Friday, November 4, 2011
November 4, 2011 on Fog and Clouds
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Heaven 7/21/2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Economics and Spirituality
Note: I began this essay on June 25, 2008. A few short weeks later, the Great Recession began, sending the nation into a tailspin, and the consumerism against which I was railing died almost immediately for most of the world. Now, in retrospect, perhaps the sentiment of this unfinished piece can serve as a warning that we should not allow such greed to overwhelm our ethics.
by Mónica Hutchens Tipton
Somehow during the last few decades, maybe longer, economics and spirituality became intertwined to such an extent that the morés and customs of western society have been changed. For most modern denizens of first-world nations, consumption is valued more highly than conservation; spending is preferable to saving; possessing more satisfying than participating. The work we do and the tasks we must perform to complete that work are much less physically demanding than ever, yet we find ourselves working longer days during longer weeks to gain, attain, and retain the material possessions that mark our status in the hierarchy of this First Church of Acquisition. We have come to believe that we must have all of “it” in order to have it all.
This is not a diatribe against a free-market economy. No conspiracy by some social terrorist group is implied in these words, nor is any entity being condemned for being an active practitioner. After all, competition is motivational, creativity is inspirational, and comfort is, well, comfortable. The correct balance of these three elements can result in great deeds, inventions, and works of art. Indeed, the downfall of society has already been said to be caused by television, movies, authors, lawyers, doctors, farmers, educators, politicians, union members, the very rich, the very poor, Democrats, Republicans, beatniks, hippies, the military, the civilians, the despots, the masses, all of mankind, and/or angry deities. When the human mind exhausts all options, it reverts to faith. The faith that was once associated with spiritual and familial connections has been transferred from who we are to what we have.
We are surrounded by images of what we must attain. All types of media encourage us to buy a bigger house, better cars, more minutes for our cell phones, indeed more cell phones so that every member of the family can stay connected while they are in one of the new cars away from the bigger house that sits empty much of the time because everyone is busy doing that which is necessary to acquire the next larger house, even better car, even smaller cell phone with even cooler ring tones.
Fewer and fewer of us refer to the transaction that avails us of shelter as “establishing a home”; more often it is called “buying” or “investing” in a house. Some are simply “flipping a property.” Industries have developed based on the belief that for each stage of living there is the necessity for a different form of shelter.
Christmas at Nana's - December 2008
by Mónica Hutchens Tipton
Once upon a time, back in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, before many of you were born and before the rest of us became responsible, wise, and competent members of the sinister world of adulthood, there was an amazing ritual that filled us with joy, excitement, and material for dozens of stories. It involved weeks of anticipation, days of preparation, many pounds of sugar and butter and cups of flour, yards of wrapping paper and ribbon, and hours of journeying. It was an annual pilgrimage of the faithful and devoted and the obligated and reluctant. It was called simply, “Christmas at Nana’s.” My grandfather, while very much a part of our lives, was not included in the title of the event, perhaps because he spent so many, many hours at his barber shop nearby cutting the hair of the men he had known for decades.
In third week of December, our mother pulled out the cookie press and the cardamom, dug the small bottles of green and red sugar crystals and the tiny multi-color confections we knew only as “sprinkles” from the of the back of the upper cabinets. It seemed that the oven was preheated on Monday and continued to disgorge tray after tray of sprut bakkels, chocolate chip, sugar cutouts, and even the occasional gingerbread boy until the day of our departure: Christmas Eve after Dad got home from work. Her Sunbeam mixer orbited the bowls of dough hundreds of times more than that satellite, Sputnik, which had captured our attention, as well as my developing concern, during the October after my brother was born. The house was warm and fragrant with the aromas of butter, sugar, cinnamon, cardamom, and chocolate, and getting a chance to lick the beater of the mixer was a treat. No worries of diabetes or obesity in this house of young parents, only the chance to show how adult they had become, how responsible, how competent.
The late afternoon of Christmas Eve Day, bathed by 5PM, donned we now our Christmas jammies and began packing into the station wagon for our four hour, if there was no traffic on the Coast Highway, journey. Dad got home, changed from his work khakis and boots, showered, and off we went, snuggled in with pillows and blankets on a mattress over the flattened back seat of the station wagon. No worry of car seats or seat belts then, just the fun of watching the lights and the stars and the moon and the suspected flash of Rudolph’s nose as we lay outstretched in our private compartment. Gifts of all sizes and shapes, wrapped with Mom’s artistic flair, were strategically hidden under blankets around us, and a dozen boxes of that storage miracle, Tupperware, held the hundreds of cookies she had so diligently and lovingly prepared.
We would wind up the two-lane road from our home to the coastal crossroads that would lead us north to Los Angeles. The actual transition took place near a lagoon filled with waterfowl, and even the occasional flamingo, and was forever known to us as “The Duck Turn.” Reaching The Duck Turn was the first of the many milestones that told us that we were nearing our personal equivalent of the North Pole, Nana’s House. The next milestone would be an old Safeway Market on the west side of the Pacific Coast Highway in San Clemente. A few years later we would move to that tiny beach town, and I would grow up, marry, become a mother, and live there for two decades. For now it signaled the end of the long, dark roadway along the edge of the continent that crossed Camp Pendleton and had become known as “Blood Alley.”
One of the problems of being a precocious child who learned to read at a very young age is that one absorbs information, processes that information, and forms conclusions about that information, but hasn’t necessarily been provided with all of the information or enough life experience to make those conclusions valid. This resulted in years of worrying about things that were unwarranted, but seemed worthy of agitated mental activity in my very young psyche. As mentioned before, Sputnik inspired concern in my five-year-old mind about the possibility of The Russians, the most evil people on Earth, being able to see us all and catch us at our most vulnerable, wiping out our country and making the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance illegal. By the time I was seven, the similarly unseen but vividly imagined horrors of Blood Alley kept me tense and alert for the seemingly endless crossing of that terrible terrain. Consequently, the sight of the lights of San Clemente and the quick glance through the distinctive glass front and wide-spanning roof of the Safeway meant indeed, a safe way had been achieved.
The next milestone was a cheerful one: the sight of the statue of Laguna Beach’s famous Greeter. Occasionally, if we left early enough, or sometimes on the way home, we would spot Eiler Larsen himself, with his beard, broad smile, and red coat, waving from a corner at Forest and the Coast Highway in that then-pristine town. Later on, in the late 1960’s, my friend Vicki and I prowled every corner of Laguna for years, loving its bohemian atmosphere and its promise of adventure with hippies and surfers and great bookstores. For now, from the back of the station wagon, The Greeter meant we were halfway there!
Another long stretch took us through small beach towns, and somewhere just south of Huntington Beach, I would shut my eyes. The cue to do so came through the dark, through the air as the smell of oil. The pumps that bobbed rhythmically up and down, acres of them, for several miles on that city-crowded road, terrified me. Mom and Dad tried to tell us they were rocking horses, but no horse ever smelled like that, nor looked like that, nor made the landscape mechanical and desolate, and bleak. It wasn’t the smell of gasoline, which I loved, or the smell of car exhaust, which made me cough, but something else that reminded me of the tar trucks that would occasionally appear to repair a road or a roof, disgusting but apparently essential. It would be wonderful to declare myself prescient on that topic, but I would be stretching the truth. The truth, as I knew it then was that the oil fields destroyed the magic of the trip and were something to be endured, so that we could have the rich reward of Christmas at Nana’s. It was our version of “The Pilgrim’s Progress.”
That distance of roadway would finally end, and we would enter the big brightly lit tunnel that I was told went under the runways at The Airport. The Airport was intriguing as it implied rich people who dressed nicely, wearing suits and hats and high-heels and gloves, traveling very differently from us. I always assumed that they liked wearing gloves and hats; I didn’t find out later, when I had to wear suits and high heels, that jammies are the much preferable apparel for such extended travels. The Airport remained a mystery until I was twenty-one years old and took my first flight.
We would arrive in Santa Monica sometime after nine o’clock. One year when there was particularly bad traffic, probably due to some horrendous wreck on Blood Alley, we didn’t arrive until nearly MIDNIGHT! My much younger siblings slept much of the way, but my mind kept me alert, certain as I was that my attention was as crucial to our undamaged arrival as that of my dear daddy behind the steering wheel. The car stopped at the curb on Hill Street. Sleeping babies would be gently lifted from the mattress, toddlers rubbing their eyes and walking in plastic-footed pajamas across the lawn, up the step between the tree fern and the monstera, onto the porch, where, on the other side of the big window stood a glorious tree, topped with a star. We tumbled into the open arms of my grandmother. As tiny as she was, there was room for all five of us at once, it seemed. “Merry Christmas, mija! Look how big you are! Charlie, they’re here!” she would call in the voice that emphatically yet tenderly directed three daughters, three sons, and my headstrong grandfather for eight decades. My grandfather, coming in from the kitchen through the glass-paned door into the dining room, disappeared behind the biggest pile of Christmas presents I could imagine. This was no mean task, as my Papa was nearly as round as he was tall. This family trait is something all of us have fought, with varying degrees of success, for generations. Nonetheless, Papa outlived three of the doctors who told him, “Charlie, if you don’t lose weight, it’s going to kill you.” And, when he was ninety-five years old, their words came true.
The Nativity Scene was in its place on the mantel, the open Bible on the half-moon table near the bedroom door. Christmas was about Jesus in my grandparent’s home, a loving Jesus, a giving Jesus, and a caring Father Who Art In Heaven. My pretty aunty and all three of my handsome uncles, still in their teens, waited on the periphery, in order of eagerness to greet us. My young aunty held out her arms to take the baby, as late teenaged girls were wont to do. The twelve-year-old uncle and his friend barely looked up from their game of Monopoly, and the two uncles between said, “Hi,” then went to the kitchen. Cool members of the early Santa Monica surf culture didn’t have much use for seven-year old nieces. Later, one of those uncles taught me to ski, another to sing Native American songs, and the third, well, he brought some weed to my place in Ocean Beach in 1971.
I remember distinctly the music of the time: Mitch Miller’s Sing Along albums, The Chipmunks’ “Christmas, Christmas time is here…” There was Danny Kaye lisping through “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth,” and the song about underwear and the skates he didn’t get. The New Christy Minstrels and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Theresa Brewer singing about watching “Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” and in the album that set my sense of humor and my love of satire, Stan Freberg’s “Green Chri$tma$” LP with that wonderful piece that is as true in the 21st century as it was in the mid-twentieth. To this day, I don’t think the oldest of the uncles knows how much he influenced my view on life. He is the one who gave me the copy of “The Prophet” that still sits on my bookshelf and played “Bah, Humbug Everybody. Good morning, Mr. Scrooge!” again and again so that I can remember it nearly fifty years later. If you haven’t heard it, you must Google it; however, that is a now and this story is a then.
Sometime near our arrival and once or twice simultaneously, my cousins would arrive, their parents carrying pies and one or both of the boys. My cousins’ journey was nearly identical to ours, but lacked the distinct comfort of the mattress. There were only two of them, however, and they were small enough to stretch across the back seat of the Bel Air sedan. They were received with the same warmth and devotion that had been showered on us. That wonderful uncle called me “Big Girl” even though I was the smallest in my class, and continued to do so even twelve years later when he and my aunt gave birth to their own daughter. There was an infinite amount of love to be shared in that house, especially at that time of year, and the following decades would prove it so again and again as the young aunty and uncles brought their children, and then we grew and arrived with the great-grandchildren.
Bedtime was an adventure of improvised sleeping arrangements. My parents and my cousins’ parents slept on the Hide-A-Bed in the living room, or on the double bed in the front bedroom. The uncles camped out on the floors of the living room and under the big dining room table. My great-grandfather lived in a basement room, and occasionally one or the other of the uncles would bunk with him. We little ones were tucked in two to a bunk in the middle bedroom, or later, as the crowd grew, moved to the bed and floor of my grandparents’ bedroom at the back of the house. I’m certain that the latter arrangement was best for Santa Claus, who somehow managed to deliver entire pedal cars, bicycles, slot car sets, huge Tonka trunks, dolls, and one year a pony, although it was only a photograph until we got home.
Some years there were strangers invited in to share the holidays by one or the other of the uncles, or by Nana or Papa. There was the struggling actor, the former girlfriend with no local family, the Army buddy, or perhaps the hopeful suitor of one of the beautiful or handsome ones. One year, a stranger stumbled in with ill intent. A burglar, hoping to collect all the holiday loot easily seen through the big window, sneaked into the darkened living room, only to fall over stacks of clean and folded diapers, tumbling on to the sleeping bag of one of the boys, and chased out by Dad and my older uncles. To the best of my knowledge, there were no other break-ins during the month of December ever again. There was, however, the wretched Christmas when everyone in the house had the flu; and another when my younger cousin had apparently been a naughty boy all year and Santa left him an empty stocking and no special gift. It rocked us to the core.
As the oldest, I had many responsibilities including speaking for my usually silent little sister, watching the younger ones, and writing the annual letter to Santa. When I was nearly ten, I was placed in charge of the bedroom full of cousins and second-cousins on Christmas Eve. I already knew that Santa needed the help of all the adults to prepare for the morning festivities, so I took my job seriously. As many toddlers as possible were tucked into the bed, the rest on the floors under blankets, and not a single one of them stayed where they had been placed after the parents shut the bedroom door. It didn’t help that someone in the living room jangled sleigh bells and shouted, “Ho-ho-ho” within minutes of the forced exile of the children. Eight excited children seemed to fill the room beyond capacity. Even my quiet sister chatted with her age-mate cousin, and my little brother was burbling, “Santa Cwaus is heuw!” It took me a long time to draw their attention away from the door and to the window, where we watched what appeared to be Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer taking long circles around the area. The fact that busy Cloverfield Airport was a few blocks away was extremely helpful to me that night. The kids grew tired of watching the red lights after about an hour, and soon tumbled into sleep. Years later, cleaning out the house after my grandparents had passed away, I found a stack of those letters to Santa from me and many of the cousins. It was true: Nana’s house was the North Pole.
My beautiful aunty became an artist and encased one of those letters in beautiful colored glass for me. It hangs year round in my home to remind me of days when love was unconditional and there were always, always cookies and presents, even when times were hard. The men went to work every day, the women cared for the house and the children, and the eventual dissatisfaction, which the brilliant and talented women of the family would feel was in the future. It would be a few years before the society began to spurn its value structure, taking my mother, my beautiful aunty, and my entire generation along for the ride.
It’s strange that I don’t remember much about the days leading up to our yearly Christmas adventure, only the nights. Maybe it is because, as every child knows, nighttime is magical while days are just full of routine. In years to come, the magic of night was replaced by other emotions that were the result of a new and different reality. Even during the good times, the early years, there was a certain sense of fragility to it all, like Mom’s delicate cookies. The scenes crumble at the edges as I hold them now, and when I bite into them, they become a sweet powder of sugar, butter, flour, and love. Then they are gone, leaving me wondering if they were really there, if there really was such security. I am grateful for the way my very young parents and my adored grandparents created such an oasis of contentment for us. I am proud to say that I have survived to this mid-point of my adulthood in part, no doubt, because of those few sojourns that occurred without fail, every December until 1963, when things began to crumble, ever so slightly, around the edges, not just in my world, but everywhere. But that is another story to be told at a different time, sometime in the future.
When December Comes - December 21, 2008
by Mónica Hutchens Tipton
When
December comes,
I take out the ornaments
and the stockings that have
our names embroidered on them:
Dana, Kate, Monica, Jeff. I gently turn
the baubles that say “Our First Christmas”
and “We love you so much, Dana and Kate.”
I reread all the messages sent seven years ago,
the ones that were so full of hope and love. I read
the ones written in the days after he died, and I find
I don’t cry any more. The girls’ birthdays are in December;
those days should be their days, instead they remind me of him.
The cavern in my soul still exists
even though
it has been
six Decembers.
Fall Down Boom - October 2010
Note: This is a Facebook post to a friend who had fallen down stairs and broken her tailbone. We shared our "Fall Down Boom" stories, and here is mine. Well, one of them.
I fell down my stairs once and sprained my right foot so badly that it took nearly a year to heal. It was a hair coloring accident. I had left the timer downstairs in the kitchen and ran down the stairs topless only to discover that I had indeed opened the front curtains on the three large windows facing the street. My house sits less than six feet from the well-traversed sidewalk. I took my hand off the handrail, covered my bare breasts with both arms, and only a fortunate rebound off a wall prevented me from splaying my naked body against the aforementioned windows. What slowed my momentum most, however, was my right foot turning in an unnatural direction, propelling me to the floor. Fortunately self-preservation trumped modesty, and I put out my hands to break the headlong tumble toward the great outdoors. Hair color came out great, but the foot, not so good. Feel better soon! Slow down, and when in peril, uncover your breasts.
Hmmmm. Extreme butt pain during laughter, you say? I suspect humorrhoids.
On Housekeeping - December 2010
Today I was compelled to sweep and mop the kitchen floor. This was not inspired by some message from the Universe nor a well-trained sense of housewifeliness, but rather the fact that I nearly tore my socks trying to move from one spot in front of the stove back over to the sink. Lest some think that the incident inspired a day-long cleaning binge, suffice it to say that I did the area in severe need of attention and swept any other still loose debris to the edges of the room where at some later date either the cat or I will move them to another location. The entire operation lasted less than 15 minutes, but resulted in an obviously improved 7x4 foot area of flooring.
I also decided to vacuum the living room rug. Nick WhiteCat hissed viciously at the Electrolux as it was pulled from the closet, and Diego immediately headed upstairs. This is further evidence that they have not been exposed to this piece of equipment frequently enough to be desensitized to its presence. I would feel guilty if there were small children around, or if someone else lived here, but since the animals create most of the need for the vacuum, I figure it all works out in the Universal Plan for Serendipitous Equity (pronounced "oopsy." More on this concept later).
I like leaving spaces on the floor to contrast with one another. It's like have before and after photos where you can really appreciate them without having to get out an album or refer to your cell phone. When all was said and done, the portions of the space that have been cleaned stand out clearly, and there is a sense of accomplishment without a sense of fatigue; ergo, there is UPSE in my home.
I am currently working on a new skill: the ability to direct all the hair on the bathroom floor to the wastebasket while bending over to dry my hair upside down, a technique well-known among women for enhancing the fullness of your hair for nearly six full minutes following the process*. I was remarkably successful this morning on my initial attempts at this new housecleaning skill. Just think how much time and effort would be saved by being able to send any falling strands on one single trip through the air into the receptacle.
I'm now off to my first client appointment of the day, knowing that my inner June Cleaver has been appeased in some small way. May UPSE be with you.
*To my many male friends of a certain age: this is not recommended unless you have a head of hair like our friends Arthur or Clancy and can afford to tempt gravity by shortening the distance from scalp to planet.
Self-directed Poetry Parts 1 & 2 - 2011
by Mónica Hutchens Tipton
Part 1 Off your rear, my darling dear, and put yourself in clothing.
The morning's gone, you've spent too long
Facing the day with loathing.
Hit the showers, hit the deck, up and on your way!
Waited too long, coffee's all gone:
It can wait for another day.
Part 2
It’s almost one and I’m not done with my to-do’s for today,
But writing this verse is no better or worse
Than what I’d have ta-done anyway.
Amen - October 2009
Tonight I return home to the sight I love most: the reflected moon beams on the still waters of the straits.
Tonight I return home to the sound I love so well: that smiling dog greeting me in almost human tones.
Tonight I return home from the work I love most: changing written words from two dimensions into three.
Tonight I return home to the art that I love most: recording all the sights and sounds and acts that are my soul.
Quantum Me - October 2009
I am a complex organism
comprised of billions of atomic particles that have managed to come together in a relatively orderly fashion to create the woman that I am.
How random is that, really?
Eventually, they say, a chimp will type a word.
Untitled - October 9, 2008
There is nothing quite so beautiful as moonlight on still water.
It inspires total commitment to the power of believing.
It creates the sense of wonder that becomes the greatest theories.
It reminds us that when all is done, we are but bits of light.
Just Differently - April 18, 2011
Kate would have a wicked sense of humor because that's what she has now. Kate would love reading because that's what she does now. Kate would love computers, her cat, her sister, and me because those are the things and people she loves now. She would miss her dad, who died nine years ago, because that's the way it is now. The difference would be that Kate would be able to tell us what she feels, and Kate probably would not be racked with the seizures that grip her daily. That's what it would be like if Kate didn't have autism: she'd be the wonderful 17-year-old young woman she is. It would be life with Kate, just done differently.
Father's Day - June 2010
There are many of you who don’t know about the phenomenon I’m about to describe, but this is a story worth sharing. Jeff Tipton had only a couple of “sins” and one of them was his continued love of Marlboros. I kept asking him to quit, including after his cancer diagnosis, to which he responded, “What: are they gonna kill me?” He had a point, so he continued to enjoy his cigarettes while standing on the driveway outside of the garage.
Shortly after Jeff died, I began smelling cigarette smoke inside the house, yet no one had ever smoked inside, including Jeff. The smell was distinctive, but without the usual irritating effects that even the smallest whiff of burning tobacco usually brings to me. I had my hands full with Kate and my job and thought I was probably just being silly. One evening Dana called from Las Vegas to tell me that Jeff had “visited” her and her then-boyfriend in their home. Dana was in her kitchen and noticed the smell of a Marlboro coming from the doorway into the dining area directly next to her refrigerator, about six feet away from where she stood at the sink. Her boyfriend came in through the other door and asked incredulously, “Are you smoking?” They realized they were very aware of a presence in the dining room doorway, and the miraculously inoffensive smell of the lighted Marlboro didn’t fade away until they laughed, “It’s Jeff” aloud to one another. I later heard similar stories from a few close friends and relatives, and I continued to occasionally smell the smoke from time to time and house to house, but less and less frequently as the years passed.
Today, Kate, Dana, and I were in the living room getting ready to watch one of Kate’s favorite movies, “The Aristocats.” I had asked Kate if she remembered that Daddy would sing, “I’m Abraham Delacey Giuseppe Casey Thomas O’Malley, O’Malley the alley cat!” Kate frowned as she frequently does at the memory of her lost father and continued to watch the video. Within a minute or two, I began to smell cigarette smoke. The doors and windows had been closed against the strong breeze blowing across the bay since yesterday. I asked Dana if she smelled it, and initially, she couldn’t. Then, sitting up straighter on the sofa, she said, “Yes! I smell it now.” I went outside to the back deck looking around for the trespassing smoker, then out to the front sidewalk to find the smoking passerby. No one was there, and somewhat unsettlingly, there was not even a whiff of tobacco outdoors. Back inside, the smell was obvious once again. It was then that it occurred to me what day it is: Father’s Day. With all his girls together in the living room, watching a movie that he had sung along with for six years until eight years ago, Jeff had stopped by to check on us. Dana and I shared a smile; I held Kate closely as we watched Duchess and Thomas and the kittens work their way back to Paris and to Madame, who loved them so very, very much.
Happy Father’s Day to those fathers still here and to those fathers who visited ever so briefly but who have never really gone.
THAT SHELF in the Refrigerator - March 10, 2011
by Monica Hutchens Tipton
You know that shelf in the refrigerator that you spilled something on quite some time ago, and you told yourself you’d really clean later on? I just cleaned that shelf. It wasn’t a particularly unpleasant experience in and of itself. However, I found myself making a couple of rather startling discoveries.
First of all the “tempered glass” (that descriptor is printed in several locations) shelf is NOT attached to the plastic frame by the manufacturer. After I held it under hot tap water for a very few seconds, the plate of glass easily slipped away from the frame and nearly bisected itself when it hit the bottom of the sink. While I was deeply relieved that the glass did not break, I was equally dismayed to find that the adhesive was not provided by the factory. This made it much more challenging to find a solution that would effectively dissolve what was left of the golden brown substance that trimmed the edge of the framework. The gunk came off the glass easily with just soap and water; however, the plastic was another story. After scrubbing diligently and purposefully for a minute or more, using increasing amounts of dish soap as well as ever more intense levels of pressure on the sponge, the slightly sticky substance persisted.
My “go to” answer for most housecleaning problems is chlorine bleach. I keep a spray bottle of a 50-50 solution close at hand for just such emergencies. I sprayed the shelving generously, knowing in my heart of hearts that even if it didn’t come clean, it would be by God sanitized. It was sanitized, and the goo dissolved, as well as a small stripe of black dye from the front of my favorite sweatshirt. I suppose that is a small price to pay for toxic waste removal.
Another disturbing factor that became a blessing was the large amount of baking soda that had been dumped from a container on an upper shelf onto the floor of the refrigerator compartment. At first I was concerned as to how to vacuum the interior of the refrigerator without creating cascading damages from one appliance to the next. Once I applied a wet sponge to the small hill of white powder, I found that it quickly became its own scouring compound, and proceeded to scrub the entire area. The baking soda, combined with the remaining traces of bleach on the sponge, made for a sparkling clean fridge completely accidentally.
My friend Kelly would blanch at my generous use of so toxic a substance as chlorine bleach, but she would lose consciousness had she seen the condition of the refrigerator prior to bleaching. This is another reason I am glad I live alone. However, I’m expecting guests this weekend, including a new suitor. While my aunt and uncle would not have noticed or certainly wouldn’t have commented on the unsanitary and unsightly condition of the place where my food is stored, it is altogether too early to show my housekeeping hand to this new man.
My final discovery had to do with a puzzle that only had four pieces. Once the bottom of the fridge, the frame, the glass shelf, and the crisper drawer had been cleaned, it was time to reassemble the entire section. This should have been easy. It was not. Because of the position of my refrigerator in my tiny kitchen, the refrigerator door only opens to 90°. This means that removing the two crisper drawers traditionally has involved taking the shelves off of the refrigerator door. This time however, in my zeal to complete my unpleasant task, I had managed to twist what I thought at the time was a three-part component and cause the entire structure to collapse onto the floor of the refrigerator. Now faced with four pieces, insufficient space, and a powerful desire to end this entire project as quickly as possible, I was faced with two options. One, disassemble the shelving on the doors as was traditional; or two, force the pieces into place. (This by the way, did not consciously enter my mind as a decision until this very moment). Those who know me well know that I immediately opted for number two.
I have a corollary to this lesson: that which falls apart does not fall together. However, with a minor amount of adjustment, the drawer, the frame, the glass, and the small plastic divider thingy that holds the entire operation in its upright and locked position went together again. I stood back, marveling at what bleach hath wrought. I don’t even have to worry about what to do with the desiccated beets, papery lettuce leaf, or sprouted root potatoes: the first two go to the chickens and the last get tossed into the yard where they will no doubt first become toys for the dog, then supper for me. I repeat: it really is a good thing I live alone.
Having so successfully addressed this particular issue, rest assured that I will share any other household cleaning tips as they are discovered with those who are interested, and for those who read my Facebook page regularly, even those who are not.
Flowering Plum March 1, 2008
The tree outside my window has been talking about spring for about a week.
Today
It began to call out to the other green beings,
Opening hundreds of tiny white mouths facing in all directions,
Singing a gentle chorus to a warm March sky.
Untitled March 1, 2008
“Read these words to me so I can think.”
She held the page before her like a tray of precious stones.
“Read, so I can find the hidden things
And figure out the answers, solve the puzzle so I’ll know.”
The eager inquisition of her eyes,
Those windows to the soul, the shining lanterns of the mind.
I read, sharing that treasure sound by sound,
And word by word, to craft for her a crown she’ll never lose.
Gentle Season
Autumn surrounds us with a shawl of fog, fringed on the edges, plush and still.
Cold creeps in where the warm winds of Indian summer just danced.
Dog and cat, yesterday chasing leaves, lie motionless, curled against the chill.
I, too, am turning inward, soul quiet, mind calm, the mountain and the bay enhanced
By the autumn, by the fog, by the winter that lies to the north and west, waiting, waiting, waiting for December to call.
My Own Series
Tonight I was engaged in my usual Saturday night occupation, lying on the sofa watching PBS. I was enjoying the last minutes of American Masters, the subject of which was Garrison Keillor, when I realized that, although I was not wearing red shoes, I was being enveloped in a Lake Woebegon monologue on my own couch. There is a need for a bit of back story here. I am dog sitting for my daughter. She and her boyfriend have a JackRat terrier and a shaggy mini-dachshund who are both very well behaved. So is the boy friend, I might add, giving you some indication of just who is doing the training. While this evening it seemed that there was the need to fly out the front door barking with untempered ferocity at least seven times, there wasn't really anything unusual going on, other than the addition of the two dogs. One dog and one cat plus two dogs does not equal three dogs and one cat. It is a geometric increase that is hard to describe unless you are fully involved in the resulting product. Nonetheless, things had at last quieted down.
It began rather simply: Nick WhiteCat took his accustomed 10:37PM place on the end of the lounge section of the couch. Nick's ascent to the sofa apparently upset the animal aura, and order, in the room. I became vaguely aware of the thump-thump-thumping of the tail of a small dog against the leg of the coffee table. Fearing the worst, I looked down to see the shiny black button doll eyes of Ziggy Flash, the dachshund, staring expectantly from me, to the other end of the sofa, and back to me again. My response was a clear and decisive, "No!" immediately following which the other small dog, Holly Berry, jumped up to take the spot Ziggy was coveting. "No. Off!" No response except the continued thumping of a feathery mahogany tail against a thrift store table. "Holly, off!" Her undershot jaw created a smile. "I said, 'OFF!'"
The thumping stopped and somehow the 8" tall dog managed a sideways and upward leap of 18" in the blink of an eye. Holly curled up against me, Ziggy found his place against the far arm of the sofa, and suddenly the cushions wobbled precipitously as Diego planted all 72 pounds of his jealous self between me and the cat.
"No! Get down!" It was as though my ordinarily excellent oral communication skills were suddenly replaced by unintelligible squeals and grunts that, when interpreted by canines, became something like, "I wish you would join me up here on this already small apartment-sized sofa. I really love it when I'm surrounded by a shedding long haired cat, a dog with weapons-grade halitosis, a dog whose desire to romance the red sofa pillow is seemingly insatiable, and a dog who regularly belches like a fifth grade boy."
I was shocked at how quickly I had become one of those middle-aged women on some bizarre TV series on TLC: supine in flannel pajamas, a wayward piece of popcorn in my cleavage, unable to find the remote, my glasses, or my cell phone. Memories whipped through my mind of having been college educated, having raised wonderful children, having sophisticated and intelligent friends, owning several cocktail dresses, but it all seemed so distant now that I was trapped on a cheap microfiber sectional in my own home. I tried to move, but I was stopped in my tracks by a huge discharge of static electricity triggered by my poly-cotton-spandex granny jammies, the breathing pelts, and all those yards of microfiber. Usually when I yell at animals they DO something, at least look at me, but it had become very clear that I was no longer in control of the situation. Even the sofa was in on it.
A buzzing reminder timer went off on my cell somewhere nearby. The cat looked startled , letting me know that I had located one of the missing devices. Using this momentary distraction, I reached over Diego, grabbed the phone from underneath Nick, and moved one dog off my leg. The swift movement created the few seconds that I needed to regain my composure, break the horrifying image of myself that had rapidly developed in my mind's eye, and roll free of what had become quite literally a dog pile.
Working my way to a sitting position on the outermost edge of the sofa, I grabbed the remote from under the letter from the sanitation department announcing the rate increase for flushing, and I shut off the TV. All animal heads became attentive, focused on the now-blackened wall-mounted rectangle. EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT THAT MEANS. IT MEANS IT'S BED TIME. It means time to get off the sofa. It means time to wait at the bottom of the stairs until I set the alarm: beep-beeeeeeeeeep. It means saying, "Goodnight, boys," and hearing the cat yowl his feline blessings. It means following me up the stairs, circling four times beside the bed, and then harumphing down onto the floor. Holly went to her dog bed. Ziggy was supposed to be in his bed downstairs, but instead raced ahead of me up the stairs and was looking at me with a guilty stare, like some Beanie Baby come to life and feeling rather badly about it. It was time for me to complete my part of the ritual, to climb into the double bed, to take my proper place after the television is shut off for the night, but I could not.
It is possible that I am in my proper place, sitting at the computer writing some nonsense yet again. Stories sometimes need to be spilled out when they are fresh, then rearranged and remixed to create the image that exists so vividly in my mind, wherever that is. And now we will all be in our proper places. Now that the words are on cyber paper, I can sleep. And when I am asleep, Diego will make his way back downstairs and onto the sofa where the little doggies will probably join him. He thinks I don't know, but Nick told me. OH, DAMMIT. See? There I go again: I'm only a few more cat conversations away from my own series on TLC.