Making Do

My mother once brought me some new kitchen towels.  Now, a gift like that can rankle a daughter.  It's a bit like rearranging the kitchen cupboards so things are "more efficient." Yeah, I see you grinning.  You now what I mean.

But I reacted to this gift with puzzlement, not offense. "What is this for?" I wondered.  She really wasn't one to bring gifts at every visit, which was fine.  And it wasn't my birthday, nor was it Christmas.

"Because," she said, "sometimes, all you need is new kitchen towels."  The implication was that there was a lot of power in fresh kitchen towels.  She was right. The faded rags we were using to dry hands and dishes got relegated to the laundry room rag shelf, and the new cloths gave the kitchen a bit of pizzazz. I was surprised, not only by the effect of such a simple change, but by my mother's attitude.

This was the woman who taught us all to "make do." She made many of the clothes I wore in elementary school, as well as her own garments (she was a very talented seamstress). She could feed a hungry family of six on a shoestring budget, and our diet was varied and healthy.  She could work magic with leftovers, created hand-made ornaments to give to teachers and friends, and was generally frugal.  I was carrying on the tradition; I thought that being able to see through a dishrag was a point of pride, not shame!  And, if I could still wear things I'd owned for 10 years, well, that STILL is a point of pride (or a sign that those stretched out clothes need to be replaced, but I just don't accept that).

Mom also began to encourage replacing other belongings.  "Oh, just get a new one," she said of this or that.  Not big stuff, but, you know, kitchen towels!    Her circumstances had changed, and her perspective had definitely changed since I'd lived with her and four other humans.  She was comfortably retired.  She was not wealthy, but living in a home that was paid for, and with enough financial cushion for foreign travel. And, apparently, she no longer felt it necessary to "make do."

But, she wasn't extravagant.  What she showed me is that sometimes, it is the little things that can lift us, and we don't need to over-do it to brighten our corner of the world.

I still take pride in making do.  At the time of this writing, I've spent two-and-a-half months living like I'm camping.  My temporary residence is much more comfortable than a tent, but I've only got the clothing I could fit into one suitcase (one very full suitcase).  I'm  pleased that the weather remains as it was at the end of June. I cook in a kitchenette only slightly larger than the one in our r.v., and all of the music and papers I'm accumulating in new jobs are being filed in a paper bag. We wisely brought along our PRINTER (SUCH a smart decision) and a file box of important papers.  The summation of our lives could be contained in the back of our Grand Cherokee.

For the entirety of our marriage, we've "made do" with the couch my husband bought when he graduated college more than 35 years ago, the K-Mart shelves that bow recklessly, the bath towels that show signs of laundry mishaps. I'm glad we don't whine about what we don't have: we've been blessed with a lot, and the depression-era babies who became our parents taught us to strategize and minimize. (Mostly.  I must confess that when it comes to musical instruments, we have a "go-for-broke" attitude!)

But, when we move into the new house, I think I'll get some new bath towels.  Don't need kitchen towels: the ones I have aren't yet thin enough to read through.

Charming Autumn

Our current residence -- a lovely Airbnb in Redwood City with wonderful hosts -- is about one block from a local high school.  As I write this at 4:30 p.m. on a weekday, I occasionally hear the shrill chirp of a coach's whistle.  There are short, single bursts.  There are repetitive, Morse-code toots. There is a kind of double-chirp call, short LOOOONG, with an uplift at the end.   I'm sure each song has its specific meaning, and the brood being directed by these signals knows how to respond to each one.

I don't mind the noise.  We've currently got a bid prepared to buy a house that backs up to an elementary school, and I realize I would be delighted by the clatter and chatter of kids walking to and from school, or playing on the grounds at recess.

My own children are grown.  Both have begun their second decade since attending elementary school. ("Holy Jenkies!")  Perhaps that is why I am reflective when I hear these extra-curricular noises. I have no anxiety about how my son and daughter are going to get through their scholastic years because those years are through!  We all survived, and can look back with fondness.  Mostly fondness.

But autumn -- and especially the start of school -- has always had a charm for me. Is it because my birthday is during this season?  I read somewhere that people have an affinity for the season in which they were born.  I'll have to ask my son if he looks forward to the dead of winter.  Or is it because I was raised in a hemisphere where autumn was a fresh start season: new school year, new classmates and teachers, new chapters in life? Despite the coming on of winter, with the dying away of leaves and daylight, the arrival of the autumnal equinox brings an invigorating clarity to the air.  The humidity of summer -- suffered in almost every quarter of our country in some measure -- is blown clear by crisp breezes.  The sun may heat up the day, but the quality of that heat is more therapeutic than debilitating.  Though we will tire of them eventually, the sweaters we shake loose from their hidden recesses are like new clothes, and we don them with enthusiasm.

I suspect that here in the Bay Area of California, I may come to feel that autumn is perpetual.Winter may feel like a Midwest November that has no end.  Pumpkins on the stoop won't be buried by the dispatch from the snow-blower, they'll just shrivel as the days go by.  I'm grateful that winter will not bring snow that begins as enchanting precipitation and ends as suffocating burden, although I confess I might miss it.

But until I experience that, I am glad for the coach's peeps, and the drum line's rehearsal thrum, and the occasional shout or shriek from kids meandering home from school.  The light is changing, and it seems to offer promise.

THE CUSP OF AUTUMN

is a border with summer

that is jagged

and fickle;

an uncharted river

that meanders through

hot days

and cool nights,

brilliant sunsets

and cloudy morns. 

You can follow it,

and map its course as you go,

but it is unpredictable.

You turn, and there:

the gloomy charcoal sky,

the brilliant flaming treetop,

the scent of burning leaves,

resurrect a memory

without explicit place or time.

It  teases; an ethereal spirit

has been conjured

to make you

recollect that you

have a recollection at all.

There is no specific year,

there is no specific place,

there is no specific vision

that begins a trail to follow

to clear remembrance.

You only sense

that the abacus of your days

begins its calculations 

with autumn.