Tuesday, September 14, 2010

9/13/10 - Three printer cartridges (unpoened) for a Brother brand printer

Today, I rode by another house that had stuff out front.  I'd ridden by over the weekend and they'd been having a garage sale.  This was what was left.  A sign out front read, "Free."  I found myself wanting to go over and see what was there.  I didn't, but the pull was quite noticeable.  Then I realized: I wanted to sort through their free stuff and find something good - and then bring it back to our free bench.  So that people would continue to think of our free bench as a Good Free Bench.  Recognizing this desire in me cracks me up.  Imagine, carting free stuff from one part of town to another part of town just to be given away free there.  I'm not sure what I should call this impulse - something akin to keeping up with the Joneses - but it will definitely go unsatisfied.

9/12/10 - A nearly complete set...

...of plates, soup bowls, dessert bowls and saucers, all white ceramic, but with a raised flower along one edge.

Today we were out in the yard, having lunch under our aspen trees.  We heard a chinking sound, and G---- hailed the leaver.  A slender young man with a dark goatee said, "Yeah, we just had a wedding reception and my friend brought all her spare dishes - but we have dishes already."  "Well, thanks, and congratulations."  "Yeah, thanks."

Weddings.  Marriage.  Wow.  We are a brave lot, we humans.

Our tenants leave Wednesday for Spokane to get married out in a field.  The guests will camp out, the bride and bridesmaids will wear flip-flops, guests are encouraged to bring their drums.  This seems a good start to a lifetime relationship: be close to Nature; your home may have to move with you; it's okay to be comfortable; play music, loudly sometimes.

9/11/10 - Belatedly

This is for yesterday, when I thought I'd return from a fund raiser for the kids' school early enough to write.  Clearly, I misjudged.  I hadn't counted on a great bluegrass band being involved and stories about the early years of the kids' school.  (They attend a public school that started in 1994 and is called the Environmental School.)  The completely disarming thing about the fund raiser was that nearly half of the attendees were alumni: kids in their teens and early 20's.  They got up and told stories about falling into creeks and petitioning City Hall and being ushered through their early years by people who cared about them and the planet.  One round-eyed boy with a crew cut got up and sang.  It was very moving to realize that at one time, that bright-eyed bearded young man and that lithe, long-haired young woman were the ages of my kids.  Whatever happened for them at the school was meaningful enough that they showed up last night to talk about it. 

9/10/10 - Today is the Mother Lode...

...for a woman who wears size one (pants - both skinny jeans and harem pants -, shorts, small tops) and likes high heels, a knitter who doesn't mind acrylic yarns, someone who likes wall hangings in needlepoint style and featuring sayings about Gods' gifts, someone who enjoys untangling knots (especially in those mesh hammocks from Central America), someone who likes ceramic owls and scented candles, and who needs some of those plastic Easter eggs you put candy in.  It is a bright, attractive display.  Earlier, as I sat here writing this, a number of people stopped by and sorted through the bags and boxes.  One guy - twenty-something, black-haired, tight jeans and a fitted t-shirt - actually crossed the street to look.  I can't imagine what he'll find to take home, unless he has a secret love of women's high-heeled strappy sandals.  Which, of course, he might.

The list of items brings my grandmother, my dad's mom, to mind with the ceramic owls.  Late in my teens, she expressed to many of us that she had a liking for owls.  I don't know what it was about them - the roundness of their eyes and their faces, the sleekness of their heads, the silence of their flight - but as you can guess, for years thereafter, owls became the default gift for her.  Can't think of what to get Grandma G----?  How about an owl?  She had ceramic owls, glass owls, carved wooden owls.  She finally had to plead, "No more owls."  What I hope is that with each owl, she saw someone who loved her, who wanted to give her something she liked, to bring her pleasure.

9/9/10 - Large women's red high heels

...purple button-down blouse, women's white stretch pants (faux terrycloth), a black and white bathing suit, wrist weights, an isometric stretchy thing for arms, a soft plaid scarf in pinks and beiges.  Other things came and went: a coppery-colored women's calf-length leather coat, a white Mexican blouse with black embroidery on it, a couple of women's tops.

Today I heard many sad stories, and so the bench looks sad to me, too - messy and askew, the way life can be sometimes.
 

9/8/10 - A navy blue child's warm jacket...

...a gray adult-sized fleece jacket, a denim shirt, only a few fabric scraps left from the bags of fabric, including an Indian print reminiscent of the sort college friends hung on their ceilings to break up the glare of the dorm lights.

Indian gauze is one of the things I am most grateful to the 70's for.  I remember peasant blouses made of Indian gauze - a cantaloupe-colored one in particular.  I remember a shirt of lime-green Indian gauze that my mom sewed for me.  It had sleeves that widened like a honeysuckle flower and came to a "v" above my wrists.  Shopping for clothes for my 1st year of college, I found an Indian gauze shirt with the thinnest stripes of various shades of blue, buttoned with tiny white buttons at the wrist with sleeves nearly Shakespearean in their billowiness.

Other things I am grateful to the 70's for: the Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, Monty Python's Flying Circus, getting my own room, being old enough to take jewelry-making and pottery in school, getting my driver's license.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

9/7/10 - Bits of fabric from those grocery sacks all over then bench from people sorting though them...

...pair of enormously high women's platform sandals.

This summer, I saw a pair of boots at a used clothing shop that I immediately wanted.  They were a supple brown leather that went to my knees, and the soles were at least three-inch platforms made of wood.  They were way cool, not high-heeled, and they fit me (something of a feat with terrificly chunky calves like mine).  Ultimately, however, I did not buy them.  Maybe it's because it has become important to me over the years to be able to move without worrying I'll fall.  I still remember badly twisting my ankle on a tiny little nut while out running.  I even saw it, probably could have avoided it, decided what was a little nut, and put my ankle out of commission for a couple weeks.  No telling what trouble I could get into strapping those boots to my feet.

I'd go stuff the fabric back into its bags, but it is pouring out and I don't want to.

One more note on my blog.  Below is a different address for it.  This is the for-real one.

http://freebench.blogspot.com

Monday, September 6, 2010

9/6/10 - 2 cotton print blouses...

...2 grocery bags full of fabric scraps, a pair of women's boots, 2 pairs of women's shoes, a black velvet capelet.

Let me help with that last word: cape-let, as in a short cape.  Who owns a capelet these days?  It is a little absurd, and yet also compelling and sumptuous.  This capelet puts me in mind of Audrey Hepburn and makes me wish I had somewhere to wear a velvet capelet - except those would be the sorts of events I don't really want to go to. 

Which is what's wonderful about Portland.  Someone can own a velvet capelet in Portland and not have to wait for an Audrey Hepburn-like formal occasion to wear it to.  Any occasion in Portland is an occasion to wear a velvet capelet if one is so moved.  I have seen women dressed as if it's the 1950's and they're going to church (complete with white kid gloves and a little purse) - only they're just biking to the park to meet some friends.  (For biking, I myself favor something I can sweat on with impunity.)  I love it about this place that if someone is biking down the street and they want to do so in pumps and a dress with a crinoline under-skirt, they need no more excuse than that desire.

How would we dress if we were simply inspired by what we found within ourselves?  G---- goes to science fiction conventions, which are a study of what happens when people get in touch with that sort of inner inspiration: people dress like elven princesses (think Titania), like blacksmiths and barmaids, like medieval warriors, like goddesses. 

If you want to tell me what you would dress as if you only had yourself to please, you can respond on my blog.  Just go to http://benchmuse.blogspot.com.  Look for entry Day 31: 9/6/10.  At the bottom of the entry, there is something that says how many comments have been made.  Click on it and you can make your comment.  The blog is still under construction, but from now on I will also post my Musings there.  (Thanks again, Jeremy.)

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Nothing new on the Free Bench

Today, K--- and our niece, S-----, who is 15, walked to a grocery store in our neighborhood.  I saw them down the block, walking back.  K--- carried the groceries so that S----- could carry a painting she had found on the sidewalk.  It made me think of the paintings that have appeared on the Free Bench.  I know I mentioned the green one with the swirly circles (which S----- also snagged - she is quite the collector of art).  When I say paintings, I don't mean some reproduction of Monet's Water Lilies (though that sort has shown up, too).  I mean things that some artist in the neighborhood has painted and has seen fit to bring to the Bench.  There is something a little poignant but also hopeful about this.  Perhaps all of this artist's friends have taken as many of his or her work as they are likely to.  And still the artist produces.  Finally, they don't have enough room to keep storing things themselves.  They bring their paintings to the Bench as a kind of offering, out of the need to complete the cycle they have begun.  Because there are these things we do that are meant to be seen, read or experienced by others if those things are to realize their intent.  These artists that bring their work to the Bench, they will never know who has their work.  But they can come by the next day and see that the painting they left is gone.  That's how they know that someone saw merit in what they did, and liked it well enough that they wanted to bring it home and look at it every day

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Shiny picture frame with teddy bears and ducks around it edges...

...women's small belted cardigan, women's small zip-up sweatshirt, four issues of The Sun magazine, a pair of large jeans, a pair of large blue corduroys, two small boxes with lids.

When I was in middle school, I had two pair of corduroys that I loved: a gray pair, and a forest green pair that my brother had outgrown.  In addition to these, I also had a pair of red, blue and white checked pants.  They'd been handed down by a former babysitter of mine, Laurie Kelly.  They weren't exactly my style, but I had a soft spot in my heart for All Things Laurie.  In 4th grade, I wore a pair of soft blue pants of hers that would have fit me better in 6th grade, as well as a white short-sleeved shirt with a little bluebird on the collar.  It was years later before I learned that this shirt was part of the uniform worn by Bluebirds.  What Brownies were to Girl Scouts, Bluebirds were to Campfire Girls.

One fall-like day in November in 7th grade (Sharon, Massachusetts), I wore the Laurie Kelly pants to school.  My day went along fairly normally: band during "A" Lunch then actual lunch during "C" Lunch: a lunch from home unless it was clam chowder day, in which case I'd have hot lunch.  Science was my last class of the day.  I don't remember my teacher's name, but he had straight blondish hair that he cut in a bowl cut, wore large round glasses, and often inexplicably came to class in tennis shorts.  I had transfered into his class a few weeks into the school year, and he steadfastly refused - for the entire year - to be won over by me. 

In science class, it was not uncommon to be on our feet at lab tables where we'd conduct various scientific experiments and observations.  Halfway into the class, I felt cool air on the side of my leg.  I inspected that part of of my leg, and noticed that the thread at the seam was fraying and the seam had started to separate.  No problem.  I'd just hold my hand there and cover it up until the end of class.  I turned most of my attention back to my science group, but as I moved around, taking my turn at the microscope, going to my desk to get my science notebook, the sewing for both the outer and inner seams on both legs simply disintegrated - held together only by the hem sewing at the bottom and the reinforced sewing at the pockets. 

My only hope at escaping humiliation would be to get permission to go to my locker.  I could get my jacket, tie it around my waist, and that would at least cover my upper legs.  Taking care not to stride - which would have revealed more of my leg than I cared to show in school - I made my way over to my teacher.  "May I go to my locker, please?"  He looked at me skeptically.  Actually, I am pretty sure he smirked.  "You just want to get all your stuff to go home with so you can beat the other kids to the bus," he said.  I stared at him, panic rising in me.  He said, "No."  My face got very hot.  As quietly as I could, I leaned toward him and said, "My pants are falling apart."  The smirk persisted.  No doubt he was thinking this was one of the less creative excuses he'd heard, and wasn't it just like Katrina Gould to try to get away with something, and to do it so poorly at that?  "Look," I said.  My hands had been in fists, holding the outer seams together.  I let go of one seam, and the two pieces of cloth flapped apart.  My teacher's eyes widened and he pulled away from me.  "Go to your locker," he said tersely.

On the way to my locker, the seams also came apart at the hem.  I got to my locker without being seen and gratefully cinched my coat around my waist.

Friday, September 3, 2010

CRAB FUN!...

...a black vinyl back pack, a green windbreaker, a lightweight blue and black all-weather jacket, a low long Tupperware container without its lid, a plastic water bottle.

CRAB FUN! is apparently another item for the previously mentioned hermit crab - or, rather, from the previously mentioned hermit crab's estate.  When I first looked at the package, the pink, orange and yellow bits and pieces inside looked like chunks of wax to me.  It is not clear how they would be used by a hermit crab, and I do think its a bit anthropomorphizing to suggest that a hermit crab using this stuff is having fun. 

The black vinyl back pack and the jackets were brought by the young neighbor woman who benefited from the flat-screened computer monitor and the perfectly good amp someone left.  Her name is Audra, and she has a voice like the actress, Jennifer Tilly.  Audra is in the process of moving, and as she sorts through her stuff, anything not coming with her that isn't trash appears to be destined for the Free Bench.  I think this sort of thing happens frequently, that people give back to the Bench because they themselves have benefited from it.  There's something about that cycle that I like very much.

Note:  I have taken the advice of several of you and taken photos of CRAB FUN! and other Free Bench items.  As soon as I figure out how to download them, I will let you know how to find them - on my new blog.  My friend, Jeremy, gave me some compelling reasons for having one and was instrumental in shepherding me through this process (thank you, Jeremy).  I will let everyone know when it is a reality (I'm still setting it up and getting used to it).  For those of you who still want these Musings as daily emails, I'm happy to do that.  And if you just want the blog address to visit when you want, let me know that, too.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Small British flag, Brita water pitcher

WARNING:  This Musing doesn't even pretend to have anything to do with the items left on the Free Bench (though as I type this, K--- is affixing in my hair the tiniest of hair clips that were in the piano jewelry box).

Fifteen years ago tonight, G---- and I hosted family and a few out-of-town friends in our yard on the eve of our wedding.  My mother-in-law, Anne, showed up at the dinner with buckets and buckets (and buckets) of assorted sunflowers (I believe my sister-in-law, Lauren, was in on it, too).  G---- and I had decided that the day of the wedding, we'd just pop out at some point and get some flowers for the tables.  Needless to say, the day of the wedding was not the sort with large expanses of time in which popping out could occur.  Instead, every table had at its center a cobalt blue vase filled with several sunflowers.

This is one of many stories G---- and I remind each other of each year on our anniversary.  We are but two people, and our two brains aren't always enough to think of every eventuality.  It takes everyone else in our lives to fill in the gaps.  Thank you.  You've helped us get to the fifteen-year mark.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Assorted small flannel shirts and other button-down shirts...

...a small jewelry box shaped like a piano, various jewels (earrings, beads, bits of necklace chains), a polka dot umbrella, four hand-knitted scarves, all in shades of pink, a Christmas tree stand, five pair of women's shoes, all in that style of pumps that look like ballet slippers, assorted pens in a box made to go over kleenex, a cup shaped like a cowboy boot that says Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede on it, an oil painting in green tones of swirly circles.  The bench has been very active today.  These items remain at this writing, but there have been at least three separate drops to the bench today.

I keep coming back to that word: polka dot.  What makes these dots polka dots?  I once knew a guy who felt there wasn't a woman alive who wouldn't look good in polka dots.

Polka dots make me think of an early album my brother owned.  It may have been his first record (or perhaps his first was Marty Robbins Sings Davy Crockett and Other Cowboy Songs).  It was made of a thicker vinyl than my dad's albums and wasn't black, but was brightly-colored, maybe yellow or fuschia.  Anyway, it had the song Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini on it, which cracked us up.  It also played The One-Eyed One-Horned Flying Purple People Eater.  Like the Marty Robbins album, it had a theme - the theme was something like "wacky songs with many words in the title."  My brother's record player was the kind that looked like a suitcase, complete with a handle for carrying it, except when you sprung the catch, the lid came up to reveal the turntable.  His record player case was red and white. 

Record players and stereos were somewhat sacred in our house - especially my dad's.  I use the word sacred somewhat intentionally here because frequently his stereo only came on on Sunday's.  In the Boston area of my early years, Sunday on the classical music station meant opera.  Which - and I feel I can speak for all my siblings here - we hated.  The stereo lived in the living room, and for some reason these living rooms felt off-limits to me.  Partly because the stereo was definitely off-limits.  We were not explicitly told that this was an adult room, we just knew it.  Some of my other friends' houses had these types of living rooms.  I could tell when it was that sort of living room immediately. 

I wasn't bothered by this aspect of my childhood homes, but I certainly haven't managed to recreate it in my home.  People invariably come into my home for the first time and say about it something like, "Why, it's so-" big pause here "-so kid-friendly."  It is not always meant as a compliment.  I do wish sometimes that my home was more pristine, more picked up.  But I am rarely willing to do the things it would take to make it so.  And there are way worse things than being kid-friendly.