The joys of winnowing

Yesterday I looked out my big picture window and saw the back end of a U-Haul blocking the view. Today the truck is gone, having disgorged its contents into my house, my son's apartment, and the Habitat for Humanity Restore, where our excess furniture will find a new home, provided that someone out there wants a 30-year-old particle-board computer desk or a wobbly side table.

We still have a huge task ahead of us, emptying boxes and rearranging the contents of cabinets so everything fits, but just at the moment I'm letting it all sit. I woke up in the wee hours with shooting pains in my shoulder from all the lifting, so today I intend to focus on less strenuous tasks, like thinking about beans. Where are we going to store all the varieties of dried beans we kept in the pantry at the Jackson house? The one cabinet here that still has space is susceptible to mouse invasion, so I can't put anything down there that's potentially gnawable, if that's a word. 

My favorite part of the process of combining two households is winnowing out duplicate items. We now have an excess of cake pans, so let's toss out the old dented ones! I can't tell you how delighted I am to get rid of a broken floor lamp and an ugly table lamp and replace them with the newer, nicer ones from the other house. Too many coffee mugs? Let's take everything that features an advertising logo and throw it in the Goodwill box.

Or one of them. We have three boxes full of things to take to the Goodwill, and we're not nearly done yet. Anyone need a microwave? I'm keeping the newer one but the old one still works. I'm not getting rid of the extra iron, though. Given the volume of ironing my husband does, it's only
a matter of time before our iron wears out. I'll keep the other one as a backup.

We probably could have made some money on some of the things we gave away, but who has time for a yard sale? Let someone else get some use out of my old worn-out stuff and I'll put my time to better use, like thinking about beans and drinking tea and enjoying the unobstructed view out my front window. At some point all these boxes will have to be unpacked, but for the moment I think I'll just sit and enjoy the absence of trucks. 

 

 

Boxed in and matchless

From where I sit in the living room the view is more eclectic than usual: a weight bench next to an empty bookcase next to a barren Christmas tree next to a pile of boxes, because yes, we spent Boxing Day boxing things up so we can reunite our two households into one, although I'm a little worried about where everything is going to fit. Who needs two crock-pots or three cheese-graters or several superfluous floor lamps? I foresee some visits to Goodwill in my future.

I spent most of the afternoon packing up the kitchen and I feel it in my back and shoulders. The easy stuff is done, so the kitchen island is piled high with all the things that don't fit well anywhere, and I don't want to think about where they're going. When I look at the pile I'm tempted to burn it all, so it's a good thing I can't remember where I packed the matches.

Last year I spent Christmas vacation painting the entire interior of this house and this year I'm packing everything up, so this house has certainly given me a whole-body workout. I will miss the kitchen (except for the ovens with their incomprehensible controls), but more than anything I will miss our neighbors and Lake Katharine, which has been my reliable happy place through all the insanity of the past three years of commuting between households and that one bizarre semester of online teaching. I know Lake Katharine and our wonderful neighbors will call me back to Jackson for occasional visits, but I can't think about that until we get outta Dodge.

More packing and cleaning tomorrow, and then we'll pack up the truck on Wednesday and head home. If everything goes according to plan, by Thursday I'll be sitting on a different sofa in our own house contemplating a view very much like the one I'm seeing now--piles and piles of boxes that need to be unpacked, and not a clue as to which one holds the matches.

That's my jam

When life gives you fancy jams--make thumbprint cookies. Especially if life is demanding that you pack up every single item in the fridge and move it across the state a few days after Christmas so you're motivated to empty as many bottles as possible.

And if life gives you a few blessedly free hours before the arrival of the son and the holiday services, why not do some online training for the new course management system, even if it is Christmas Eve? Because I'm an academic and that's how we roll.

This won't be my most memorable Christmas ever--that would be the one when I had to cancel a massive Christmas Eve party to deliver my daughter a month early via emergency C-section--but it's certainly unusual. Because of the timing of this move, I will have to take down the Christmas tree and pack up all the decorations in the next couple of days, maybe even tomorrow evening. 

On that fateful Christmas of 1986, when I went into the hospital not expecting to deliver my daughter for another month, we weren't able to take down the Christmas tree for a full six weeks, by which point the seven-foot-tall had dried up and dropped every needle. This year's tree is small and artificial and won't take long to undecorate, but it seems wrong to pack away Christmas so quickly.

But we'll be happy to pack on the pounds, thanks to three kinds of Christmas cookies, lots of lovely fruit, and a great big ham in the fridge. Because that's how we roll, that's our jam, that's my kind of Christmas.

 

Kitchen confusion, with capers

Yesterday I found treasure in the freezer: two quarts of frozen blackberries from our summer bumper harvest. I'll bake a blackberry pie for my husband's birthday tomorrow, which will be suitably celebratory while also clearing some food out of the freezer in preparation for moving.

I've been taking stock of what's in the pantry and fridge in hopes of eating as much as we can so we'll have less to pack up and move next week, but it's not easy. We'll be eating a lot of canned soup and we may even break into the instant mac and cheese I keep on hand for the grandkids, but the pantry also offers all kinds of ingredients that won't mesh well into a meal: capers, alfredo sauce, almonds, butternut squash, and lime jello. What am I supposed to do with that?

I also need to strategize on packing up the kitchen things, but I've already made some serious errors. We have a bunch of local jellies in the fridge that would work well for thumbprint cookies, but I never brought the stand mixer back from our other house after Thanksgiving so I'll be working with a flimsy hand mixer, which makes cookie-baking much less fun. I can't pack up the pie pans and rolling pin until after the blackberry pies, and I can't pack certain pans and dishes until after Christmas dinner. 

At some point before next Thursday we'll need to switch over to paper plates and get everything in the kitchen packed up and ready to go, but choosing the correct moment will make a big difference in our quality of life over the next two weeks, which explains why my brain is working overtime to solve these logistical problems. I wake up in the wee hours nearly every morning with an urgent need to solve a piece of the puzzle, which makes me a little cranky the rest of the day.

I've lived in limbo so many times that I ought to find the place familiar and comfortable, but every time I stand on the bridge between dwellings, I feel a desperate desire to jump off. But instead I think I'll bake a blackberry pie, which will remind me of one of the things we'll miss most about living in Jackson: the big patch of blackberry bushes just behind the house, a reminder that even the most challenging situations offer opportunities to find treasure.

Something old, something new

The other day I watched my daughter cut some shimmery red velour and sew it into a beautiful Christmas dress for my youngest granddaughter, who wore the dress the next morning in her preschool Christmas program. From fabric to dress in just a few hours! I may have had that kind of energy in my younger years when I annually sewed matching holiday outfits for my kids, but these days I'm happy to watch the young people get creative.

This time of year my husband likes to wear the holiday ties I made him from the same fabrics I used for our children's festive clothes. Ties get less wear than children's clothes and he's never going to grow out of them, so they'll be around a while longer. My daughter, on the other hand, used leftover fabric from her daughter's dress to make new Christmas stockings for my husband and me, since ours are so flimsy that they can't even be hung up any more. As much as I value holiday traditions, I won't be sorry to see those old chintzy stockings go and replace them with stockings decorated with a chickadee and a chili pepper.

On my Christmas tree I can see some of my late mother's delicate porcelain ornaments hanging near twirly plastic ones my daughter produced with a 3-D printer, a lovely juxtaposition of old and new. Today we're looking back on the day 39 years ago when my husband and I tied the knot and drove off into the sunset in that 1970 Dodge Dart, while we also look forward to the day two weeks from now when we'll move out of the Jackson house and reunite under one roof back at Hogue Wild. 

Old and new, past and future come together at the holidays. We might not have known where the journey would take us when we hopped into that Dart 39 years ago today, but we gained something new at every turn in the road, and it's delightful to see the next generation continuing some of our traditions while always bringing new things into our lives. Here's to the next turn in the road!

 

 

Adventures in Customer (dis)Service

After my latest foray into fighting debit-card fraud, I had to go out for a therapeutic haircut--and instead of just getting the usual cheap trim, I actually asked the stylist to shampoo my hair. Because I was just that angry.

Faithful readers will recall (read it here) that two weeks ago I learned that some moron had swiped my debit card number and charged hundreds of dollars in lottery tickets in a town I've never visited. As long as ten days ago I thought the whole situation had been cleared up, but what a fool I was. Since then I have had several tense exchanges with people at my bank, both in person and on the phone, and I have learned a number of interesting lessons:

1. If the phone system in the Customer Service department regularly disconnects callers who get put on hold, it's time for some truth in advertising--call it Customer Disservice. 

2. If you tell the clerk that your old eyes can't handle tiny print and politely ask her to explain what you're being asked to sign, she will sigh deeply and treat you like an imbecile.  

3. The reason my new debit card that was supposed to arrive by mail last week has not yet arrived is that (and I still can't quite believe this) the person responsible for ordering the new one just...didn't. No reason. It just didn't happen. But if they order a new one today, I can have it in hand by the end of next week! Or they can put a rush on it and have it delivered by Federal Express tomorrow! Provided that I'm willing to stay home all day awaiting the delivery, and provided FedEx doesn't pull one of its previous delivery stunts (like putting the package in a plastic bag and tying it to the bridge at the end of my driveway because they can't be bothered to drive up the hill)!

4. I never thought I would be the kind of person who would name-drop the bank's CEO and promise to mention the teller by name in a letter of complaint, but push me far enough and you never know what might happen.

In the end the bank agreed to get my new debit card issued by tomorrow and allow me to pick it up in person at the bank. By the time we'd reached that point this morning, though, I was in no fit state to concentrate on any of today's campus tasks, so I hied me on out to my regular cheapo haircuttery and got my usual trim PLUS a soothing shampoo. I'm gonna wash that bank right outta my hair--as soon as I get my new debit card.

Final exams: the gift that keeps on giving

People keep telling me it's just a number, and I guess they're right: Today I'm only one day older than I was yesterday, but 60 feels centuries older than 59. Then again, twelve years ago when I was undergoing cancer treatment I wasn't sure I'd make it to 50, so I guess I should rejoice over becoming a sexagenarian.

For more than 20 years I've regularly spent my birthday preparing for final exams, proctoring final exams, or grading final exams, and this year is no exception. A student is sitting in front of me taking a make-up exam right now, and I'm giving two more final exams later in the day, for a total of seven and a half hours of proctoring (provided that students take the whole exam period, which may not happen). And then I have a search committee meeting today to interview a candidate, and I'll finish the day with a celebratory supper with my son and some colleagues at the local Indian restaurant--socially distanced, of course. I don't want to create a superspreader event on my birthday so I felt a little guilty inviting people to eat out with us, but we can spread out at separate tables and still enjoying being in the presence of wonderful people.

I ought to be grading during all those hours of proctoring, but I've been grading papers all week and I'm tired. What I need is a face mask that makes me look wide awake while I sleep in front of the classroom. Now that would make a great birthday gift! Except I'm afraid my snoring would give it away.

A nice surprise at my department's holiday lunch.

 

Of hats, masks, and splendors

Last night at the community performance of Handel's Messiah I noticed a group of teens wearing unusual headgear--floppy knit hats with floofy things hanging from them--but I did not scoff because (a) the hats weren't any more ridiculous those I often wore in public during my own ridiculous-hat stage; (b) these adolescents' presence at a long baroque musical event more popular with the white-haired crowd is something to celebrate; and (c) in addition to ridiculous hats, they wore face masks, which is more than I can say for many others. 

Masks were required for the event, but many in the crowd interpreted "required" loosely. Way up front I saw a group of about a dozen Mennonite teens covering their heads with tiny white bonnets and delicate white scarves, but not one of them was wearing a mask. Maybe it's a religious thing? Mennonites are supposed to avoid personal adornment, but a plain drab mask doesn't seem like much of an adornment. (Neither does a ventilator, but let's not go there.)

It felt really good to be out amongst people enjoying the kind of performance that provides an emotional boost at the start of Advent. I kept thinking of the hymn we sang in church Sunday morning, "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear," which looks forward to a time "When peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling." That's just what we all need right now: a bunch of ancient splendors being flung about as we run around with arms stretched out to catch them. 

I caught some splendors the other day from my amazingly talented Jackson neighbor Judy, whose hobby is making beautiful quilts for family, friends, and strangers. Yes, she's the sort of person who entertains herself by crafting hand-made quilts to donate to needy children she'll never meet, but this time she'd made a quilt featuring 60 friendship stars in honor of my upcoming 60th birthday. I wrapped myself in that quilt and felt surrounded by love. I wish I could walk around wrapped in that quilt all week long, but it's a little unwieldy and I would hate to drag such a splendid gift in the dirt.

Instead, I propose that we all put on our most ridiculous hats, crank up the holiday music, and run around catching splendors wherever they are being flung, because what's the point of flinging splendors if no one's around to catch them?

I love the backing fabric just as much as the pieced top.

 

Remarks on unremarkability

Final day of classes for the semester but who has the energy to celebrate? Today my students are submitting papers, viewing the last bits of films, and preparing for final exams, but all I want to do is lie down and sleep for a week or two, which is not consistent with the need to grade all those papers and proctor all those finals.

This has not been the most exhausting semester ever: I haven't been trying to teach while competing for a tenure-track job in my own department or undergoing cancer treatment or serving as faculty chair, nor have I been shackled to Zoom while teaching during a lockdown. It has, on the whole, been a pretty unremarkable semester, with a few difficult spots but no more stress or heartache than might be expected of a normal year. Last year, surviving a full semester under pandemic conditions felt positively heroic; this year it's just business as usual.

But how do we celebrate business as usual? Congratulations on having a mostly unremarkable semester! Hope your next semester is even more unremarkable! I'm just not feeling it. What this semester needs is a theme song:

Call me unremarkable;
call me so forgettable;
and it's unregrettably true
that business as usual won't fit in this meter--boo-hoo!

Yeah, that's bad, but not bad enough to be memorable. Just unremarkable, like this semester, which appears to be winding gently down, going out not with a bang but a yawn.  

Since when do Mario and Luigi work at my bank?

After spending half an hour on hold with my bank's fraud detection division, I had one question: How am I supposed to have confidence in your competence when your hold music sounds like the Super Mario Brothers theme?

But I didn't ask that because I had more pressing issues: How did some moron get access to my debit-card number, and how many lottery tickets did he buy with my money? If he wins the jackpot, do I get a cut? How long will my account be frozen? When will my new debit card arrive? And how am I supposed to get access to my funds in the meantime?

Two days, four phone calls, and one lengthy visit to the bank later, I still don't have all the answers, and a bank clerk informed me that my situation is not at all unusual. Apparently this kind of thing happens every day, but this is the first time it's happened to me so I think I'm allowed to be a bit befuddled. 

I mean, how do people get access to funds when an account is frozen? "They have multiple accounts," said the helpful bank clerk, which sounds like a grand idea that I'll be certain to pursue as soon as I get access to my funds. Meanwhile, I guess I can just stop spending money.

But will the hundreds of dollars that moron spent on lottery tickets ever get refunded? I have to make one more visit to the bank to sign some papers so they can pursue the fraud further, and then it's a waiting game, accompanied by the kind of hold music that makes me wonder whether Mario and Luigi can be trusted to rescue my treasure.