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.

Fleeting Fame Bonus

This is how it is with fame

This is how it is with fame:

One minute, you’re on stage

receiving accolades and praises,

the next minute, you’re driving

in your daughter’s used car

with the hole in the exhaust

through the Burger King,

wearing your concert gown

with the corsage still pinned on.

You wonder just what kind of quality

you’ll get at this late hour,

but it’s burger and fries (especially

the fries) that you want,

and after the laudations of a satisfied

public, you think you deserve it.

At home, your jammies

are nothing special:

a t-shirt you got in Jamaica,

and some worn pajama bottoms,

the matching top of which

you can no longer find.

But you found your way along

the keyboard tonight, and you

made an impression on the guest

celebrity who was your partner

for the evening.

But your home is ordinary,

and your bedclothes are humble,

and tomorrow you’ll no longer

be justifying late-night French fries

just because you could do something

at one required instant that not many

others can do.  Tomorrow

will be leftovers.

Fleeting Fame

If you've ever taken a bow, or accepted an award, or even just received a compliment, then you've tasted fame. Artist and cultural prophet Andy Warhol said (in 1968): "in the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." I can't say I've ever been world famous, but I have been in the spotlight a few times and actually have received applause for something I've done.  My 15 minutes are slowly ticking off, at least in this lifetime: I've probably got about four minutes left.

But what does notoriety earn for anyone (besides notoriety)?  Perhaps fortune does follow fame, but there are  rich people who are relatively unknown, and famous people who've either squandered their wealth, or earn a working man's wage despite their celebrity.

You might be notorious for infamous reasons, achieving some modicum of celebrity because you have become a bad example for all to avoid and warn about: "See, Billy?  You don't want to turn out like THAT!"  Depending on the severity and distastefulness of the deed, this may be a fame you relish.  But I don't recommend seeking it.

You may earn kudos and "attaboys" for endeavors that are worthy, good and true...and entirely volunteer.  There are plaques hanging on walls in appreciation for lots of unpaid work.  Important, and worthy of a public thank you, but coming without any compensation, other than a fist bump of gratitude.

You may receive lots of heart-felt praise and ovation for something deserving it.  Your name may be in bold print somewhere, or on a marquee, or whispered by admirers and, by golly, you did work hard, and you spent time, and EARNED those few seconds of fame.

And it is all fleeting.  Not without merit, just fleeting.

An employee being celebrated for his longevity at a company and, in particular, his perfect attendance for forty-plus years (ye gads!) was heard to make this comment: "Put your hand in a bucket of water.  Now pull it out.  The hole you leave behind is how much you'll be missed."

This is not sad; it is truth in perspective.  And it prompts us to understand that what we do today, whether ruling the roost or simply layin' the eggs, may or may not have any impact on tomorrow.  But it DOES have impact today, and no matter how ordinary, it is worth doing well TODAY.

I recently left positions where I was publicly visible and publicly acknowledged for what I did.  What I did (performing music) brought me great pleasure; not only to play, but to associate with wonderful people who participated and directed this music-making. There was shared heartache when I announced that I was leaving and, consequently, a bit of fuss.

But now, new things are happening in the places I've left.  Fresh ideas, fresh perspectives, perhaps better things.  I am now in a place where I'm unknown and unproven: it's humbling.  Like most of you, I'm trying to make my mark in this world and, in some sense, leave a legacy. But there's always new people coming along to take up the cause or introduce a new one.  It is a bit of a struggle for me, but I'm convincing myself there's great value in the ordinary things that we do each day, regardless of the applause that will not be offered.

In this world of Instagram and YouTube posting, 15 minutes of world-wide fame isn't necessarily out of the question; but we owe it to ourselves and those who are coming behind us to recognize the worth of our unexceptional, ordinary offerings.

ORDINARY CHILDREN

Children of ours,

how we do go on and on,

layering “specialness” on you

like coats of paint covering

interior walls with each new fashion.

We want for you a special life,

and all the nagging and provoking,

is to motivate you

to be special forever.

But it is a life most ordinary

that you will likely live.

Small circles of friends and colleagues

will nod at your triumphs

and overlook your mistakes.

Extraordinary deeds –

            and the extraordinary reactions due them –

will most likely not be yours to experience.

The accomplishments you most cherish

will be remembered by few:

others hold memories of their own,

and have no need to recollect yours.

The achievements that generate personal pride

may get an admiring comment or two,

but personal pride is not a trait

that most will appreciate.

Perhaps we are misguided,

and it is that ordinary life

for which we should prepare you:

ordinary job, ordinary spouse,

ordinary income, ordinary house.

The places you’ll go may not be so far,

and it may be small, insignificant steps

that take you away from us

and on to a new life of your own.

But down this ordinary path,

make each typical step extraordinary

and you will find that we were right:

You are special.

Liturgy of Living

When things change, especially drastically, the unmooring from the routine you know can be quite discomfiting. Changes that occur because of something foreboding or threatening -- such as rescheduling your life because you need medical care, or because you've lost your job -- need no explanation for their disruption.  The future looks hazy at best, with the potential outcome pretty bleak: of course you're going to feel uncomfortable.  (Sorry to be such a downer, right outta the chute.)

But changes we choose -- new job, new home, new venue -- while exciting, can also be upsetting. An inducement of the recent topsy-turvy undulation of our lives at mid-life was a "what-the-heck" attitude that we redefined as courage.  It propelled us to uproot and take flight and all of those other euphemisms to  "just do it."  So we just did it, and while we don't rue that decision, it has lost some of its charm. Sometimes, we're pretty mopey.

That mopiness comes from the fatigue to keep up our enthusiasm.  Perhaps adventure is best set upon when you've got something staid and secure to return to.  A beautiful song by Marta Keen Thompson, "Homeward Bound," captures this sentiment beautifully (check out the full lyrics online.  The song even has its own Facebook page!).  One line is "When adventure's lost its meaning, I'll be homeward bound in time."  The refrain is:

"Bind me not to the pasture, chain me not to the plow. 

 Set me free to find my calling, and I'll return to you somehow."

Vacations are great, and travel has always instigated wistful wanderlust in both my husband and me.  Now that we've wandered far from home (with no home to return to), our adventuresome spirit is waning a bit. While we don't want to slip back into being mundane, there is sanity and sanctity in familiar routine: a liturgy of living, I suppose.  Our challenge is to find what the new routine will be; the current one, with its loose ends, is not one we want to continue!  I will add that being together establishes a grounded stake to which we can tether those loose ends that flap in the breeze. That is a blessing.

What we all need is "purpose."  Nothing will deplete your energy more than lacking one.  It is a struggle to deem even ordinary tasks and pursuits as meriting the moniker of  "purpose."  But I think it's possible, which is why I pursue this writing thing, and look for ways I can excel in  everyday details.

SOCKS

I take great pride

in matching my husband’s black socks

just so.

Though uniform in color,

their ridges are a garden-variety

of narrow and wide,

variants that don’t mix well

in a fabric bouquet.

The size is consistent:

all long-stemmed and broad-leaved.

But there is gold on some toes,

a pollen polka-dot

that pairs only with similarly flecked.

Mixing won’t match,

and matching is essential.

Step Forward Bonus - Poems

HORIZONS

A free range stretched before us.

A vastness to the land and sky

made us breath deeper,

as though we could take in

every cubic measurement

of air and moisture, nourishment

to our courage and efforts.

Some fields lay fallow: our

choices would cultivate them.

Other fields bore generous

harvests: we could lay a path

and take our fill for our

storehouses of possibilities.

That was then: we now have

as much stretching behind us

as we have before us – maybe

more that we’ve passed through

than what we have yet to pass.

Fields are overgrown.

Intersections surprise us;

from the middle of the acreage,

we can’t see round the bend.

It is a continuous sea

of one

single

crop.

Is this our lot?

Purge Surge Bonus - poems

BURNING DOORS

The flames have a papery quality,

curling at their ends,

disappearing like vapor

at the apex of their reach.

We’re burning doors:

bedroom doors, closet doors;

hollow, cheap things that were

replaced with fancy paneled pieces

that gate our privacy,

though nothing needs to be concealed.

The kids are gone; the only personal

effects remaining in their rooms

are ones I want to keep, to create

some magic spell when they discover

forgotten bric-a-brac on a return visit.

The closets hold domestic things:

towels, cleaning supplies, light-bulbs.

We could dismantle the new doors, burn them, too,

and leave the shelves revealed

for all to see.

There’s nothing hidden now

in this house; just a cock

and his hen living among the sticks

left behind.