I’ve said before, memory is many layered. When Eric Cox bought the paper Sarah Ward told him that when I was in high school I'd written for Tom Mayhill, the former publisher. Eric called, and I took samples of newsletters that I had sent to clients and friends. He chuckled when he read my account of the Jubilee Days that they had on the town square when I was young, and that became the first column that Eric published.
The pictures carried me back to the 1950's. My sister Christine Jones,brother-in-law, Orville, and their eight children moved into our house at the corner of Franklin and Carey where I grew up, and we moved into the little house behind it. The Jones kids were like my brothers and sisters, and their shenanigans provided much entertainment.
Kids thought that Jubilee Days were big doins’, there being little to do in K-town. There were carnival rides, cotton candy and food booths. At night there was music and dancing . . . "When the lights are down low, grab your girl and then go. Do the hucklebuck, do the hucklebuck. If you don’t know how to do it, then you’re out of luck!" . . . and "Balling the Jack"--"First you put your two arms out in space, then you do the eagle rock with style and grace . . ."
There were contests for which each entrant received a quarter that was promptly invested in food or rides. The Jones kids were always scrounging for money. Even the boys entered the doll contest, hiding tiny dolls in their fists that they flashed as they walked by the judges There was also a pet parade.. First, the kids had to find pets to take. We had a semi-tame, cantankerous cat named Copper. One of the Jones girls couldn’t find a pet to borrow, so she decided to take Copper to the pet parade.
"You’ll be sorry if you try to take that cat down to the Town Square," warned my mother. My niece who was noted for her stubbornness said, "I’m takin’ him!" She fastened Copper to a leash that she’d made from strips of cloth and clasped him tightly in her chest. Mother and I watched her walk up Carey St.
When she reached the corner across from the Averys’ house we saw a flurry of flying legs, and an orange blur flew through the air and disappeared down the alley behind the Fergusons’ house.. "I guess Copper didn’t want to go to the pet parade," Mother said. We guffawed so hard we had to hold each other up. We didn’t see Copper again for three days.
We managed to control ourselves by the time my niece came back a-sqawlin’ and a-bawlin’. Not only had Copper scratched her to a fare-thee-well, he--how can I put this delicately--was also suffering from a digestive ailment. They say that comedy is based on the misfortunes of others, and oh ‘tis true, ‘tis true.
Wars Prove We Learn Little from the Past
Nephew Brad sent an e-mail saying that he wished he had a time machine. That set me to musing about what events I’d repeat to form a distillation of my life. They say that youth is wasted on the young, and I surely squandered some of mine. If I had a second chance, I’d listen--really listen--and look--really look, and I’d taste, touch and smell each experience to its dregs. Your list of what you’d do again would be different from mine, but similar in the details, wouldn’t it?
It would be Thanksgiving with all of us at the round oak table, savoring Mother’s cooking. I’d hear moans of defeat or chortles of glee when my mother, sisters, nieces and I played Canasta. I’d listen to old Granny spinning yarns about the olden days or talking about books.
Along about eight o’clock on a fine morning, Wanda would show up.: "Mrs. Gard, can Rose Mary come out?" We’d put on our steel roller skates and clatter blithely down the sidewalk. I’d laugh at Jack Bundy’s jokes, spend the night with Francis Cranfill, play tennis with Gigi (Janita) Hall or Sarah, join the Nine Nifty Nicitinos for a slumber party at Vivian Forst’s home, sit on the porch swing with my parents on a summer evening, talk books with Ed Fort on the way home from school.. We’d picnic at the Springs with Uncle Nolan and Aunt June Kelly or go fishing on the Brandywine south of Greenfield with Mother’s cousin, Mary, and Scuyler Beck. I’d listen to Uncle Ivan’s guffaws and Aunt Nola’s giggles.
I’d visit my favorite teachers and sit at a basketball game with Lora Mae Reeves while Clara Keesling sold Cokes and cousin Wayne Kelly took pictures. I’d return to college where my friends and I talked earnestly about life and how we were going to change education. I’d revisit my best French class and re-experience the joy of teaching on a good day.
I’d relive the effervescence of falling in love, getting married, the joy of taking baby Vicki home from the hospital and the happy times with our grandsons. I’d hear the voices of Bill’s people raised in political debate or song at a Clarke party: "Oh, I’ve got a loverly bunch of coconuts . . . " I’d watch the sunrise over Bryce Canyon with Rick, hike with Esther, go sledding with Jack and Joyce, laugh when some of my friends got snockered on champagne at my 40th birthday party, return to Italy and France with our friends. Above all, I’d enjoy quiet times with Bill: driving through the Adirondacks early on a lovely October morn, eating scallops next to the blue, sun-dazzled Atlantic, hiking through a Teton mountain meadow carpeted in wild flowers, watching the moonrise over Leigh Lake at the foot of Mt. Moran . . .
I’d hear Denyse Graves perform "Carmen" in Chicago, and I’d sob during "La Boheme." I’d read my favorite books and see my favorite paintings for the first time. Which ones? Which ones? I’d have "booky" talks with friend Phyllis or brother Earl, play Scrabble with Christine, share meows with Nancy about office gossip, make cookies with Bill’s mother, share recipes with Pat . . .all gone, alas, alas . . .
And Christmas! Oh, the Christmases! . . .
Poof! The golden dream-bubble has burst, and I’m back to the reality of days after 9/11.
Some may view my essays as simplistic or maudlin. However, one can’t express all sides of a story in such a limited space--one must select. Singer Mel Torme, "The Velvet Fog.", entitled his autobiography It Wasn’t All Velvet. Well, the United States of my youth wasn’t all velvet, either.
As the French say, the more things change, the more they remain the same. Who among us hasn’t experienced rotten teachers, some mean classmates, failed romances, illness, deaths of beloved people, loneliness, religious, racial or religious prejudice or railed against governmental stupidity? The anniversary of 9/11 reminded me that for all his intellect, homo sapiens - Thinking Man - has learned nothing from the past. All my life we’ve either been at war, preparing for war, recovering from war or fearing war. I learned that the Russians had the atomic bomb when I was a kid, and dreamed that they were bombing Knightstown. And now I have a new, waking nightmare that extremists like Bin Ladin, Ahmadinejab and Chavez will prevail over the world where Hitler and Stalin failed.
Don't Postpone Long-Awaited Experience
On the day that this issue of The Banner comes out, Bill , Vicki and I shall be in Rome. You might think that we’re rich since we went to Paris last November with Bill and Jean, took the twins there in June, and now here we are on another expensive jaunt. Not so! This trip was supposed to be last year, but didn’t work out. In spite of the horrible exchange rate, we won’t postpone this trip lest something come up again to keep us from going.
Mind you, I’m not advocating that people be stupid about money. Mother always said, "If you always take care of your money, your money will always take care of you." I encountered a sixty-something divorcee who went into a car dealership, intending to buy a used Honda. Instead, she left in a red Oldsmobile convertible for which she refinanced her home with an adjustable rate mortgage whose interest will soon roll over. That "hot" ride made her ever so happy--"I just love that car!"--but she’s had to rent a cheap apartment and let her house go into foreclosure because she owes too much to sell it.
It’s all a matter of what’s important to one, isn’t it?. We’ve managed to take wonderful vacations and enjoy cultural experiences down through the years because we’ve lived frugally and resisted the temptation to buy on credit. Can you believe it? We’ve never had a car payment! We bought only used cars for which we could pay cash. Some of them, such as an old Cadillac with manual steering that cost $300, were clunkers. My nephew, John Jones, borrowed it and said, "That thing wore me out hauling it around corners!" It finally gave its last gasp in front of the house, and a charity hauled it away.
Peace of mind and rich experiences have been more important to us than the rush that comes from owning expensive cars, clothing and homes. A couple of years ago, Bill splurged and paid $7000 for a very nice, second-hand Impala--the most he has ever spent on a car. I’m driving a Ford Tempo with 135,000 miles that I inherited from Bill. I don’t like it, but the thing runs like a top, so I have little hope of replacing it. What I lust for is a PT Cruiser or a cute little Volkswagon or one of those snazzy little French cars like we saw in Paris. However, I’d rather travel.
"Build your castles in the sky. Now put foundations under them." Thoreau
Vicki has dreamed of seeing the Sistine Chapel and Michelangelo’s works ever since she was a teenager. Helping her fulfill that dream and sharing with her the beauty of two of our favorite places--Florence and Venice--will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for all of us.
"The moving finger writes and having writ moves on." The Rubaiyat as translated by Fitzgerald
We learn very little from the experiences of others. We each seem compelled to re-invent the wheel rather than using the resources that others have discovered. One lesson that life has taught me is carpe diem--seize the day. Do it now. Don’t put it off until tomorrow because tomorrow may never come. You can’t save life like money in a bank to be spent later. Life refuses to be postponed.
We’re on Earth for such a short time that we should view life as a wonderful banquet to be savored as if we were gourmets rather than rushing through it like a meal in a fast-food restaurant. "Life may not be the party we’ve hope for . . . but while we are here we might as well dance!"
"We live on a sparse diet of promises we make to ourselves when all the conditions are perfect." Erma Bombeck
People tell me, "We need to save more money . . . We’re needed here . . . We have responsibilities . . . We’ll wait until retirement . . . We have to help our children get their acts together." (Mind you, their children are adults.) They tell themselves that when the time is perfect they’ll take that trip, buy a sail boat, raft down the Grand Canyon, visit their relatives, write a book, invite friends for dinner . . . Eventually, they postpone their heart’s desires until they are too old or too ill to muster up the energy, and all that is left are dim, sad echoes of forsaken dreams of what might have been.
Use Time Wisely - Once it's Gone, it's Gone
"The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on. Not all your tears or piety will erase one whit of it." - The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam as translated by Fitzgerald.
The incomparable Erma Bombeck wrote about how our inflexibility causes us to bypass opportunities. She mused about the women on the Titanic who passed up dessert because they were cutting back. Her sister always had excuses for not going to lunch and died before they ever went. Then there are the women who won’t go out to the dinner when their husbands suggest it because they’d already thawed something. "Does the word refrigeration mean nothing to you?" Erma asks. "How often have your kids dropped in to talk and sat in silence while you watched "Jeopardy"?"
All my life, I’ve been driven by a sense of duty. Sometimes I taught when I was ill as if a day without me would have blighted my students’ minds forever. I let people talk me into doing things that I don’t really want to do. I’ve always’s done the "done" thing. Unfortunately, it’s the things that I left undone that mattered more.
"The saddest words of voice or pen--the saddest are these: "What might have been." Written in Granny’s autograph book by a spurned beau.
Sometimes my sense of duty has been misplaced as when my beloved mother was suffering her last illness. I had a job. It wasn’t even an "important" job. I should have taken a leave of absence or even quit it to be with Mother. I didn’t, and twenty years later, I haven’t recovered from this and never shall. I knew that my friend, Nancy, was unwell. She died very suddenly. I couldn’t have saved her, but I could have checked up on her, taken her food and comfort--whatever. . Two years ago, I told my sister, Christine and the last of my siblings, that I’d pick her up on Thursday for a visit. On Wednesday, I called and canceled. "We’ll do it next week." "Maybe I won’t be in the mood then," she replied. Indeed she wasn’t in the mood. She became critically ill and died that next week.
Perhaps you wonder that I would divulge this about myself. Well, I share the human condition. Such regrets as mine are common and probably universal. Ann Landers and Abigail VanBuren published many letters about the regret of people who didn’t take the time, who waited too long.
Lest you think that I’m in the depths of depression, not so. I realize that I’m just an imperfect person who did the best she could to be a good daughter, sister, and friend. Another hard lesson that I’ve learned is to forgive myself.. It’s just that I realize that the clock is ticking ever faster.
I don’t dwell on my past, but I do try to learn from it and build on it. I want to take more control of my future and make better use of my time and better choices about what I spend it on. I want to live more consciously, as Thoreau put it. That’s hard to do. It’s much easier just to sweep my failings and missed chances under my mental carpet and carry on as I’ve always done.
Brrr! On the front page of today’s Indianapolis Star is a story about a woman who was beloved by those who knew her. Some years ago, I was acquainted with her husband. She had recently told an acquaintance, "Everybody’s in such a hurry today in life these days. I’m going to slow down." She took her dog for a walk. Instead of going to the woods as usual, she decided to walk to a busy street and was struck and killed by a driver who had fallen asleep. She was 57 years old.
What shape do I want my dwindling future to take? What do I truly want? I must ask myself these questions and try to discern the true priorities of my existence before it is too late. I cannot rewrite the pages of my past, but surely I can write those of my future. Unlike animals, we humans are capable of change. It’s not too late for me to be a better wife, mother, aunt, cousin and friend.
Either Ann Landers or Abigail VanBuren was fond of saying, "Wake up and smell the coffee!" I intend to brew a fresh pot.
P.S. Today’s October sunrise is a gold and orange splendor. I must go watch it!
What's the Hurry? Time's Running Out!
"Life has a way of accelerating as we get older. The days get shorter, and the list of promises to ourselves gets longer. One morning, we awaken, and all we have to show for our lives is a litany of "I’m going to, "I plan on," and "Someday, when things are settled down a bit" - Erma Bombeck
When we asked Vicki what she’d like to do in Italy other than seeing Michelangelo’s works she replied, "I don’t really care. It’s the time with you guys that’s important." Time: that’s the crux of the matter. We don’t really understand time because it isn’t tangible: We can’t access it by using our five senses, hold it in our hands, weight it or package it; and yet we’re dominated by it.
Time is the very essence of life. I hate the word "pastime" because it implies that we want to make our time--life--pass more quickly because we haven’t anything worthwhile to do with it. Instead, we should be as parsimonious about spending our time as a miser with his money. Thus, it’s irritating when people are habitually late and make others wait and waste precious minutes of their lives.
Vicki probably can’t afford the time away from work and college to take this trip, and we probably can’t afford the money. However, we’re going. It’s now or never. Vicki dear, I must inform you that there’ll be a tad less in our modest estate!
Reader’s Digest reprinted an essay entitled "What’s Your Hurry" written by the fine novelist Elizabeth Berg. She has noticed that no one makes anything from scratch these days because our lives are so frantically busy. She asserts that we’re suffering from Time and Meaning Deficiency whose antidote might be to create something whether it be a birthday card, cooking, clothing or a go-cart.
Maybe if we made something from start to finish, we’d slow down and remind ourselves of the natural order of things. Maybe we’d remember what it is we really need: a sense of fulfillment, of happiness, of peace. We are in a hurry to get home at night so we can go to bed so we can get up for work so we can go home again. We spend weekends getting a jump on the week ahead. We are so oriented to the future, we don’t live in the present.
Amen! I’ve been a successful and busy Realtor--and no, I’m not soliciting business! This business can become a compulsion that takes over your life. A friend’s daughter said, "Mother, I suppose that when you’re on your deathbed you’ll rear up and say, "I wish I’d sold one more house." I replied, "I figure they’ll put ‘Just Listed’ on my casket!
Berg believes that our failure to take time causes something within us to atrophy so that we lose our spirituality. I agree that many of us over- fill our lives so that we don’t take time to look inside ourselves and think.. Berg resolved to change her ways, just as I have done--so many times.
I was clicking the remote control and stopped in the middle of a sermon by Joel Osteen that resonated with me. He was speaking about the interconnectedness of time and our lives and used the locust to illustrate his point. He said that when first hatched the locust can hop, but cannot fly. Then there comes a moment when a wind blows and lifts the locust up, and the locust knows that it’s time to fly. Osteen’s point was that for us humans there is also a "right" time and that our time will come.
Some decry any sort of religion these days, but there is a great deal of wisdom in what Osteen said and in the Bible. I need all the wisdom I can get! Here’s what it says in Ecclesiastes--The King James Version, to my mind some of the most poetic English ever written:
"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the Heavens . . . a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted . . . A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away."
I’ve had a marvelous life, but sometimes I’ve been like a frantic butterfly beating its wings to shreds against a window pane. Also, I’ve spent too much time hopping like a locust. I sense that my time has come to cast away some of my busy baggage, lose my inflexibility, heed the wind’s message and seize today to fly into a fresh, newly minted tomorrow.
You'll Never Wear Those Clothes Again!
I thought that when I entered the so-called "golden" years, I’d be all settled in and grown up. My mind would be made up about world affairs, social issues and politics. I’d have answers to life’s great questions. I’d placidly fold my hands, ensconced in a cozy home and comfortable routines.
Rather than having spells of restlessness, I’d have the wisdom and serenity to consolidate all of the good parts of my past, jettison the bad baggage and no longer worry about what might have been and now would never be. I thought that I’d be done with those nasty little kicks in the pants that life administers from time to time and that I’d sail smoothly along, not having to undergo any more rites of passage.
I certainly had good examples of aging gracefully, including Knightstown’s beloved teachers, Jessie Nay Wagoner and Lucinda Newby, who were still beautiful, gracious and bright-spirited in their eighties. I suspect that my personality is more like that of pungent, naughty, irascible old Granny.
"Oh, that this too, too solid flesh should melt." - Shakespeare
Life hasn’t finished teaching me lessons. As I’ve written before, I switch my in-season and out-of-season closets every fall and spring. I‘d half heartedly send a few items off to charity and cram the clothing that I couldn’t wear into the off-season closet while my everyday closet grew increasingly sparse. I lived in a state of denial, thinking that some day I’d be able to wear a size 12 again.
Before we went to Italy,. I told myself, "Quit messing around. No amount of dieting will get you back into a bunch of your clothes. Get rid of the stuff that you know you’ll never wear again.". I tried on my business suits, dresses, sportswear, cocktail attire, jeans, skirts and pants that I’d been collecting for over twenty years. Gravity has caught up with me, and my middle-aged flab has gone to my waist. The trick of putting a rubber band through a buttonhole and looping it over a button no longer works. Glumly, I laid aside any item that lacked more than two inches of closing.
I was surprised that this experiences was akin to an emotional amputation: Onto the charity pile went the twenty-year-old--but still perfect--classic, gray suit made of fine Scottish wool that Bill’s cousin, helped me find in England. Ditto for the black wool vest that I bought when I started teaching in 1958, the sharp brown wool pantsuit with a short jacket, the black velvet cocktail dress, most of my suits, assorted dresses, blazers and pants. Many items had been gifts from Bill. I even threw in my favorite high-heeled evening pumps in which I stumbled around nowadays like an awkward ostrich. Oh! Oh! Oh!
What’s left fits in less than one closet, and I despise it because I’ve worn it so often.. I have almost nothing to wear! "Dear, just buy new," said my kind husband. It’s easier said than done to replicate a wardrobe collected over twenty years. Bill took me shopping, and little fit or was becoming to me or. was outrageously expensive--even though he would have gladly paid the price to stop my moaning and whining. I came home with two pairs of pants.
Meanwhile, I told Vicki that I was giving most of my clothes to charity. "Don’t you dare! I’m coming down," she said. "You’ll never be able to wear my stuff as you’re shorter and smaller than I." "You forget, Mother dear, that I know how to sew and do alterations."
I was amazed to see how much of my clothing fit her other than needing to be shortened. The black velvet cocktail dress fit her perfectly as did the Scottish wool suit and the brown wool pants suit that I’d worn only a few times .. How could this possibly be? The truth is that as I have gained weight, so has little Vicki. "She said, "I suppose I should get rid of my fours, sixes and eights." I replied, "Vicki, Mother has a wake-up call for you: You’re never going to wear that stuff again in this lifetime."
"As one generation passeth away, another generation cometh." - Ecclesiastes
As I drove to the office this morning, a full golden moon was setting. How exquisite! As if on demand, "Claire de Lune" was playing when I turned on the radio. Somehow my angst over having to give up my clothes didn’t seem so important.