...a large swatch of magenta cloth, an orange, blue and magenta mumu, a yellowish-beige bathrobe.
The first time I ever heard the word mumu, it was said about something my maternal grandmother wore. She loved mumus. To her, they signaled that she was relaxing now. She always worked hard, first as a child in a family of field workers, then as a domestic, eventually as a bookkeeper and office manager, and later in life as the owner of antique stores. Most work mornings, she woke up at 5:00. She'd put coffee on to percolate, then put her hair in rollers and sit under the drier while she had her coffee. Sometimes, she'd have breakfast first: a slice of toast and one fried egg. When the weekend came around, she allowed herself the luxury of first hanging out in her quilted bathrobe, and then changing into a mumu as her around-the-house garb.
That makes me think of the specialness of those kinds of delineations. I have already said how special it was as a child to have certain foods that only came out at certain times (like during camping trips). There were school clothes and play clothes. Roast beef was on Sundays - well, okay, that was a bit too frequently for my taste. Hamburger Fridays were good, though.
Hmm. I feel I should say something about the black strap-on wings. After all, how often do those come along? Still, I am stumped. There are real feathers on it, and if someone were inclined to be a raven for Halloween, they'd have it made.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
9/26/10: An all-in-one TV/VCR unit with remote
I bet it works, but we have one already - though I suspect we are the only people in the Pacific Northwest who still watch videotapes on occasion.
Yesterday (and this is why I missed yesterday's Musings), I had the privilege to attend the memorial service of one of my dad's dear cousins - though I think Howard himself would have objected to the adjective "dear." He was born in South Dakota but lived in Sweet Home, Oregon for most of his 71 years. He was well-loved, and an integral part of this small community. He was a man who hugged his children before that was a trendy thing to do as a dad, and he pursued human connection throughout his life with pleasure and energy.
So, the privilege was to attend and remember him, and to tell his wife, kids, siblings and mother that he had touched my life. It is also a privilege to have lived long enough to be able to see Sweet Home in a more balanced light. Some of you know I spent my last two years of high school there, and it was not my kind of place. It was - and is - narrow in many regards. But the minister (who'd known Howard most of both of their lives) spoke early about how we come together at these times because the family "needs encouragement" from its family and friends. He said at one point to Howard's wife, Jan, "We'll get through this," and he wept himself at a number of points during the service.
If I had not returned for this service - if I had not lived long enough to realize that nothing human is ever simple or completely one thing - I could not have found some healing for myself with the parts of Sweet Home that were hard for me. It is a place with limitations. It is also a place where it's possible to know many people for nearly all of one's life, where it is possible to be woven into the lives of countless people such that, when one dies, those others gather and grieve together, and carry the memories together that remind us of the value of that particular life.
I do not pretend to understand this Death thing. It is very large. It makes me hug my kids just a little more.
Yesterday (and this is why I missed yesterday's Musings), I had the privilege to attend the memorial service of one of my dad's dear cousins - though I think Howard himself would have objected to the adjective "dear." He was born in South Dakota but lived in Sweet Home, Oregon for most of his 71 years. He was well-loved, and an integral part of this small community. He was a man who hugged his children before that was a trendy thing to do as a dad, and he pursued human connection throughout his life with pleasure and energy.
So, the privilege was to attend and remember him, and to tell his wife, kids, siblings and mother that he had touched my life. It is also a privilege to have lived long enough to be able to see Sweet Home in a more balanced light. Some of you know I spent my last two years of high school there, and it was not my kind of place. It was - and is - narrow in many regards. But the minister (who'd known Howard most of both of their lives) spoke early about how we come together at these times because the family "needs encouragement" from its family and friends. He said at one point to Howard's wife, Jan, "We'll get through this," and he wept himself at a number of points during the service.
If I had not returned for this service - if I had not lived long enough to realize that nothing human is ever simple or completely one thing - I could not have found some healing for myself with the parts of Sweet Home that were hard for me. It is a place with limitations. It is also a place where it's possible to know many people for nearly all of one's life, where it is possible to be woven into the lives of countless people such that, when one dies, those others gather and grieve together, and carry the memories together that remind us of the value of that particular life.
I do not pretend to understand this Death thing. It is very large. It makes me hug my kids just a little more.
9/24/10: Black v-necked Old Navy t-shirt...
... 3 Sierra magazines, a Sun magazine, a stretchy turquoise mini-dress, a navy blue sun dress.
I am sitting on the Free Bench. There is a tenderness to the warmth of the day today. Or maybe that's just me, knowing fall has begun, and so there is a grace to this weather. Noisiness ebbs and flows - an airplane overhead that eventually goes out of earshot, a diminutive 3-year-old girl bossing her even more diminutive 2-year-old brother up and down the sidewalk, the whir of a passing cyclist.
Inside, three 6th grade girls - K--- among them - are glued to iTunes, sampling songs for each other (I've heard the opening bars of Lady Gaga's "Pokerface" about five times so far). Tonight is their first middle school dance. They are so excited. I expect they'll be exhausted before the dance even starts. They all know the words to Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to Do with It?" and were singing along with it when my neighbor K---- found me here at the Free Bench. K---- sang along, too.
A young black-haired young woman with a Frida Kahlo bag just walked by. "Are those your shoes?" she asked me about the gold pumps (remember those from last week? - they're still here) because I was sitting here barefoot. I told her no, and she tried them on. Too tight. But the gauzy navy blue sun dress looked good to her, as did a pair of socks.
K---- asked, "Do you visit this Free Bench often?"
"Yes, I used to live around here." I guess when she visits the 'hood, the Free Bench is on her circuit.
I am sitting on the Free Bench. There is a tenderness to the warmth of the day today. Or maybe that's just me, knowing fall has begun, and so there is a grace to this weather. Noisiness ebbs and flows - an airplane overhead that eventually goes out of earshot, a diminutive 3-year-old girl bossing her even more diminutive 2-year-old brother up and down the sidewalk, the whir of a passing cyclist.
Inside, three 6th grade girls - K--- among them - are glued to iTunes, sampling songs for each other (I've heard the opening bars of Lady Gaga's "Pokerface" about five times so far). Tonight is their first middle school dance. They are so excited. I expect they'll be exhausted before the dance even starts. They all know the words to Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to Do with It?" and were singing along with it when my neighbor K---- found me here at the Free Bench. K---- sang along, too.
A young black-haired young woman with a Frida Kahlo bag just walked by. "Are those your shoes?" she asked me about the gold pumps (remember those from last week? - they're still here) because I was sitting here barefoot. I told her no, and she tried them on. Too tight. But the gauzy navy blue sun dress looked good to her, as did a pair of socks.
K---- asked, "Do you visit this Free Bench often?"
"Yes, I used to live around here." I guess when she visits the 'hood, the Free Bench is on her circuit.
9/22/10: A rust-colored hooded sweatshirt...
...a bag of nice socks, many of which are beautiful woolen socks that clearly had an encounter with a hot drier, several rayon men's shirts, one a brilliant yellow with a red sunburst on the back, men's hemp drawstring pants. Really, too many articles of clothing to name, all of which appeared today in neat piles and a couple sacks. I believe our tenants - who just got married Saturday and are moving out at the end of the month - are responsible for this bounty. Moves are often good for that: taking the opportunity to lighten the load.
Since our niece, S-----, moved in with us this summer, I pulled what I felt were my essential clothes out of the closet in the room she now occupies and have them hanging with me where I am. I have not gone into her room to get further clothing more than twice, which suggests to me that what is left in that closet is unnecessary. It feels simpler, though I am not unaware that I may be able to live with this smaller batch of clothing precisely because there are more outfits ready at hand should I need them.
I am fascinated with what the internal challenges are for those of us who have so much. I know I have pondered this here before, but when there is no one here to make us live more simply, and yet we value that, how do we learn to say no to ourselves?
Since our niece, S-----, moved in with us this summer, I pulled what I felt were my essential clothes out of the closet in the room she now occupies and have them hanging with me where I am. I have not gone into her room to get further clothing more than twice, which suggests to me that what is left in that closet is unnecessary. It feels simpler, though I am not unaware that I may be able to live with this smaller batch of clothing precisely because there are more outfits ready at hand should I need them.
I am fascinated with what the internal challenges are for those of us who have so much. I know I have pondered this here before, but when there is no one here to make us live more simply, and yet we value that, how do we learn to say no to ourselves?
9/21/10: A navy blue towel
...an off-white blanket, gold-colored women's pumps, women's faux cowboy boots.
Here is the kind of neighborhood we live in: earlier, we learned that our neighbor, J. L., had had an accident today. He is all right, but K---, L---- and I were feeling empathy for the randomness life's turns and thought a little warm tapioca would maybe help. So, out came the tapioca, milk, eggs - oh, no, two eggs short. Luken ran over to W--- and K----'s for eggs (and had the added bonus of being able to create a nutria out of the eggshell once it was cracked). We continued on until - oh, out of sugar. K--- ran over to L. and J. H.'s house for sugar (and had the added bonus of some mutual admiration time with Liza) and got sugar. Jasper and Kristin were duly presented with tapioca, and K--- and L---- had the added bonus of having tapioca themselves, which they feel is "the best dessert ever."
I know I sound like some contrived, cheery kid's book trying to communicate the joys of our interconnectedness - but this is truly how it happened, bonuses and all.
Here is the kind of neighborhood we live in: earlier, we learned that our neighbor, J. L., had had an accident today. He is all right, but K---, L---- and I were feeling empathy for the randomness life's turns and thought a little warm tapioca would maybe help. So, out came the tapioca, milk, eggs - oh, no, two eggs short. Luken ran over to W--- and K----'s for eggs (and had the added bonus of being able to create a nutria out of the eggshell once it was cracked). We continued on until - oh, out of sugar. K--- ran over to L. and J. H.'s house for sugar (and had the added bonus of some mutual admiration time with Liza) and got sugar. Jasper and Kristin were duly presented with tapioca, and K--- and L---- had the added bonus of having tapioca themselves, which they feel is "the best dessert ever."
I know I sound like some contrived, cheery kid's book trying to communicate the joys of our interconnectedness - but this is truly how it happened, bonuses and all.
9/20/10: Three men's t-shirts ion fetching colors
...a book by Richard Feynman.
Someone has spread the cloth that is the color of the Italian flag (yes, it's still here) on the Bench. This is brilliant. Here, just two days ago, I mentioned the dirty bench, and now someone has spread the cloth to cover the dirt. For some reason, I suspect my neighbor, Katie. Perhaps it was random, the appearance of this cloth exactly where it is needed - but it makes me feel very powerful: I can notice something in these Musings and it can impel someone to act.
Someone has spread the cloth that is the color of the Italian flag (yes, it's still here) on the Bench. This is brilliant. Here, just two days ago, I mentioned the dirty bench, and now someone has spread the cloth to cover the dirt. For some reason, I suspect my neighbor, Katie. Perhaps it was random, the appearance of this cloth exactly where it is needed - but it makes me feel very powerful: I can notice something in these Musings and it can impel someone to act.
9/19/10: Nothing new on the Free Bench
Two paragraphs excerpted from the short story I started today:
Rounding the corner to her house was a daily disappointment. It was set back from the road that led out of town, a cleared area after a stretch of trees on both sides and glimpses of the creek down to the left. The siding was forest green - though any forest that shade of green would have been cause for concern. Tru had hoped the mantle of rural poverty would lift once the previous tenants left and took their hounds and copious primary-colored plastic children's toys with them. But their eviction hadn't had that effect. The fleas had stayed, had proved impervious to several moppings with bleach water. Tru had driven to the next town over to buy flea bombs, afraid of having one of the back-to-nature crowd catch her in the chemical aisle of Safeway.
********
Trudy dropped her keys into her purse. It was made from dark brown leather with three-inch fringe at the bottom seam and most of the original turquoise and red beading. A thunderbird, the saleswoman had said, a steal at twice the price. The purse had the habit of disguising its contents. Digging for her wallet or checkbook was like that game in grade school where you had to plunge your hand into a paper sack and guess what an object was by touch. Now, she squeezed her purse under her armpit and burst from the car, slammed the door behind her, scrabbled on the gravel driveway, pounded up the saggy stairs and into the house, as if the rain were a killer, hot on her heels.
Rounding the corner to her house was a daily disappointment. It was set back from the road that led out of town, a cleared area after a stretch of trees on both sides and glimpses of the creek down to the left. The siding was forest green - though any forest that shade of green would have been cause for concern. Tru had hoped the mantle of rural poverty would lift once the previous tenants left and took their hounds and copious primary-colored plastic children's toys with them. But their eviction hadn't had that effect. The fleas had stayed, had proved impervious to several moppings with bleach water. Tru had driven to the next town over to buy flea bombs, afraid of having one of the back-to-nature crowd catch her in the chemical aisle of Safeway.
********
Trudy dropped her keys into her purse. It was made from dark brown leather with three-inch fringe at the bottom seam and most of the original turquoise and red beading. A thunderbird, the saleswoman had said, a steal at twice the price. The purse had the habit of disguising its contents. Digging for her wallet or checkbook was like that game in grade school where you had to plunge your hand into a paper sack and guess what an object was by touch. Now, she squeezed her purse under her armpit and burst from the car, slammed the door behind her, scrabbled on the gravel driveway, pounded up the saggy stairs and into the house, as if the rain were a killer, hot on her heels.
9/18/10: A bright red baseball cap that says Coca-Cola on it...
...and a child's lilac and white fleece cloche.
I was thinking that a lilac and white fleece cloche sounds more interesting than this actual hat appears at the moment. We never did (as in, I never did) seal our cobb bench, which means it's dirty. If you sit on it, or put clothes directly on it, you/they become dirty. It brushes off pretty easily, but those who peruse the Free Bench might not understand that the dingy cloche could perk up easily with a brisk little whack, or a turn in a washing machine.
This makes me think of all those things that sound better than they end up being. That happens a lot with food. Like granny smith apples, which have never equaled the granny smiths I ate one autumn as a nine-year-old in Massachusetts; or hot dogs (when I ate them), which have never even come close to one I had on the streets of New York outside of Lincoln Center at age fourteen. Maybe the key is expectation. I have in mind the Platonic ideal of the apple, the hot dog, and therefore they can't measure up. But when I'm not expecting a thing - I've never even heard of mujadarrah let alone had it, or my friend, N----, says, "Try this book, Olive Kittredge, see what you think-" there is room for an authentic experience because nothing has come before.
Which makes me think of the situation here. It is hard to come at this writing fresh every day, to manage to frequently bring something authentic, and I imagine it shows.
Back to the cloche. K--- will tell you that the cloche is not my hat. In fact, she has thrown herself into my hat search with energy and perceptiveness. I have been on an earnest hunt for a hat that looks good on me for years. Today, K--- found My Hat in the basement: a velvety-textured, two-and-a-half-feet-across black and apricot-colored sombrero. So, nice to know I have something fetching to wear every Cinco de Mayo. Though given the weight of it, the hat hair will be something fierce.
I was thinking that a lilac and white fleece cloche sounds more interesting than this actual hat appears at the moment. We never did (as in, I never did) seal our cobb bench, which means it's dirty. If you sit on it, or put clothes directly on it, you/they become dirty. It brushes off pretty easily, but those who peruse the Free Bench might not understand that the dingy cloche could perk up easily with a brisk little whack, or a turn in a washing machine.
This makes me think of all those things that sound better than they end up being. That happens a lot with food. Like granny smith apples, which have never equaled the granny smiths I ate one autumn as a nine-year-old in Massachusetts; or hot dogs (when I ate them), which have never even come close to one I had on the streets of New York outside of Lincoln Center at age fourteen. Maybe the key is expectation. I have in mind the Platonic ideal of the apple, the hot dog, and therefore they can't measure up. But when I'm not expecting a thing - I've never even heard of mujadarrah let alone had it, or my friend, N----, says, "Try this book, Olive Kittredge, see what you think-" there is room for an authentic experience because nothing has come before.
Which makes me think of the situation here. It is hard to come at this writing fresh every day, to manage to frequently bring something authentic, and I imagine it shows.
Back to the cloche. K--- will tell you that the cloche is not my hat. In fact, she has thrown herself into my hat search with energy and perceptiveness. I have been on an earnest hunt for a hat that looks good on me for years. Today, K--- found My Hat in the basement: a velvety-textured, two-and-a-half-feet-across black and apricot-colored sombrero. So, nice to know I have something fetching to wear every Cinco de Mayo. Though given the weight of it, the hat hair will be something fierce.
9/15/10: Powder blue knit cap...
...a cotton bedspread in the colors of the Italian flag, assorted men's t-shirts, a pair of cut-offs.
Okay, this is my third attempt to write something. I'm not liking what I've been writing. The first attempt was too self-revealing (yeah, you thought it couldn't get more self-revealing than the shoe shame of yesterday?). The second was too pedantic, me holding forth.
I like my above description of the bedspread: accurate and evocative. Maybe I'll leave it at that.
9/14/10: A pair of black women's boots, a pair of nondescript walking shoes
The walking shoes remind me of a time in 7th grade.
I'd just returned from being in Scotland for a year with my family. I'd landed back in Sharon, Massachusetts where I'd gone to elementary school and 5th grade. I wore my Scottish gym sneakers, which were canvas and rubber, dingy and round-toed. I'd always been tuned into my own style but was still coming up to speed on the idea that there even was such a thing as Fashion Trends. So, there I was, walking down the hall in my too-short (thanks to a growth spurt) bell bottoms, a long-sleeved body suit, and my sneakers. A girl walked by with a friend of hers and said, "I like your shoes."
Her tone was already expert: it sounded kind, a little sing-song-y, with only the barest hint of sarcasm. Now, I knew from sarcasm. In fact, I enjoyed sitting listening to my dad and his grad student, Matt, trade biting sarcasms. They were expert. This sort I had not yet encountered, and it was so subtle. I looked at the girl in surprise (after all, how could she be referring to these shoes, which even I could see were nothing of any note?), and said, sincerely, "Thanks." Only after we'd passed each other did I hear her comment to her friend, "She believed me."
I don't share this story as yet another example of teen-aged cruelty. Rather, because I responded from a sincere place in myself, even that moment at the end where I realized she was being sarcastic didn't shame me as it would have had I known from the start that this exchange was a charade, a thinly-veiled humiliation. I was able to hang on to what had been for me a moment of connection that I'd responded to; I felt good - not in a righteous way, but in a solid way - because I responded in a way that was open and friendly. And that was how I wanted to be with the people I encountered.
I'd just returned from being in Scotland for a year with my family. I'd landed back in Sharon, Massachusetts where I'd gone to elementary school and 5th grade. I wore my Scottish gym sneakers, which were canvas and rubber, dingy and round-toed. I'd always been tuned into my own style but was still coming up to speed on the idea that there even was such a thing as Fashion Trends. So, there I was, walking down the hall in my too-short (thanks to a growth spurt) bell bottoms, a long-sleeved body suit, and my sneakers. A girl walked by with a friend of hers and said, "I like your shoes."
Her tone was already expert: it sounded kind, a little sing-song-y, with only the barest hint of sarcasm. Now, I knew from sarcasm. In fact, I enjoyed sitting listening to my dad and his grad student, Matt, trade biting sarcasms. They were expert. This sort I had not yet encountered, and it was so subtle. I looked at the girl in surprise (after all, how could she be referring to these shoes, which even I could see were nothing of any note?), and said, sincerely, "Thanks." Only after we'd passed each other did I hear her comment to her friend, "She believed me."
I don't share this story as yet another example of teen-aged cruelty. Rather, because I responded from a sincere place in myself, even that moment at the end where I realized she was being sarcastic didn't shame me as it would have had I known from the start that this exchange was a charade, a thinly-veiled humiliation. I was able to hang on to what had been for me a moment of connection that I'd responded to; I felt good - not in a righteous way, but in a solid way - because I responded in a way that was open and friendly. And that was how I wanted to be with the people I encountered.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.)
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.
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.
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