Antiques Like Me

For as long as I can remember, I have preferred old objects to new.   I prefer a home accessory that was repurposed from a soda shop or a bygone apothecary to a sparking glass vase from Crate and Barrel.   For me, it is less about style and more about soul.  An old object speaks of the many people who have held it in their hands.  It resonates with sustainability—the strength to endure.  It tells a story of productivity and achievement and comfort.   It has a patina that says, “I get better with age.”  Perhaps it is this latter point that attracts me.  Who among us does not want to believe that our own value and beauty will appreciate over time?

Many times I have heard people say, “They don’t make’em like they used to.”  Just walk through a good antique store and you will see how furniture used to be made.  Quarter sawn oak, fully finished drawers, dovetail joints—these are unheard of in today’s furniture.   There was a time when the quality of the product captured the pride of the craftsman.   A trace of the fingers reveals the loving hand of skilled artisans.  A rub with some oil brings out the resilient grains of patiently aged wood.

The world is full of treasures masquerading as cast-offs—pieces lacking the gleam of newness yet are nonetheless solid, functional and enduring.  They have years of life remaining, but they are overlooked by a generation addicted to bells and whistles.   This is where I aim my shopping compass; diving into flea markets and antique malls is my greatest pleasure.  I love the thrill of the hunt.  I live for the satisfaction of bringing a treasure back to life and giving it a home.

Today, antiquing is done in the name of green living—reuse, recycle, repurpose.  To be sure, there is something to be said about feathering our nests without expanding our carbon footprints.  But to antique thrill seekers like me, the joy is more than merely practical.  I derive value from the latent past that is embedded in these objects.  The stories they tell are welcome additions to my home.  They enrich our lives like the benevolent ghosts of revered ancestors, each in its respective place of honor.

  

By the time you read this blog, I will have hit the antiquing trail—awaking early to set out with an empty trunk and a wallet of small bills.  Perhaps I will add to my collection of Heisey glass.  Perhaps I will find an interesting stool that can be repurposed as a bedside table in the guest room.  Perhaps a small table will serve as a writing desk under one of our vintage typewriters.  Perhaps an interesting picture frame is begging to be spray-painted a whimsical color and fitted with a beveled mirror.   I can’t wait to see what my quest will reveal!

Tomorrow's blog:  Half Empty, or Half Full?

If A Tree Falls and My Mother Doesn't Hear, Am I Still Wrong?

I remember being a young newlywed and saying to my husband, “If I ever become my mother, you have permission to shoot me.” 

The fact is, my mother was a devoted wife to my father for over fifty years.  He felt privileged to have her on his arm and was embarrassingly open about his love for her.  From the time she met him—as a substitute for a blind date to her freshman beach party—she catered to him on every level, fulfilling the image of the perfect housewife of the 50s and 60s.

I do not think my mother has ever gotten over the fact that her only daughter had no interest in emulating her life.  I am the product of a different generation, one where a woman is not defined by the man who keeps her.  My mother’s love of whiter whites, infinite books of green stamps, and dinner on the table at six made me cry for her.  I once made the mistake of asking her if, once all the kids left for college, she might have fun getting out of the house and getting a job.  She was furious.  “I don’t have to work,” was her only reply.   In her generation, a working girl was an unfortunate woman who failed to net a good marriage.

My husband and I hit the professional world at about the same time.  I got my master’s degree and began a career in my chosen industry.  My husband graduated from dental school and began a prestigious oral surgery residency.  One day I was shocked to hear my mother criticize him for what she perceived as his selfishness.  She saw him as relying on me to “support him” while he neglected his Harvard education and husbandly responsibilities.  “I’m embarrassed for you,” she said gravely.
 

There is an expression designed for just such situations:  “What we have here is a failure to communicate.”  I would not have changed my circumstances for the world.  I not only worked voluntarily, I pursued an advanced degree in order to enter my field.   Although incredibly frustrating and a little sad, I have difficulty feeling angry at my mother for what she believes.  She comes by her values honestly; they have served her well over a long life.  I do not waste my time trying to enlighten one who worked at teasing hair and trading recipes while turning a blind eye toward women who raised the glass ceiling.  But when she tries to make me over in her image, that is when she runs afoul of my good graces.   I will never be Mom 2.0.

But it is harder than you think to escape your roots.  Most people’s paradigm for household operations comes from how their mother kept house.  The brands that our mothers used for toothpaste, dish soap and laundry detergent become our factory settings.  We are accustomed to a very particular scent on our sheets, or the picker-upper strength of certain paper towels, or the implied quality of labels, such as Heinz Ketchup or Hellman’s Mayonnaise.   My mother has a particular way of folding a paper napkin diagonally, and a relentless preference for heavy terry cloth dish towels.

My home is set up to my preferences, which are decidedly—if not intentionally—counter to my mother’s.  I fold napkins in half crosswise and place them with the fold out, the cut edges tucked neatly under the plate.  I use an out-facing fold because I read a book of etiquette as a child that contradicted my mother’s custom of tucking the fold under the plate.   I fold crosswise because that is the way Annie Sullivan taught Helen Keller to fold her napkin.  It was one of the first activities that helped break through Keller’s silence, connecting her with the rest of the world.  She went on to graduate from Radcliffe College.  When I received my degree from the same institution—76 years later—I thought of her as they handed me my diploma.

I am deliberate and purposeful in the organization of my home.   I am no Suzy Homemaker; keeping house is an odious chore to me—not a joy.  I prioritize:  clean is important while neat is less so.   My mother just cannot bring herself to let me run my household my way.   As I roll my husband’s socks into the matched balls he prefers, she clicks her tongue and asks, “You stretch out his socks like that?”  She would prefer that I faux-iron the socks with my hands, restore them to the flat shape they assumed when purchased, and then fold them to look brand new as I set them in perfect stacks in my husband’s drawer.  She did this for my father for over fifty years, which makes her the undisputed authority on men’s socks.  

Cooking in my mother’s presence requires an agile defense.   I leave my green beans long (“Your father likes them cut up”) and I boil long-cooking brown rice (“Minute Rice is faster”).    When a crumb drops on the kitchen floor and I don’t stop cooking to pounce on it, she exhales sharply and asks, “Should I get that for you?”  For almost thirty years I have run my own household—far longer than the seventeen years I spent in hers.   While I am competent enough to get my family nourished and our friends entertained, under my mother’s critical eye I am forever flawed because I am not her.

All of this notwithstanding, Nature is a devious beast.   I’ve spent the better part of a lifetime of trying to craft myself as an original, designing my own pattern and fighting for the right to do so.  But we cannot hide from our DNA; we are the pre-printed immortality of our parents.   More and more, I see flashes of my mother—in the way I hold my hands, in the way I purse my lips, sometimes even in the sound of my own voice.  I have been running away my whole life from a static world where my mother rules, but I have not escaped.  I have merely recreated a parallel world where my values apply.  In the end, it is less a battle of substance and more a struggle for identity.  Me, 1.0.

Tomorrow's blog:  Antiques Like Me

The One That Holds More

There is a certain natural combativeness between close siblings.    My brother and I are 13 months apart, which often caused our parents to treat us as if we were a pair of fraternal twins.  The family scrapbook, for example, is filled with photos of us at the New York World's Fair, where, in the summer of '64, my brother and I traveled in matching gingham checked outfits.  His was a button down shirt and mine was a simple dress with a ruched yolk, but the glaring red and white pattern identified us as a bonded pair.  I often had teachers who had previously taught my brother, and we frequently moved in the same circle of friends.  But as the younger sister, our relationship was not built on equality.  I was smaller, I was second best, and I was a girl.

Thus began my life as an also-ran.  All my childhood milestones were tempered by the fact that they were not family milestones.  By the time I learned to read, or to ride a bike, or to memorize the times tables, someone else had already planted the flag.  My first tooth to fall out was not the first tooth to fall out.  My first day at school was not the first day at school.  There were always three people reminding me that I was the only one in the house who could not remember what became of 8 and 7 when you multiplied them.  Every step of growth for the average kid was an act of catch-up for me.

It does not take a genius to understand how this shaped my life choices.  In a science-driven family I chose to study the arts and health policy.  In a family rooted to the ground and inbred in its thinking, I risked being shunned by not attending the same college where the last six members of my family had gone, selecting instead a college far away.  I asserted my independence, making my own choices and funding them, too--all for the privilege of walking an unpaved road to some destination of my own choosing.  Over the years, I learned to benchmark my life against my own goals and interests, never once looking over my shoulder at what someone else may have done before or since.  No excuses needed, no explanations given.  Take it or leave it.

Looking back, I can recall a moment of clarity from my childhood, a time when I first determined that I would live a life to obviate comparison.  All families have bric-a-brac that accumulates in the household.  In our family, we had a pair of small unmatched plastic tumblers that for many years served as the principal drinking vessels for the two kids.  I have no idea where they originated; perhaps they were "acquired" from restaurants here and there.  One was taller, etched vertically with a diamond pattern.  The other was shorter, a smooth band at the top and fluted down the sides.  My brother declared the taller cup to be his permanently, as he was older and, therefore, entitled to the better glass.  I was relegated to the shorter baby-sister glass.  Forever, the table would be set with the appropriate cups and the appropriate places.

Every chance I got, I used the taller glass.  If it was sitting rinsed in the dish drain and I needed a glass of water, I would use it, rinse it, and put it back.  There did not seem to me to be a logical reason why anyone could not use the closest available cup to drink at any time.  Ownership and control of a plastic cup was absurd, and using it to oppress a little sister was just as silly.  Still, I was powerless in this household to assert any logic; I merely exercised my civil disobedience in a stealth manner.

One night, my college-aged uncle was baby-sitting for us.  In my parents' absence, I tested the limits by asking to drink from the taller cup.  This idea was immediately struck down by my brother, who would not be denied his birthright or his superior cup.  My uncle, who always had a devious streak, filled the shorter cup ("my" cup) to the rim.  Directing me to watch closely, he set the taller cup beside it on the counter.  He then poured the contents from the short cup into the taller cup.  The tall cup filled quickly and then overflowed onto the counter!  While the taller cup appeared to be the larger of the two, the shorter cup was stout and therefore had a greater capacity.  Thus, my cup became "the one that holds more."

You cannot imagine the joy this brought to a kid who never won a game of chess or checkers, was the butt of every joke, and was stuck in the corner with no hope of a liberating Patrick Swayze.  My brother hated the status that this turn of events conferred upon his own cup--the one he fought so hard to secure.  He lobbied and plotted until one day he made me ante up the one that holds more in a bet that he was destined to win.  I did not care; the cup had lived its purpose.  The joy would forever be in the moment and not in the cup.  He could have it, as I would happily drink from the tall cup for all time.

Tomorrow's blog:  If A Tree Falls And My Mother Doesn't Hear It, Am I Still Wrong?

Midday in Paris

There are times when you let opportunity pull you through the door.  This is how our family ended up spending a day in Paris during an accidental trip to London.

London was not our intended destination.  My son had been asking for years if we could take a family trip to Israel as his Bar Mitzvah gift.    We set our sights on a Spring-break trip—a beautiful time of year to visit Israel and a few weeks shy of Jonathan’s 13^th birthday.  Anyone who has even planned an international trip for a family of four knows how complicated the logistics can be.  You have to figure out which airline offers the best service with the fewest connections, you have to make “trial reservations” just to be able to check seat availability, and you add a level of complexity if you attempt to use any type of frequent flyer awards.  I am also hampered by a logistic conundrum:  do you make airline reservations after finding hotel availability, or do you purchase the air tickets in the hope that you can find hotels?

After procrastinating for far too long, I set out on a particular Monday morning determined to get to end of task on this trip.  Eventually I was able to find flights that had enough availability for all four of us to upgrade with award miles.  Fortunately, because it was an international flight, I had a 24-hour period in which to finalize the details—pay, transfer the miles, and issue the tickets.  It seems trivial in retrospect, but to reach this point consumed most of my day.  And that day was September 10, 2001.

As we all know, the next day changed everything we thought we knew about the world.  Our lives were in flux.  Airplanes were grounded; we did not know when or if it would be safe to fly again. We were caught between the need to plan in advance and the inability to trust the future.  As the dust settled, we decided to reset our destination for London.

Although Tom and I had already been to London, it turned out to be a great place to bring the kids.  Everything is new again when you experience it through the eyes of your children.  We had fun navigating the Underground, finding historical figures interred at Westminster Abbey, visiting the Elgin Marbles at the British Museum, catching some musicals, eating amazing Indian food, standing on the meridian at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, and shopping at Harrod’s. 

One thing that was new in London since our last visit was the completion of the long-awaited Chunnel and its train line between London and Paris.  While eating a hearty pub lunch and discussing how to spend the next few days, someone jokingly mentioned going to Paris for the day.  As it turns out, there is a discount excursion ticket for the Chunnel if you make the round trip on a single day.   With a quick stop at a ticket window and a handy credit card, we were booked to Paris for the following day.

It was a bit surreal.  We boarded an early morning train, eating croissants avec au chocolat chaud along the way.  Arriving at Gare du Nord by 11am, we had approximately 6 hours in which to give the kids a taste of Paris.  Thus began “Mom’s ½ day tour of Paris.”

First, we took a taxi to Notre Dame.  Although young, our kids had already had a great introduction to the famed cathedral with a little help from Disney.  They remembered how Notre Dame was the heart of Paris, situated on the Île de la Cité.  They climbed up the ancient stairs to stare face-to-face with the gargoyles.  Then we had lunch at a small café that served what my son still recalls as the best ham and cheese sandwich in the world.

Hailing another taxi, we moved next to the Louvre.  I am ashamed of our brief visit, attended with all the gravitas of a drive-thru encounter at MacDonalds.  We hit the Winged Nike of Samothrace and the Venus de Milo, spending more time journeying the long passageways between the famous relics than we did observing them.  Only for the Mona Lisa did we assume an appropriate reverence as we joined the crowd that all but obscured daVinci’s enigmatic beauty.  In fact, you have no choice but to slow down as you wait among the masses, inching forward only after each tourist has taken his fill.  For certain, many of the pilgrims do not admire daVinci’s painterly lady; they are there to bask in her presence, enjoying the “being” as much or more than the “seeing.”

Pushing forward amidst the strangers, I lost myself in the gaze of the painting’s subject, momentarily forgetting myself, my family, and my surroundings.  Finally, my daughter, who was only 9 at the time, nudged me really hard.  “Mom,” she said, trying to appear calm, “that man is trying to rob you.”  I looked down.  A non-descript man had unfolded a large tourist map so that it was partially in front of me, pushing against my torso.  Underneath, his obscured hands had succeeded in unzipping my waist pack until my bulging wallet was fully revealed.  From her vantage point, my petite daughter could see his progress clearly.  At her warning I looked down and then glared at the man, who quickly folded his map and turned away, taking the hand of the woman next to him and heading out of the gallery.  I grabbed my daughter’s hand and tried to follow the thieves, but they moved too quickly.  They were at the end of the perpendicular corridor heading down the stairs by the time we reached the gallery doorway.  They never ran and never looked back, but they moved swiftly until they were gone.

Shaken but not stirred, we resumed our whirlwind tour of Paris, hopping in a taxi and heading for the Eiffel Tower.  There, we took lots of interesting photographs, trying to make our children look like giants against a dwarfed monument.  From there, we went to the Arc de Triomphe.  My son enjoyed standing in the center, seeing Paris open up in every direction like spokes of a wheel.  Then we headed up the Champs-Elysees, choosing an outdoor café for an afternoon snack.  We ordered four “café liegeois” desserts and let the kids ramble excitedly about their day in Paris.  Once seated, we were hit upon by children begging at our table, holding their dirty hands in our faces as we tried to eat.  Off to the side, their mother solicited us in no less than five different languages, until the head waiter came and chased them away.  Exhausted and spent—both financially and emotionally—we returned to the Gare to catch our train back to London.

They say you never get a second chance to make a first impression.  The legendary Paris, destination for lovers, writers, and artists, left a bad taste in my daughter’s mouth.  The city that she held in highest esteem disappointed her as ungracious and inhospitable.  She, my sensitive and artistic child, was loath to return to the City of Lights—and it broke my heart.  It took many years of coaxing and manipulation until she would finally acquiesce to give Paris a second chance.

Tomorrow's blog:  "The One That Holds More"

Purple Patch

When I lived in San Francisco, I looked forward each year to the announcement of the winners of the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, an event “celebrating” those who could craft the most horrendous example of an opening line of fiction.  Run by the San Jose State English Department, it is named for the Victorian author Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who, in his 1830 novel Paul Clifford, opened with the infamous line: “It was a dark and stormy night. . .”

Say what you will about Bulwer-Lytton’s style of prose; this phrase captures for me exactly the mood of many nights—and days—spent sequestered against a storm.  Growing up in South Florida, the rain and its accompanying drama played a key supporting role in my life.  There is hardly a memory from my childhood that does not involve a storm.  Whether a boat ride, a family trip to the Everglades, a high school beach party, an outdoor concert performance, a birthday, or even my wedding day, each eventually succumbs to the tropical whims of Nature’s force.  More than once, a violent thundering storm insinuated itself into the events of my life with editorial significance—providing a fitting backdrop for a reading of Beethoven’s Tempest Sonata or a dramatic clash with my father.

The rains in South Florida are like nothing else.  With the exception of hurricanes, which are a prolonged threat followed by days of rain, most of the precipitation around Miami is in brief dramatic bursts.  If the storms weren’t so ominous—dark clouds that instantly turn day into night accompanied by frightening bolts of lightning—their behavior would almost be comical.  More often than not, they provide ample warning of their arrival, moving predictably and precipitously across the sky like a dark curtain pulled by an invisible stagehand.  Sometime around 3:15pm each day, the heavens open up, drowning everyone and everything in torrents so intense that the ground—which is already at sea level—has no opportunity to absorb the water.  If you are unfortunate enough to be on a highway when this occurs, your tires may be 6 or 8 inches deep in floods within seconds.

By far the most amazing aspect of these pop-up storms, however, is their aftermath.  As suddenly as the waterfall descends from the clouds, so it stops abruptly.  There is no tapering; the cutoff valve is flipped and the sun returns to the sky.  Then, as if by Disney magic, the deep puddles become enchanted by the rays of the sun, heating at once to temperatures that cause the waters to rise up as steam.  For a moment, a soft mist is everywhere; as it dissipates, the foliage reaches a verdant hue seen only in cartoons and the Land of Oz.  Blink a few more times and everything has returned to what it was 20 or 30 minutes earlier.  There are no residual puddles, no telltale moisture on the sidewalks or the pavement, no beads of water as the final vapors ascend from the hoods of the cars.  As if to apologize for its indiscretion, Nature erases the evidence of its own misadventure, leaving behind only the unbearable humidity and other treasures of paradise.

This morning I awoke in my New England home to a dark and stormy night.  In contrast to the whimsical storms of South Florida, a summer rain in New England robs the daylight and lingers for days, often wreaking havoc with finished basements and subterranean “man caves.”  The dampness affects mortar joints and knee joints alike, as our home is no better suited to the inclement weather than I am.  I remind myself of my childhood consolations on rainy days—of how the rain simplifies the spectrum of choices, making it easier to complete housebound chores and homework.  Perhaps today I will clean the mudroom, or pick up a long-anticipated book from my stack of summer reading.

Laptops and Other Heavenly Bodies

My computer died.  It is barely six months old, which makes you wonder what is going on in these high tech industries.  Are laptops considered so ubiquitous and disposable that their tested quality control horizon does not exceed half a year?  In fact, this will be the second time since bringing this computer live—just before the New Year and just before launching myself into blogdom—that I will be required to return to factory settings.  A new motherboard and hard drive have been ordered; the company says it will get here when it gets here.  In the meantime, I am relegated to a cheap mini laptop that we use for traveling.  It is so slow that I occasionally must stop typing to allow the technology to catch up with my thoughts.

In this day and age, losing a major piece of technology—laptop, smartphone, or other pricey e-toy—is like having a stroke.  Connections to major sensory and motor functions are severed, leaving the “victim” without friends, access, or a voice to the world.  It is an emergency of hysterical proportions, eclipsing all else.  Suddenly, work, chores, social engagements, and vacations must be postponed pending the resolution of a work ticket that may or may not restore previous functionality.  Without our Internet connections, our contacts, our games, and our online banking we can no longer function.  And there is no app for that.

Every once in a while—often in moments like this—another part of my brain kicks in.  It sees a different perspective, one where we are merely morsels scattered across the third rock from the sun.  From this more universal point of view I wonder what it’s all about.  How important can it be to get my emails, or to reach someone just now on their cell phone?  What if I do not find the right color shoes to match my dress?  What if I do not make the bed?  What if my husband hits traffic on the way home?  What if we are late to the movie?  Think about all the stresses and urgencies that consume our daily lives.  How often do we cry over the proverbial spilled milk?  Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do.

One of the side effects of the information age is that we have vastly increased the speed of business.  At the same time, we have also compressed cycles of anticipation and angst.  We are taking more and more hits to the head and to the heart.  I fear that the human vessel has not been stress-tested for the world in which we now find ourselves.  We need to put some space between us and the parcels of information that bombard us.  We need to make time to recover our perspective, our purpose, and our humanity.

No one knows why we are here on this tiny planet.  It cannot be for the purpose of inventing a faster car, designing a taller building, or honing more precise weapons of mass destruction.  What if we are simply an experiment, designed to prove or disprove a greater hypothesis that life forms will collaborate for the greater good in the interest of harmonious survival?  Suppose our success or failure as a planet determines whether other planets throughout the universe will be cultivated?

A lovely song once said, “God is watching us—from a distance.”   I know many people who would argue various aspects of that statement for a whole spectrum of philosophical reasons.  But one thing seems clear to me.  Whoever or whatever is responsible for our being here meant for there to be harmony of the spheres--for us to co-exist and depend upon each other.  Otherwise, I would be here alone, with no one to fix my darned computer, and with no one to read my blogs.

Tomorrow's blog:  Purple Patch

Time Machine

Today I broke the cardinal rule of productivity.  I opened “the drawer.”  You know the one; it unleashes a time machine that pulls you backward into years past and never lets you go.

I actually had a purpose in mind as I dove into the drawer: finding the extra links from the bracelet of a beloved timepiece, given to me by my husband to celebrate twenty years of marriage.  As we are about to hit our thirtieth anniversary, this gives you an idea how long it has been since I have cracked open the drawer.  Once released, there is no stopping the power of the past to envelop you.  As one hour, than two, than three ticked by, my journey picked up extra travelers.  There I was, still in my nightgown, surrounded by the trappings of my life while my husband and daughter and I emitted gentle ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ over trivial-yet-meaningful objects.

There was a double strand of mother-of-pearl beads linked by a beautifully-crafted cameo clasp.  Unbelievably heavy, they have no real value as jewelry, but the fact that they belonged to my grandmother renders them priceless.  I have a distinct memory of her having worn these beads at a family gathering, displaying the cameo down the side of the necklace with its head up.  Never having gazed upon these before, my daughter was enchanted by their simple beauty.  I watched as she tried them on—just as I had done once in my youth with my grandmother by my side.  My grandmother loved to teach me of the finer “girly” things in life--her way of drawing out my femininity.

I found a necklace this same grandmother had given me for my 7^th birthday.  I remember when it arrived from New York in a brown-paper-covered box sealed with paper tape—my name written in her perfect school-teacher script.  I was flabbergasted by its contents: a gold necklace forged of my own name, hanging from each corner by tiny pearls threaded with gold.  It was an extravagant gift for a second-grader; I wore it proudly for years until I went to college.  By then I thought it prudent not to advertise my name to strangers in the big city.

My other grandmother was represented by a tiny watch.  Barely a half-inch in diameter, she brought this watch for me from Bucherer in Switzerland while on a round-the-world trip she took soon after my grandfather passed away.  There are no frills on this watch—it is stainless steel with a simple black face—perfect for a first grader.  I remember learning to tell time from the markers, as it was too small for actual numbers.  I have not worn this watch in decades, but when I picked it up and wound it, it pinged in perfect rhythm like any fine Swiss timepiece.

There was a delicate gold necklace.  Back in the 70s these were called “nothing necklaces,” thin chains with an ornament—normally a pearl—mounted about every two inches.  This one featured gold cutouts shaped like diamonds; it was a gift from my grandmother’s sister Rose when I graduated from high school.  Years later, Rose would die quickly from a terrible illness, leaving my grandmother inconsolable.  I promised her then that should I ever be blessed with a daughter I would use the name ‘Rose’ in her honor.  At Emily Rose’s first birthday I put this necklace on her.  It had broken long ago and was put away.  Thankful to have found it today, I had been unable to find it to present to her at her own high school graduation one year ago.

Also in this drawer was a large Ziploc bag of costume jewelry from my years in corporate life.  Relegated to conservative blue or grey suits, I took great pleasure in adorning my lapels with whimsical pins.  My daughter looked through the collection that included a bubble-gum machine, a scary black cat that belonged at a “Day of the Dead” celebration, several abstract mixed-metal pieces, a G clef, a tic-tac-toe featuring Mickey Mouse ears, and a large shining sun.  Picking out some favorites, my daughter asked if she could take a few to pin on her blazers and denim jackets.

Next were the baby teeth.  My son’s first teeth fell out—as documented on the little envelope—on Father’s Day, 1995.  We also had my daughter’s two front teeth, which were dislodged and permanently damaged early in her childhood.  Although my husband successfully re-seated them, they never grew as she did, forcing them to require surgical removal (by him!) in the second grade.

By far the most nostalgic and touching items in the drawer were the notes written by my children in their own hands.  I share a couple of them here, preserving their own spelling and punctuation:

By Emily to Santa (second grade):

Dear santa clause,

How are you and Mrs. Clause?

Are your Elves working well, and making lots of toys for millions of children.  Must be very hard work.  Plus for you flying around thousands of millions of chimneys dropping presents.  Maybe some milk and cookies will feel good.  You are the best!

love
Emily Rose

By Jonathan to the Tooth Fairy:

From the desk of Jonathan

Dear tooth fairy,

I lost my tooth today.  Later tonight I was going to pick it up and it dropped.  I lost it in the rug.  Can I still have a doller?  Please?

signed,

Jonathan

Ahh.  I cannot live forever in the past and, therefore, set the time machine to hurl me back to the present.  Oddly, my daughter is still analytically-oriented and comforts people with food.  And my son, alas, still wants money for nothing.  I guess nothing has really changed (unless I gaze in the mirror).  And if you have been following carefully, I did, indeed, find the “missing links.”



Tomorrow's blog:  Laptops and Other Heavenly Bodies

One Seventy Five

Roses often grow in red,

Violets shades of blue,

But when paid work overwhelms

What’s a mad blogger to do?

Honoring my commitment

Remains top of my mind--

But I ask you, dear reader,

Not to judge me, this day, unkind.

I woke at dawn this morning

With the very best intentions,

Hoping to finish scribing thoughts

With scant interventions.

A piece I started yesterday

Is proving tough to complete,

What I attempt to make abstract

Comes out far too concrete.

Switching gears, I believed,

Would give me just the boost

To rethink the trajectory

Of what I’ve already produced.

I turned to my client backlog,

To projects from various firms,

What should have been a simple job,

Became a can of worms.

The expertise I’m wont to wield,

Instead revealed my obscurity,

I could not scale the firewall,

Or penetrate security.

Thus trivial pursuit became for me

A technical diversion;

I was unable to help my client out

Without the proper version.

The help desk helped refresh the files,

Double-checked my username,

But in the end it was my Chrome

That could not play the game!

Explorer, I am not a fan,

Nor am I fond of Firefox,

Without firm industry standards,

There can be no building blocks!

I find it quite ironic

That I even have to ask:

Why should I need three browsers

Just to complete a single task?

So back to you, dear readers,

Who endure my lame excuses,

Tomorrow I’ll be back on track,

With minimal abuses.

I value those who read my blog

You honor me with your support,

That’s why this little ditty—

Is a verse of last resort.

Tomorrow's blog:  Time Machine

The Semi-Charmed Life of a Faculty Wife

I am a faculty wife.  I am not complaining or making apologies; rather, I am reflecting on a role that I have played for nearly thirty years without ever making a conscious choice to do so.

When a man chooses an academic career, he enlists his wife as a lifelong partner in pursuit of his professional goals and activities.  This may sound like a sexist remark; however, as far as I can tell there is no parallel among husbands of academic women.  Faculty wives are a species unto themselves.

There is no formal job description for a faculty wife.  Across academic institutions nationwide, the duties for academic wifery are somewhat ad hoc in nature.   An upper boundary is non-existent (you cannot be too supportive or too involved), but fail to deliver against expectations and you can singlehandedly derail your husband’s career.  There are scores of events where attendance is compulsory, where conservative dress is required, and where decorum goes without saying.

Many of the challenges of academia are social in nature.   Mandatory gatherings resemble sacred rituals, where creators of knowledge walk among the merely mortal, exhibiting their humanity in ways that say, mockingly, “Anyone can do this.”   The wives in these settings are frequently overlooked by the knowledge brokers, or acknowledged only in a cursory fashion.  But among the wives themselves is a definite pecking order, one that is determined by the relative rank of their husbands.  The dean’s wife is the de facto dean of the wives, while an intern’s wife—despite her own educational attainment or successful professional career—is treated as if she, herself, were an intern.

My husband entered his clinical training with an eye toward an academic career.  I have therefore grown into my role as a faculty wife slowly, rising in relative rank in a track parallel to my husband’s.  It is only recently that I have come to appreciate the career I have served in my faculty wife capacity.  And while I have enjoyed the ride personally, I strongly caution that this life is not for everyone.  For this reason, I offer my own Faculty Wife Top Ten List.

1.       You may be a faculty wife if you suggest hosting departmental parties when it isn’t a holiday season.

2.       You may be a faculty wife if you can name more than five of your husband’s peer-reviewed journal publications.

3.       You may be a faculty wife if you know the difference between first author and last author.

4.       You may be a faculty wife if you own enough wine glasses and buffet plates to serve sixty people without rentals.

5.       You may be a faculty wife if you read your husband’s abstracts to your children as bedtime stories.

6.       You may be a faculty wife if your only vacations are to places where your husband has meetings or gives speeches.

7.       You may be a faculty wife if all your couple friends include your husband’s colleagues from other institutions.

8.       You may be a faculty wife if your furniture is embossed with university seals.

9.       You may be a faculty wife if you attend dinners with people who have buildings named for them.

10.   You may be a faculty wife if you know as much about your husband’s field as he does without having earned the requisite degrees.

Tomorrow's blog:  One Seventy Five

Nothing in Life is Free

One of the most difficult tasks I have undertaken recently is to donate a beautiful piece of furniture to charity.

Years ago we acquired a lovely entertainment center.  Made of solid mahogany, it was the perfect corral for our old school television and stereo components.  Over the past few years, however, technology has undergone a dramatic transformation. Our music systems got smaller while our televisions got larger and flatter.   Before long, the entertainment center was a white elephant—storing only old quilts and hundreds of children’s cartoons on VHS tapes behind its hand-carved doors.

As it happens, I am a serial renovator.  Each time a workman comes with a sturdy pick-up truck, I am normally able to barter some portion of their services in exchange for objects that have lost their usefulness in our home.  I have traded antique dressers, chairs, desks, bookcases, appliances, and even an off-colored toilet or two, for thousands of dollars of services.  But when it came to the mahogany entertainment center there were no takers.    There it sat, taking up a prominent wall in our basement guest room, for over ten years.

I thought I would finally prevail when I persuaded one contractor that we should consider our carbon footprint in the design of custom bookcases for our home office.   Couldn’t we dismantle this giant piece of furniture, I argued, and repurpose its beautiful wood?   While he admired the concept—making a note to himself that he really needed to think in “greener” terms in the future—he really couldn’t be bothered to strip old nails and re-mill the material.  It was much easier—and as it turned out, cheaper in the long run—for him to fill his truck with unfinished stock from the local Home Depot.

I refused to give up.  Every project undertaken in this house began with a hopeless attempt to repurpose the TV cabinet:  a new mantle over the fireplace, a new vanity in the master bath, a new headboard.  Unfortunately, each project demanded that new materials be purchased while the entertainment center sat untouched.  Eventually, I abandoned my bartering and reuse pitches altogether, offering to give away the massive beast to each workman in succession if only he would take it away in his truck.  Each politely declined.

Even shameless begging failed to work.

Then, the charities began to call:  Salvation Army, Epilepsy Foundation, Disabled Veterans, Goodwill.  Each mentioned that a truck would be in my neighborhood on a specific date.  Would I happen to have some furniture or used appliances to donate, as they were greatly in need of any and all discards?  “Ah!” I would cry with relief.  “I have a wonderful entertainment cabinet in perfect condition.”  “Well,” they would instruct. “Leave it at the top of your driveway.  The driver will not remove any furniture from your home, will not walk upstairs, will not drive into your driveway.  It must be small enough for the driver to lift on his own onto the truck.  There is no ramp or elevator on the truck.”  Well, geez, anything that fit those criteria I could cart away myself to the local drop.

After striking out ad nauseum with the telephone solicitors, I began calling these organizations’ headquarters to see if it would be possible to arrange a “special” pick-up.  Perhaps with notice they could make arrangements to receive a large and lucrative item.  No dice.

As a last resort, I decided simply to “curb chuck” the monster.   In the 14 years we have spent in this house, we have been successful in causing unwanted items to disappear simply by moving them out to the curb.  Thus, we have found new homes for ovens, bed frames, old televisions, boxes, and sundry other items.  Our record for any curbside discard is two hours.  Left outside on any Saturday or Sunday, this is how long it takes for a random passerby to claim an abandoned item.   I have asked my husband, my son, my nephew, and assorted friends of my kids (some of whom are hockey and football players well fed from my kitchen) to help move the cabinet out to the curb.  That approach began six years ago, and nothing came of it.  “It’s too heavy,” was a common complaint.

Finally, desperate to reclaim the space that this monster was occupying, I decided to look for a moving company.  Yes, after begging contractors, day laborers, relatives, and strangers, I was willing to pay for professional movers to come to my house just to carry a single piece of furniture from my guest room to the curb.  I was almost too embarrassed to place the call! 

Fortunately, a miracle occurred.  Thanks to the magic of Google, my search netted me “College Hunks Hauling Junk,” a business that was almost too good to be true.  Not only do they employ an adorable crew of young guys with bulging muscles, they were willing to send three such specimens to my house with a truck.  For a fee—$154 to be exact—they removed my gargantuan cabinet from my guest room and delivered it to the local Goodwill, leaving behind nothing but a donation receipt and a whiff of Aqua Velva.

I still can’t get over that I had to pay in order to donate an item to charity.  (In reality, the fee is most likely a wash with the tax benefit of the donation itself.)  Or that I found a company that was tailor made for my particular dilemma.  Even more amazing is that the giant cabinet is gone, after serving us well for over fifteen years and taunting us for at least ten more.  It reminds me of something my grandmother used to say: “ The impossible just takes a little longer.”

Tomorrow's blog:  The Semi-Charmed Life of a Faculty Wife