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My children sleep through bombs.  When we are on the farm, the wargames testing that happens at the joint base miles away used to shake the little farmhouse.  Now they sleep as deeply, also, I think, because wouldn't you sleep that deeply if you knew I were your mother?  I like to think so.  Let Shere Khan stick his mangy head in my den.

I wake to the morning, and I hear them both, breath in so long, breath out so long.  It is Monday, I decide, for other people.  My children are tired, I take them through with me on these exhaustive journeys of enterprise. Last Friday my little one worked alongside me on a fourteen hour day.  I emailed, took meetings, changed clothing, cleaned the rental to show it on Saturday.  By nine o clock we ate French supper, rather than American dinner at five.   She was sagging with exhaustion.  I woke her on Saturday to show the rental.  

The children woke at nine, only slightly confused.  She showed up in a blue tutu, he was wrapped in a zebra striped blanket.  I surveyed the residents of this home with my own vantage point.  I was, by comparison, sensibly dressed.  It's an agreement in this home that we don't speak loudly and never before breakfast, and so we softly padded off to different locations.  I lazed on the preparation and put out cold cereal, blueberries, bananas.  My daughter finished her breakfast and went out of doors to stand on the back patio and sing with a microphone a song about chihuahuas to the neighbor who is a doctor of some sort.  He was her audience and gave her due applause.  

I emailed the school, truthfully, that both were striken with a summer cold.  They retreated quickly to their respective beds, again, exhaustion.  It's a hard time of year, too, they test the children so much on every detail.  

I have heard that the egg whites are the most healthful part of the egg, so accordingly I am eating merangues for my break-fast. 

I am behind on things.  Lunch approaches.  For the children,  there is buttered bread, hard boiled eggs, sliced turkey or bacon if they prefer, sliced and lightly salted tomatoes and avocados, apples.  

And now it is later. My body aches, my toes specifically. Ballet night.  I worked so hard in class that at one point I simply could not relevé, though I bid my feet to rise.  I am not on pointe, but even so, one's toes are quite involved.  Last week we danced to contemporary music - Pirates of the Carribean (I suggested in future, might we use The Game of Thrones themesong?)  This week it was Don Quixote, the Gypsy dance.  I liked it, but partnering is not for me, not now.  We did spent some time lazily moving through waltzes afterwards.  It may be that I try the tango classes on Friday.

My teenager babysat his sister, which means I came home to toys strewn from hell to breakfast.  So many matchbox cars.  And yet, as always, when I came home they were mostly playing with each other and the dog and a blanket.  On days off from school, video games and electronics are not generally permitted, as days off are granted for need of rest.  

Work is complicating, there's so very much nesting I long to do here, but I leave for a work trip next Tuesday and I do not come back until June 2nd. There's a very small chance I shall have to turn around and leave again for another three to four weeks on June 5th.   My son will be immersed with his coaches, five day a week practices up until the Junior Nationals.  My daughter will go to the coast to be with her father, where she can hear the ocean crashing against the shore from her little tiny bedroom.   I hate the children separated, and they dislike it too.  But he would barely see her during his practices anyway.  He asks me when she is to start but I have the feeling that her sport is something else, specifically swimming.  And she is so young that Mum-Mum being gone that long is a little scary still.  So it's best if she's with Dada.

It would be exhillaring and also saddening to lose June with my children.  It's the end of school, my birthday, Junior Nationals and then the Fourth, which we love to spend at the Coast with my daughter's father.  He likes nothing more than his house overrun with his former but still extended family, including my brother and my cousin's families and ours totaling ten hard headed children and four adults, all of  whom shout at him about politics and clog his washing machine up with sand.  And yet, he does love it.  

We shall see.  This job-in-June has come and gone like Bigfoot so many times I don't worry overmuch.  If it doesn't come the summer will still be so good, long and hot and lazy and then there will be the Fourth, with clouds of smoke and sparklers and marching bands.  We will probably blast Hamilton and Journey in odd mixes and have marshmallow torches and bathingsuits full of sand.

It's late, and Chopin is making me sleeply.  I do sometimes wish I were partnered, and this is one of those times.  My imaginary husband smiles at me from the kitchen, a towel over his shoulder where he is loading the dishwasher.

"Don't worry about it," he says, "I'll finish up this and then do a late night run to the store for milk, sound good?  Oh and I put away your laundry."

"Thank you so much," I say.  I stand to go and run a hot bath.

"Katie?" he says, and I turn from my spot in the hallway.


"The kids were amazing today," he says, "they're really the best kids in the world."

He's such a good man, my imaginary husband.   And see?  He likes my kids.

It really is time for me to go to bed.

Mmm... I think I love your imaginary husband.
CJ 5/8


There will be a moment, if not several, crowding into your pockets or picked up off the counter in a handful of frustrating miscilany, of feelings that do not fit the big project.

And so it is, tonight, I stand in this large house and I am suddenly deeply certain, I cannot do it.  I am equally certain there is no way I cannot do it, and I'm also realistic that I have purchased the home.  I still have these stark, mountaintop moments regarding the children.  I will be struck with clarity that it's not possible that I am solely and completely responsible for these two people who trust me to guide them.  The house is for them, the home is for them.  On my own, I'd drift from hotel to AirBnB, I suspect, living between productions.  On my own I'd not have much of a schedule. I might, conceivably, work myself to death.  I am prone to extremes.

The house is a life that I wasn't planning to have unless I had children.  I'd anticipated a partner: he never manefested.  But I executed the plan and tonight we sat at our simple pine table and ate an underseasoned meal, the kind that I can generously refer to as "nutritious" and little else to recommend it.  Tomorrow  I shall go and buy a refrigerator.  That will make food prep easier.

"Be certain you buy stainless steel so all the appliances match," my brother reminds me.

 I said, "These things matter?" 

"In homes like this, they do," he said.

"I think this is the most adult conversation we have ever had, ever," I say to him.

"Undoubtedly," he said, "But we still own a dump truck that is painted brown and sparkley so we aren't real grown ups."


I can't do it.  I know I can't do it and I'm not sure why I even attempted it.  It has been a week of things attempted that I fell down on, those emotional belly flops really sting. I sorely wish that I had something other than tequlia in the household as that brew's sting isn't for a Monday morning, in fact, it's for a never.   I stand on the back patio, and think, mostly what we own are toys.  My calves ache slightly, tomorrow is already overfull.

Too often we fill up our heads with daydreams of failure.

I want to write more about this success, and the others post photos on Instagram, spread some of the anxiety out into a brag. My son, my son is preparing for competition. I am proud.  We have done this thing together, he and I and his little sister; we have bought this house with hard work.  But people close to me are strange about this: I've had to manage my resources, meaning money, differently, and people don't really want to hear about financial management in the way that they don't really want to hear about your diet.   I can say I lost fourteen pounds by cutting out sugar, dairy, processed grains and exercising four times a week and I did that for two months.  But they don't really want to do it with you.  That third morning it really stinks, and all I wanted to do was eat a donut.  But I didn't.  And the same is for this, with budgeting.  The third morning you want to say, "forget this" and go buy what you want.  I don't. I have an envelope cash system for the small expenditures.  

So I have to let it go, that's what I jettison over the side.  The hope that people understand that this was hard work.  Let them think it was all luck.

The fear, floating on the sufrace. Who knows who it belongs to?  Someone else can claim it.

Let others claim the hope that someone will understand them.  I think, mostly, people need to understand by doing.


Someday, I hope they remember this.  The first awkward meals here.  It has been so hard to make meals as we eat very little processed food and mostly fresh.

It is why I will never pretend we are not wealthy.  This is how rich people eat. 

I have a blue bowl, a beautiful one, bought at a garage sale. Every few days I fill it with apples.  Gorgeous, sweet, grown locally, organic apples.  The children may eat ever so many apples as they choose.  My children eat like the illustrations on the pages of "The Little Blue Engine that Could."  Bright cheeked apples, milk in real glass bottles, brown bread with a thick, chewy crust, homemade more often than not.  Yellow butter, real butter, bright orange cheeses, red bunches of radishes.  I marvel at their nails, their hair, their clean white teeth, their smooth skin and rounded, muscled limbs.  My cast iron children, with the world's most incredible bone density.   After the war, my grandmother came to America.  There, in Los Angeles, she found herself crying at the sight of the food, piled high.  "You only have once chance to grow bones, teeth and brains," my mother always says.  "Food is the last area you economize."

My grandmother would be so proud of how I've fed my children.  She'd be so pleased that even without an icebox, I feed them this cleverly, this well.  

On her first visit to the new house, I see my mother note the apples, the avocados, the stainless steel bowl with beets, red onion, sweet potatoes to be roasted and served with the fresh eggs she has just brought in.

"Don't forget to buy them real meat," she says, "Not just as an ingredient in a dish, but real meat.  Let them eat as much of it as they need.  If you can't, let me know."

There is no furniture in half the house, we don't have a fridge or a washer or a dryer.  And I don't need the reminder of what comes first, but I appreciate that she advocates always first, for them.  This is how I know how much she loves me.  She loves my children more than me because she knows how much I love them and that is what I'd want.

I hope they remember. I hope they remember the bowl of apples.  I hope they remember their stern grandmother who cares so much for them.


Emotions best left to marine archaeologists. 

Ten years ago I'd lost the most important part of me. I was born, you see, in a time when the sun always shone and I believe, because of that long summer of first babyhood, I had a sunny side up.  I knew, as long as something as amazing as Africa existed a while world away from my childhood of bears and whales, islands and black rock beaches, that anything was possible.  That the rabbit in the moon who came in the long winters had a special smile for me.

And I lost that, I was punctured, it poured out of me like fine sand.  It took so long to refill.  If I had been brave enough, then, to put down roots, I wouldn't have felt like it was closing all the doors.  But I was only brave enough to get up in the morning and try.  That was all I could do.  I kept too many doors open and we know what that does to seafaring vessels that must face down storms. I took on water, I was sinking.

I didn't want to settle here, nor anywhere and even now, my heart clenches with the nomad's panic.  I will go back to Kodiak, I tell myself, I will see Delta again, Fairbanks, Tok... I will wake again some morning in Nairobi, and I will get off the train in Bordeaux and turn my face to the sun, knowing I am coming home.  There will be other times, other places.  This part is about the children, the bright pennies I was entrusted with.  If there is one thing I know I'm certain of; this job of being theirs is not one I am worthy of.  No one is.  No one is good enough, wise enough, kind enough to truly be entrusted with the small, orgami hearts of children.

So now, I settle, I close up doors, I don't take on water.  I know I'm moving still, though it doesn't look like it, I know that sometimes you anchor, other times you come into port.    I was destined, it seems, to live a thousands lives, not just nine.  I wonder at the lies I tell myself: that I work hard, that I earned this, in truth, it was all luck.  I wonder that I have always felt, except for that one dark winter, that the universe loved me just a little bit more than everyone else.  That when the sun shone, it smiled a bit more on me, that the rabbit was extra amused by my laughter, that the ocean moved faster to lick my toes than that of others.  I am, more than hardworking, more than sincere or honest or worthy, I am lucky.

Lucky for all of it.

Well, the Rabbit was, indeed, extra amused by your laughter.

(Also, I just finished Francesca Lia Block's memoir, The Thorn Necklace, and there are things in the style that put me in mind of you.)
Rabbit 5/7
Lagan and lagomorphs.
I shall look up the book, I keep falling asleep on the book I am reading...

and thanks to the rabbit. And to Shelle, who sent me to the internet to look up "lagomorph."
Shelle had to look it up some years ago when she met one. :)
Rabbit 5/8
Houser knows the difference between flotsom and jetsam ... I think flotsam floats out to sea and jetsam inward to land, but I was surprised that he knew that. Maybe he is a real pirate.

We are getting a black fridge to match our black dishwasher. Black was not really the plan, it was the least expensive color for the dishwasher and is for the fridge. The stove and microwave are still white. If you want to sell the place, though, having them all match makes sense.
According to the people who Know These Things (I suppose they have panel somewhere where They decide it?) I have heard that it's Acceptable if the stove is a different colour so long as the fridge and dishwasher match.

The plan is to sell in five years. Though having just moved, I want to insist that I will remain here forever, though it's likely I won't, even if I extend past the five years.
Forever is a very long time.

The daylight has been gliding in the front room, it doesn't break up into squares, it puddles out and the dog and the cat stand slightly verklempt. They do not have to sleep in separate squares.

Later they lay and bake together on the back patio.  His head rests on her flank.  She is, as my son says, a terrible dog but a perfect chihuahua mix.  The cat, put nicely, is an bandit, a thief, a lover and a lord.  You order that according to your experience with him, I won't.  He's loyal to me, I'm the queen, after all.  

I sit up in the night, there's a baffled sound of something.  I am learning the way the house settles but this sounds more like air blowing against one of the garage doors underneath my bedroom. Everyone else is asleep, the dog rolls over, opens her eyes, goes back to sleep.  I suppose it's fine, she will rescue me when there's need.  I pad through the house quietly, stil la bit unnerved at such a new, large space.  The grand front living room has no furniture, the wind makes sounds in the empty fireplace.  I turn on the screamers that are hidden at the top of all the exit doors and some of the interior windows.  For me it is simply letting my animal senses know they will not be caught off guard.  I'm enough of a predator to feel confident alone.  In the morning I wake to a screamer.  My son stumbles around.  "I hate your harpies," he says casually, his hair ruffled, his skin the colour of birch.  "mmm," I say, "they serve a purpose."  

As we are loading the car for school, he comes out. "We are going to be late," he says quietly, "We have a mid level emergency."  I follow him in and there, in the spot where we will put a full sized fridge when I get around to buying one (somehow buying of appliances, though needed, is a process I'm completely indifferent to) is a giant brown recluse.  This is the ninth eviction of these tiny terrors, and it's been decreasing since our residence and the application of mint spray, but he is large, and disgruntled.  We escort him out and across the street.  And we are thirty seconds late to school.  I realize partway through the drive home my parental failure: he had crossing guard early this morning.  It feels to me so often that the school wishes to make it as absolutely difficult to simply send one's children as possible.  Always something, and I wouldn't date or be involved with such a needy entity but there it is.  It is a good school filled with kind people, and my son does well there but I also wish sometimes that we didn't have to, that he could simply stay home and read books and some professor would come in three times a week to tutor him.  My manor dreams will never completely perish.

The day is still chilly; I have meetings, soon I will have to stand and take off my sneakers and let down my hair.  But right now, I am taking this moment for myself.  The wind moves through the garden pinwheels that my daughter has set up, the croquet set in the backyard has a ball under each station, as if they are waiting turns.  It is another black cup of coffee, up too late spending time with a bartender as he searched for his missing girlfriend in a future city.  I saved half the movie for the rest of tonight.  I eat chocolates from the box the same way.  In ten days or so I leave for travels again; I am determined to mule home more chocolate and this remarkable Opera Blue Tea. The colour is fantastic, the tea the perfect corner of bitter and interesting.  I am trying to escape how tired I am.  It's not a tired that rest, or a night's sleep would solve, it's a tired from changing gears, serving many tasks in different areas at once, and problem solving.  I used to believe that the checkboxes on the list could all be ticked and there's be a kind of peace.  Now I am honest enough to admit that if I wanted a life like that, I'd simplify and get a job, not work for myself. 

I will do more public posts here.  I post almost every day behind a filter.  But today I saw a little caption and it said, "Cultivate the things that matter."  I use Facebook with the disdain that my cat uses a soiled litterbox.  But I love One Post Wonder, it's the backyard kitchen garden of my writing, whre radishes sprout up in rows and I don't mind that the statue of Cyrano keeps losing his head and I find it has rolled off into the butter lettuce.  

But there are no explainations, I can't offer them, you are welcome midstream, mid dialogue, mid roadtrip. 

I will update more later.  It's time, to add subtle changes to my face with make up, to craft the look I'm presenting, to sip more coffee as I stare into the big mirror, to collect the dog and the cat in and tuck them into one of the children's beds.

Delightful. Thanks for sharing that. It's hard for me to write with that kind of simple honesty. Partly because I feel sure that if I did, the result wouldn't be as interesting as this.
I realized I never came by and said thank you. I merely thought it at you. That's the danger of checking things from one's phone, the telepathy doesn't seem to work very well.

But thank you indeed.
Lovely, lyrical.
Thank you. :) I don't miss Livejournal, but I miss what was on there, the ability to meet people through writing. I'm terribly glad for this place and a small piece of the internet to write on.
"I hate your harpies."

Oh Soren, your mother's harpies love you. xoxoxoxo

We all know public library bathrooms are a (pardon the pun) crapshoot.  Which is why I don't know that the moment Her Majesty The Baby is in the library she has her own (often not quiet) business to attend to.  

Today we went on a venture. Finding the literature to appeal to each child is a challenge.  I notice that the ficiton section for smaller children is shrinking at our library.  Is it at yours?  Our non fiction section is growing, a result of the focus on non fiction by our Common Core standards. It's my personal opinioin that Common Core has it's positives and negatives.  The convoluted, insensible math is one.  I do like that it encourages non fiction reading, but I personally feel that rather than taking shelf space from fiction we should have  utilized more of our gigantic lobby at our library and simply had more books.  There is also a tiny copy of MADELINE.  I don't know about you but for me that book was so much about the fantastic, huge illustrations with that tiny girl. It's quite wasted on a tiny, square copy.  I shall have to buy rather than check out as I do  believe that it's a good required reading for a household.

As I am always on the road, driving, I gently plunked the car seat on a table beside S. who was already reading some technical manual on Pokemon.  The audio section is sort of in a hallway and I didn't want to knock people over with the carrier.  As I was round the corner, chatting to the librarian, Her Majesty the Baby instigated a tiny fuss, no doubt due to some of the royal  activity in her lower meridian.  Her brother rocked the carrier, which had a tiny tinkling toy on it, thusly earning the wrath of a man at the computers nearby.  I wasn't even aware, as I came back, collected the baby, and headed to my banishment to Children's.  Why, why they will not stock any sort of parent appropriate reading anywhere near the Children's section I do not know.  It's so frustrating, as anyone who has had a few kids in tow knows.  It's a wasteland for adults over there.  I look longingly at the books from there as I flip through books for the children and allow them to browe.  Le sigh.

S. did not say a word to me, stayed at his table and continued reading. Another mother came and told me and I went over.  I will admit that the collar of my little black wool dress was hot indeed.  It was hardly a disruption, no more than the sound of shoes on floor, in fact, and the toy makes a faint sound, not a loud one, less than the sound of fingers on an old keyboard.  I reached S., and he looked up and smelled trouble.  I asked him, "Did someone rebuke you?" and the man in question did not look up.  I said simply, "Well.  Libraries are about books and in turn, also about children.  Please tell me next time. Please come with me."  

Though thinking on it I think S. handled it rather more correctly than I did.  Gently ignoring while complying because it was a fairly simple thing to stop doing if he found it irritating.  Really, I do believe our so-to-speak village has the right to say something to a child in public if they need a correction.  Certainly the older gentleman was not polite as he might be, but people often aren't and S. must learn to cope with that.  It was silly of me to make a fuss and to fuss in that way specifically.

The day yawned open rather early for me.  Her Majesty is teething or doing something royal and it's disrupted the sleep patterns.  I'm well into a pot of coffee and I came home with the full intenion of eating a See's Chocolate.  But then I picked the wrong one and so I had to have another.  That happens sometimes.   Our quest of unloading possessions continues.  The garage fills and at the other house, I am having a Grand Giveaway in January.  After the Giveaway, I will hopefully have the Goodwill pick up items.  I absolutely love the Goodwill.  I buy almost all our household goods and clothing from there, shopping about once a week, rather than buying new.  I see Her Majesty's Clothing as mostly a "for rent" program.  I buy, use, then donate so frequently that we saw another mother buying some of her infant clothing in line the other day.  The boys giggle because as we shop we so often find items from our own home and the prices are amazing for what we were so anxious to let go of.  I hope it does some good.  It does make us think rather carefully about every single purchase, to be surrounded by so many things is a reminder of how many things there are, period.  It's still a case of a mini minimalist meeting a capablable storage minder. 

We are still fascinated by The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.   Slowly we are assessing things, and I let it be messy in the meanwhile.  Things that are messy either get picked up and used and find a home or after a few days, I put in the ever growing donate pile in the garage.

MB is home after a day of fighting crime so I'm going to go say hello.



12/30 '14 3 Comments
I love the library. I have noticed a shrinkage in the fiction sections across the board. Not just children's fiction but adult fiction too. (Our public library has cannibalised young adult fiction into the adult fiction which I both love and hate. It was much easier to find when it had its own dedicated space, but a part of me loves the idea that many adults will now pick up titles they may never have bothered to before because it's no longer in the "Teen" section of the library.)

Our library is two stories. Upstairs is non fiction and multi-media. Down stairs is ALL fiction. Adult and child.

Madeline books are painfully hard to stumble across these days. AS a bookseller I do quite a few special orders for them, (not enough for us to have a regular stock of them though) but they have fallen out of favour and I find that quite sad. I was surprised to day to find two Franklin books on our shelves! They are notoriously hard to get in Australia now. As a result I refuse to ever part with my kids collection of Franklin.

Libraries, in my opinion, are the refuge of children, and I don't know if it's just 'country town' mentality, but a little bit of noise is always well tolerated in ours. Probably helps that I know the librarians quite well.
Beth Adele 12/31 '14
Our library is one story now (haha), but it's expanding. That's right, in Media, the library is actually getting bigger because there's a demand for it. I know how rare and precious this is.
I love libraries. Hunter is still a terror - wants to "work" on all the computers, doesn't quite get the idea of being quiet, but if I never take him to the library, he will never learn, so I hope the other patrons can tolerate us, and I try to keep him contained as much as possible without squashing his joy.

I am still thinking a lot about stuff.  I think it's my midlife crisis.  No.  Not think.  I know it is. I am approaching forty this year and this next decade is mine.  It's about action and adventure and moving with certainty now that I know better who I am.

But I have the stuff.  The stuff of my twenties to sort out first.

Where MB lives, in a coastal town, there are many estate sales in the summer.  The boys and I will occasionally wander through them.  We are only occasional purchasers. I have one list I work from of things we need. If we see an item we have noticed we need we buy it.  If not, we do not buy.

Everyone, I dare say, has a few things in boxes.  One of the things I've been doing is gathering all my items in boxes from remote storage locations and putting them at my house.  It's overwhelming.  I have probably four, good sized boxes of what could best be described as containing "North American junk drawer." Bits of cable, binder clips, paper clips, half used pencils.  It's a lot of sort and honestly I have a lot of stock.  Items "in case."  

There are also boxes of odd things that are hard to get rid of.  Things that someone gave me that, while I love the person who gifted them, they are not quite something I'd use readily or embrace.  Or things that I used to use and love a great deal that are difficult to let go of becasue when I put eyes upon them (even if they are forgotten to me until that point) I feel a curious lurch of "mine" that rises up, dragonlike, and belches it's desire towards the object.

I am beginning to recognize these boxes at estate sales in the summer.  One I remember especially was a wonderful house that had been untouched since 1975.  Her records and very pricey and lovely record player and stereo system were proudly displaed in the console and records, oh remember how lovingly we once had to store our media? neatly arranged in tidy boxes alongside.  But also, in less lovely boxes, were boxes and boxes of unopened stationary, yellowed, Avon make up and other useful things that she'd boxed up.  They stayed in the boxes, unused, and were sold at the estate sale.   The boxes had probably only been opened to be reboxed and stored again for almost forty years.

Forty years.  Think about what has happened in forty years. We have computers and cell phones.  The USSR has broken apart, the Berlin Wall came down and you can hold a corporate job and have pink hair and peircings.  Alphabet City in New York is gentrified.  And that whole time, those objects in that box were unused.  

I have boxes like that that.   It's odd to think that when I pack something up because it's not good enough to use anymore but too sentimental to let go of, that that box may only be opened because I'm dead and gone.  I might as well send it away now.  I don't want to curate boxes of unused things that will only end up being sold at my estate sale.  They are get rid of items.  They should go now.  Not in forty years.

I don't have a will (to do list this year) but there is a letter.  Upon my death, my children are assigned a task.  If I am in ashes (undecided) they are to scatter them in these locations:  The North Pole (Fairbanks, AK), The South Pole (Antarctica), the Masai Mara in Africa and then they are to end the entire trip with a cup of tea in Kensington at the Pelham Hotel.  I will leave funds to enable them to take this trip. I'd prefer the three of them go together but separately is okay too.  My point is that a funeral costs a lot of money.  Instead of sitting and mourning me, find closure in that there is no closure, because I don't believe I will ever be dead and gone. I believe the spirit lives on. So go see me where I hope I will be.  An African sky.  The Northern Lights.  But I don't want them opening  musty boxes in my house and setting them up to sell to the neighbors for a dollar or two.

I do know is what survives to our children is rarely kept in a box.  It's what we share, and the things we most love are things we use until they are used up.  There is this curious yellow pot of my mother's I've long coveted.  It has a wooden handle, and it is yellow with white enamel inside and she always made gravy in it.  There is no chance I will inherit it as it is used so often.  It's our habits, our demeanor.  My grandmother forbade me to come home from collge for her funeral so I stayed.  I never had the feeling she was gone, never, not really, and to this day I'm certain I will find her somewhere.  I can't say it's a bad feeling.  I really can't say it isn't truly nice to know she's there somewhere.

My project in December, for myself, is No More Forty Year Boxes.

The first sort is done.  Now the deeper sort comes.  January, I will be clean.

11/24 '14 1 Comment
"I do not want to curate boxes of unused things."
That line, that line right there, got me.
With every move, we seem to need more and more trucks to move our stuff.
Even though we cull like crazy before and after each move. Our first move, we didn't even half fill a truck. Our last move (move number 14) we needed three and a half trucks. That's three and a half large storage containers.
I had over 300 boxes of just books. We have way too much stuff.
Beth Adele 11/26 '14