Shoes, Ships, and Sealing Wax

Ice, remembered

A lot of the kitchen stuff I brought back here from my aunt's is stuff that I'll use, but I did keep a few things just because they were old and interesting. For example: an icepick.

True, not something you use every day (although sometimes you do need to poke a hole in something). Mostly, though, I kept the icepick because I could (barely) read the faded printing on the wooden handle: THE M.J. ULINE COMPANY THIRD & M STREETS N.E. WASHINGTON D.C.

In case you are curious, as Victor and I were...yes, that's the Uline of Uline Arena. Kind of an obvious connection, I suppose...if you're going to make ice, might as well put in a rink too.

It was interesting to realize that my aunt, who had cable t.v. and a microwave, remembered the days of gaslights and ice delivery. (The one modern invention that we just couldn't interest her in was a computer. The Internet had no appeal to her.)

She wrote about the ice man in that book I mentioned:

Before refrigerators, people had iceboxes. Ours was wooden, a little over 5' I guess, because I could reach into it. The door in front opened into a space with three or four shelves for food. The top opened and the ice was placed inside that area. The pan on the bottom had to be emptied often of the water from the melting ice. If the pan wasn't emptied the last thing at night it flooded the kitchen floor. Everyone had a card for ordering ice. It was a square with numbers at each corner [here she has a drawing, with 5-10-15-20 in the corners of a diamond] and I don't remember whether the figures meant pounds or cents. People put the card in the window in front of the house. The iceman came down the street with a horse-drawn truck. It was open and had large chunks of ice. A scale hung on the back of the truck. The man would look to see any cards, then get a block of ice, chop it down, pick it up with the tongs, sling it over his shoulder, which had a sheet of rubber, and simply walk into a house, drop the ice, and leave. I can't remember when he was paid.
We used to wait till he got into a house, then go to the truck and grab what bits of ice we could, trying not to upset the horse.

Thinking about how archaic the ice delivery seems reminds me: not long ago, a dairy here in Maryland brought back milk delivery. One of my friends at work was considering signing up, and it made me remember that in the house where we lived in the early '70's, some of our neighbors still used a milkman. I remember playing with the little square boxes that they kept on their porches. I guess that's like my aunt sneaking ice chips without scaring the horse, huh?

Signs of improvement

I have been able to focus more at work (my job sucks right now, and the fires I'm needing to put out demand a level of focus so I'm not burned...hard to believe I'm actually considering that to be a lucky circumstance.) My dreams have mostly slipped from nightmares to just weird and unusually vivid.

I think I'm getting better.

I think I'm getting better, but then something will hit me, and when I say hit, I mean like the old Batman tv show, where the fight scenes were punctuated with the graphics from comic books: ka-POW! Blammo!

Oooofff.

Yesterday I was catching up on the Forbes Don't Marry Career Women business. (See, improvement. Interest in the outside world, albeit a week late.) I was reading a blog post on it. Part of one comment (and I'm taking this somewhat out of context, to illustrate my "oooofff," not to enter the blog debate):

My wife recently lost an elderly relative - one of two sisters who never married. The other had already died. My wife is the last one on that side of the family, so we had to clean out the house and sell it. The house was full of the residue from two lives. We rented a dumpster and filled it up over the course of a week. In the end, it was all just old furniture and out-of-date clothes.

Sad.

But I am still improving. Yesterday that left me sad, very sad.

Last night I was reading a book I picked up early in the summer, but I'm just getting around to starting it: My Life in France by Julia Child. She co-wrote it with her nephew (her brother-in-law's grandson...I'm not sure if that makes him great or grand, which is why, as I mentioned, I drop the prefixes).

It's a easy read, and so far, a happy one. I found myself thinking, I wish I'd have given it my aunt, I think she'd have enjoyed it.

Did I mention I brought home seven boxes of books from my aunt's house? And that barely scratched the surface of her library; I just took the books I wanted to read myself, and anything that was old and had a family name written inside. My mom has donated at least a dozen boxes of paperbacks and bookclub novels.

I also found myself thinking: I wish I could have written a book with my aunt. She actually did write us a book, but while she was working on it, she didn't let anyone read it. She said if anybody tried sneaking a look before she died, she was going to shred it. We found it in her file box, 42 pages written out in longhand, with another couple of typed pages of geneology. The written stuff was mostly annecdotes about her childhood in D.C., and a few later reminiscences about the war. Parts of it made me cry...the first time I read it, parts of it made me sob.

Anyway, I was thinking about that blog comment, residue from two lives, old furniture and out-of-date clothes.

I'm really lucky. The things I have from my grandparents and now my aunt, I've never thought of that stuff as residue or just old furniture. I love that I can cook with my aunt's Pyrex and my grandmother's paring knife, I feel connected to them, and the rest of my family (even the ones I never knew, like my great-grandmother).

The woman who tossed her family stuff in the dumpster...maybe I ought to feel sad for her.

And hopefully it won't just be the bicycles I buy them that determine whether my sister's kids (or their kids) end up cooking with my Pyrex or throwing my whole house in the dumpster.

And in the end, it's me being the center of my universe again

We finished cleaning out my aunt's apartment this weekend. I'm sore from moving furniture and boxes of books, and I'm not sure how I'll shift things around here to make room for everything I carted home.

I turned in my key, and after that, I added something else to the list of Why This One Was Different.

I had my aunt's key from the time she moved into her apartment because I was on her call list if she pushed the "I've fallen and I can't get up" button. That never happened, but I was responsible for her if it did. I didn't have that responsibility with my grandparents.

Another thing that was different was that I saw my aunt hours before she died, when she was clearly on her way out. I missed that with my grandparents, not by design (and not without guilt).

But there is one big thing that is, I think, what's giving me such a hard time. My sister advanced the theory too, and since we both came up with it independantly, I'm guessing it is The Thing. I'm so messed up, still, because in my aunt more than anyone else I've lost, I see myself.

Not that I can compare to my aunt. The other night I was working with my parents in the apartment and my father asked if I was going to do something...can't remember what, but it was something nice for someone else...and I said "Remember at Aunt's funeral, how everyone talked about how selfless she was, how she always took care of everyone else without a complaint?"

"Yes," said my father, who'd delivered the eulogy.

"Well," I said, "Let's just say, they ain't gonna be saying that at my funeral."

My aunt was the only one in the family without children. The nieces and nephews and the subsequent generation (of which I'm one...I don't bother with the great, grand, second, etc. prefixes when it comes to family because I'm too easily confused) loved her and, in the end, cared for her. I joke that I've been buying bicycles for my sister's kids in hopes that they'll take care of me, but joking aside, I think the only thing that bothers me about not having children is the fear that I'll be dying alone. Alone, and with no legacy, nothing to show for having been here. No mark, no matter how small. I've said a hundred times the last couple of weeks "When the kids find this after I die," but what if the kids don't even go though the boxes?

Let's go to the Mystic Oracle

The Grief Experts say I should go ahead and keep talking about my aunt, because it validates that she's still part of my life.

I'm a little afraid everyone around me is getting a bit bored with that schtick, though. I'm pretty sure I've scared off any readers I ever had, so I suppose I can validate here.

The Grief Experts also say I can talk to my aunt, or write her letters. As if I wasn't crazy enough, the Grief Experts think I oughta be crazier, and talk to dead people.

That reminds me.

My aunt had a Ouija board. That probably doesn't sound like a big deal, but it is a bit incongrous to find a Ouija board in a house full of bibles, rosaries, flasks of holy water, crucifixes, and all that other catholicia.

Actually, when we moved my aunt into the senior apartment a few years ago, my cousin and I joked about the Ouija board, but apparently we neglected to ask my aunt why the heck she had it in the first place.

Anyway, after the funeral, we were trying to figure out where my aunt had stashed some heirloom, and somebody said "Well, here's the Ouija board...we can try asking her."

I ended up with the Ouija board. I have zero belief in them, but by last week I was taking every other thing left in her apartment, so I took that, too. Once I got it home I realized it wasn't the Parker Brothers version I always saw at slumber parties, it is a gen-u-ine William Fuld Ouija board. From what I found on the internet, it looks like it's from the '30's or '40's. I was hoping I'd found my fortune, but even old Ouija boards are a dime a dozen on eBay. You can ask more if they're haunted, though. I don't think mine is haunted, unless maybe...maybe the Ouija board is why I'm having nightmares...

Told you: I'm cracking up.

Wouldja believe

It's not that my blog sucks, it's that I'm rebuilding.

Well, that excuse works for the sports teams, so I thought I'd give it a shot.

I've actually written a fair amount, but it's even more maudlin than what I've been posting, if you can believe that. I've been freaking myself out with how depressed I am over my aunt's death...not that I'm grieving, but how long it's lasting, and how acute the pain is. The thing I was bothered by: it's not like she's the first in the family to go. I was nowhere near this bad with my grandmother's death, or my grandfather's, and the situations were not that dissimilar.

I know grief takes its own course, and every situation is unique. And I know that I can't schedule a time for it to end, I just need to let it run its course, and give myself room to just feel what I feel. (Ok, I don't know that, I resorted to the EAP. That's why I pay health insurance premiums, right?)

That's fine and dandy, I can float down the river of grief and indulge the hell out of myself in the meantime, I just want to know why I'm crazy reacting so differently to the situation this time.

The EAP won't tell you that. It's a "why ask why" thing. But I always want to know why.

In the last day or two I have thought of some plausible reasons, and hopefully that will quiet my mind. I need my focus back. And some sleep, nightmareless sleep, that would help a lot too.

Quote of the day

"Traveler, there is no path. Paths are made by walking." ~ Antonio Machado

Church ladies

Written last night while mu.nu was down:

I was out running errands this morning and stopped at Roy Rogers for breakfast. In line behind me were a couple that had to be coming from church, the gentleman in a dark suit and red tie, the lady in a dress and a hat.

While the husband waited for the food, the wife took a seat in the booth across from mine and took a cell phone from her purse. I admit it: I listen to cell phone conversations. I figure, if someone makes a call in public, it isn't like I'm eavsdropping. It's street theater to me.

She discussed setting up an appointment for this afternoon, and said that the church would be available any day this week. Then she asked if relatives would be coming from out of town, and did anyone have flight schedules yet.

As she talked, the situation came into focus.

She said they'd like to meet with the family, to get a better sense of Don as a person, because it was always better if the service was more personalized.

I felt a lump in my thoat.

She said if they didn't have hymns in mind, they could suggest some.

She rang off saying "God bless you," then filled her husband in on the funeral plans that they knew and which were still up in the air. "Bless them," punctuated the conversation, with a sad shake of her head.

On behalf of the bereaved, I wanted to run over and hug her. Instead I held back a sob, and threw away my uneaten breakfast fries.

If it makes you happy

Carnival lights:

Wheels, seasons, roads, and all those other metaphors for life

Went to another funeral today, this one for a friend who suffered a stroke earlier in the summer.

A few years ago I had a summer like this, where it felt like I was going to a lot of funerals. Somebody at work even commented on it (I kept wearing suits, and I never dress that well for work.) My officemate said "You go to a lot of funerals because you know a lot of people."

She was right, I realized as we discussed it. I live in my hometown, I have a fairly big family, and I've worked in the same place for a long time. Lots of connections, lots of people, lots of funerals. But also: lots of weddings, lots of baby showers, lots of retirement parties.

It feels like the summer is nearly over. It was warm enough this week, but the leaves are starting to fall, there's condensation on the car window in the morning. I can't say I'm sorry to see this season change. The memories of this summer are still mostly sad. Even though...a friend did have a baby, a healthy little boy. My brother-in-law gave his brother a kidney and both guys are recovering well. Another friend has just been swept off her feet by the man of her dreams.

Wheels are turning, mileposts whizzing past.

Enough about me

While I wallow, my sister holds way more together than I can imagine.

People think I'm the tough one, but that's only because I swear more. In real life, I don't hold a candle to her.

Myopia

I've been myopic the last few weeks. We had my aunt's funeral, then I went on vacation with the family, now we're home and I'm helping my father pack up my aunt's apartment. My mom is at my sister's, helping with the kids while my brother-in-law recovers from surgery. I am tending the pets and neglecting the garden. I know a lot is going on in the world, but I can't muster energy or attention beyond myself.

I don't think it's in Ecclesiastes, but I'm hoping it fits that there's a time for being glued to CNN and a time to throw away the newspaper without even doing the Sodoku puzzle.

If the phone doesn't ring, it's me

I should know that if I don't have a mailbox full of spam, the mail ain't working.

I'm not sure what's up with it, but to rectify, I've finally used one of the Gmail invites that's been sitting around. If you want me, I'll be here:

nic.shoes at gmail.com

From what I've gathered from the little attention I've paid to Gmail, the search engine machinery scans your messages and puts some links on the page, right? So it seems, in a way, to know you? Like it is in your head?

I just logged on to my new account, and of course the only messages are my standard welcome messages, so there's no me for the 'bots to know yet. But it had a link: Whole grain pancakes with blueberry maple syrup.

Wow, that looks good. Right up my alley, too. How did they know?

Funniest thing I saw today

Yesterday's Mary Worth, or at least the first panel.

I don't even read Mary Worth, so I'm not sure why it caught my eye, but when it did it cracked me up.

Oh hell, I know I shouldn't steal copyrighted art, but maybe this counts as fair use:

Cracked. Me. Up.

Postcard

Postcard

To keep the blog from going blank while I'm occupied with a return to normalcy, here's a pretty picture:

I might want to keep it handy anyway, since a return to normalcy might well leave me needing a mental trip back to my happy place.

To do

1. Catch up on nearly two weeks of not being at work
2. Catch up on a week of not being home
...
101. Blog