‘Twas the season…

‘Tis the season!  Well, ’twas the season. A season that made us happy and joyous. A season filled with family, laughter, lights, gifts, singing and thanks. Now that Christmas and New Year have come and gone the season is over, and we are left with…winter. 

It’s dark save for the brief daylight hours. It’s cold, or at least chilly or cool. And today it’s very wet. The weather person is saying we will get six niches of rain today!

Looking out my window, down toward the pond, I can see rivers of runoff filling the pond almost to overflowing. The pond looks like a river with a swift current flowing through it. Brown with mud, and white with foam!

My house sits on a hill but on three sides there is water at the bottom of that hill. Water that is rising because of the continuing rain, and from runoff coming from the high ground on the fourth side of the house

I’ve seen this kind of rain before. We’ve lived here for seven years and I’ve seen it like this maybe four times. It’s a lot, with flooding predicted. 

We don’t get much snow here. Which makes me feel like it’s not really winter. I grew up in Pennsylvania and we got lots of snow, starting in October and lasting through April. But it’s still cold. Although not bone chilling. I don’t miss the cold 

I’m thinking about building a fire in the wood stove. The fire will be warm and cheery but needs a lot of attention. If I decide to go out later I’ll have to extinguish the flames and I would rather just let it burn until its fuel is exhausted.  

Eventually the rain stops, the sun tries to come out and some of the floodwaters recede. It’s still gloomy out there. I haven’t been outside, but I know it’s cold. And windy. The wind hurts!  It’s howling like a banshee, and I hope that none of the trees fall because of it.  There are big trees around the house, any one of which could crush everything inside.  Including me.

But, like at the peak of the season, I’m warm  in my home with my family nearby.  And I know that in four months or so we will start complaining about how hot it is outside. Another season…

Today is a good day. Life is good. Not perfect, but good. And I’m content. 

That’s part of my story. What’s yours?

In The Beginning…

Happy New Year!  Time to let go of the past and dream of new adventures, and success, in the future.  Other than the change in the date, changes in the new year are largely psychologically oriented.  It’s really just the next day in a line of many more to come.  But hey, let’s party!

Everyone has their own way of celebrating this event.  Some go to New York’s Times Square for the ball drop.  Too crowded for me.  Others go out to a restaurant or bar to celebrate with friends, old and new.  I hear fireworks, and gunshots, all night long.   And there are those who stay home for a quiet, or not, evening in.  There are lots of virtual parties in TV.

And there are traditions to be found in all of this ritual.  From  my early days I remember staying up until midnight with my parents.  We’d watch Guy Lombardo and his Band of Renown.  Their choice, not mine.  And at midnight we’d eat beer baloney with crackers.  And maybe drink some champagne.

Later in life I sometimes participated in wild revelry.  Out all night.  Sipping water…Never a huge crowd, but it was fun to be around a bunch of other people who were celebrating.  One year I was with some friends and their tradition was to go outside at midnight and beat on all the pots and pans with a wooden spoon.  Lots of noise.

When we were in Italy we found the Italian tradition very interesting.  And somewhat dangerous.  To celebrate the new year they took the saying “out with the old, …” very literally.  Walking down the street you better look up because someone might be dumping an old washing machine out the window!

When I moved south I found out that the Southern tradition, at least in the area I live, is two fold.  On one hand you have to get all of the Christmas decorations taken down before midnight.  My uncle in Pennsylvania would keep the colored Christmas lights  festooning his eaves up all year round!

Part two of the tradition was the meal.  On New Year’s Day we have to eat certain foods to ensure a good year.  Spinach for wealth, black eyed peas for good luck, and onions, ketchup and corn bread to make it all palatable.  It’s grown on me after more than thirty years!

And last night my youngest daughter introduced us all to a new tradition.  I have no idea where she heard this.  At 11:59 PM you have to sit underneath the kitchen table and eat twelve red grapes.  One at a time.  If you finish by the stroke of twelve, you will find your true love in the coming year.  She’s single.  I found my true love years ago, without any grapes.  But it’s a different world today.

Some things change a little, and some change a lot.  But some things never change.  Starting the new year with family all around, and thoughts of good health, good luck, and good fortune will always be the best.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?

Change

There are two ways to look at change.  One is that there is nothing constant but change.  Meaning, no matter how much we want to keep things as they are, change never ends.  The other is change is good.  It brings improvements, a better life or world.  In a way, you can combine the two.  Change is going to happen, so make the best of it.

Now that Christmas Day is over I can reflect a little on the day, and the run up to it.  It’s all changed quite a bit over my lifetime.  Not only has the overall Christmas season spread out to just over eleven and a half months per year, with more and more emphasis on gifts and Santa, but the way that my family and I experience the day has morphed.

My earliest memories of Christmas revolve around waking up before dawn and unwrapping gifts of toys and games.  As I got a little older we still got up with the roosters, but the gifts switched to new clothes.  I didn’t like that at all.  Even if I did need some new clothes.

As an adult the gifts were still sometimes playful, but they continued to be clothes, or books, or tools.  Much more practical.  There were always exchanges to be made, for fit or style purposes, but the gifts stayed the same.

Then I got married and had children.  That was a big change.  It didn’t all happen the same day so I was able to gradually ease into it, but buying gifts for babies and young children was new to me.  The whole Christmas thing with little kids was different.

It wasn’t like reliving my own childhood.  No, it was all bigger, grander, more expensive.  We had to take the kids to see Santa.  Which meant buying them some sort of cute outfit of clothes to wear for the immortalizing photograph.  My oldest daughter had to have her picture taken with Mrs. Claus because she didn’t like Santa.

The gifts started out as clothes, and educational toys, and books, and movies.  I liked watching the movies with the kids.  Barney was a big favorite.  Somehow I wanted the gifts to be something really special, so every year I would buy each of my daughters something special just from me.  I don’t know how my wife really felt about that.  I hope she has always thought it meant that I loved my kids, and not that I was hogging the spotlight.

The process Christmas morning was to wake up at the crack of dawn.  Some years this was about five minutes after I had gone to bed, having just finished assembling some important toy to be opened in the morning.  The girls would wait at the top of the stairs, or in their rooms until mommy went down to see if Santa had been there, and to make some coffee for daddy.  Daddy would go down to start a fire in the fireplace, and check for signs of Santa or reindeer.  Sure enough, every year he showed up.

And he brought gifts of toys, and books and sports equipment and games and yes, clothes.  The clothes got larger as the girls got older and the reading level jumped.  We’d all sit by the fireplace, each with a pile of gifts in front of us, and we’d go around the circle taking a turn at opening.  Youngest to oldest.

Every other year my wife’s parents would stay with us.  And sometimes we would drive nine hundred miles to visit with my parents.  The gifts were always stacked to the ceiling.  Not to mention the food!

And on Christmas Eve we’d always go to church.  To sing Christmas carols and to hear the story of Jesus.  When we got home I would recite the story of the Night Before Christmas.  The kids would go to bed and my wife and I would turn the tv on to watch the midnight mass from the Vatican in Rome, and to continue wrapping, and assembling presents.  My wife and I had attended that midnight mass one year while we loved in Italy so it was fun to relive that.

And then it began.  The process as described above.  But it changed.  Yesterday the girls didn’t wake up until nearly nine o’clock.  It was too warm outside to have a fire inside.  Three of the four grandparents are no longer with us.  The presents are much smaller, although just as abundant.  All things for adult activities.  Cooking, cleaning, reading, tools, and clothes!  And technology.  Nothing like a simple ball.  We still do church, but we go to bed earlier.  We still open gifts in order of youngest to oldest.

Things have changed.  It feels different and looks different.  But some things never change.  We are together as a family, and celebrating.  Not all change is good maybe, but it’s going to happen so…deal with it!

Thats part of my story.  What’s yours?

Tradition

Christmas is surrounded by traditions.  From trees to carols, presents to meals, every family has some kind of tradition associated with Christmas.

My family has a ritualistic schedule regarding when and how to decorate the tree, and the rest of the house.  There are certain festivities that we partake of.  The Christmas parade, the Christmas music concert, church services.  Every year.

Today, Christmas Eve, we have another tradition.  And we’ve just finished up with it.  I don’t know where this one came from, but every year I find myself doing it with the rest of the family.  We have breakfast together at the Waffle House.

It’s me, my wife, our two kids, her mother, her brother and his wife, and sometimes their kids.  This year my nieces and nephews, and their two kids, didn’t make it.  And we were supposed to add my sister in law’s mother and sister, but they couldn’t make it either.  

My nephew lives in Nashville, but was planning to come for a few days.  But he cut his finger off with a circular saw and will be delayed a few days.  My niece and her kids are spending this day with her husband’s family this year.  And the new additions stayed home because my sister in law’s sister fell down the stairs and broke her leg in four places!

I try to stay away from doing things that could turn ugly near holidays.  I learned my lesson on the Fourth of July when I fell off the house and broke my scapula.  We celebrated the holiday in the emergency room.  No fun at all.

Still, we were a group of seven, and needed two tables.  The oldest and youngest sat together at one table, and the middle aged ones sat together.  

Since we were eating at Waffle House, most of got a waffle, or split one.  We all also got eggs, grits, hash browns and toast.  Oh, and lots of coffee.  It’s not Waffle House without the coffee.

It wasn’t too crowded when we arrived, but it got pretty full by the time we were finished.  We, the middle aged group,  got up from our table to give some others who were waiting for a place to sit.  We were finished, and just sitting there talking, so it was the right thing to do.

There is always plenty of food, and it tastes pretty good.  Not healthy at all, but this time of year there is a lot of stuff that we eat that isn’t healthy.  Candy, cakes, pies, you know….cookies!

This evening we will all get together again for a church service.  And then move to one of our houses for dinner and a gift exchange.  Always a lot of fun.

It’s the opportunity to get together that makes it special.  And this year we lost one member, but gained another.  The tradition carries on, with the family as it is.  Ever changing, but always the same.

Thats part of my story.  What’s yours?

The Face of Alzheimer’s

The human body is an incredible machine.  We take so much of its function for granted.  Until it stops working right.

It’s a flesh and blood machine and as it ages things begin to wear out.  These days doctors are able to replace worn out parts, but can’t fix some things.  Like it or not, we all get older, and our parts begin to wear out.  We cope with some things.  I wear hearing aids.  Other people have pacemakers.  These things give us the ability to work around our worn out parts.

But some of our parts begin to wear out and there is no fix.  Joints can be replaced.  Even a heart.  But a brain cannot be replaced.  And in many ways, it can’t be fixed.  It just continues to decline.

And it’s hard to watch as the faces you know begin to look so different.  When my mother died, at age ninety, she had Alzheimer’s disease.  My father did everything humanly possible to help her.  All the medicines, all the doctors.  But there was no stopping it, and in the end, it won.

We noticed the changes when she started having trouble finding the right words for the sentences she was trying to speak.    It frustrated her.  My father knew there was a problem.  He lived with her and watched everyday as subtle and small changes came along.  

My visits to see her were only a couple of times a year and each time I noticed a big difference.  It was hard because she slowly went from being my mother, who I had known for more than fifty years, to being someone I barely recognized.  From a brilliant scholar to a babbling old woman.

I was lucky because I didn’t have to deal with her everyday.  And because of that I didn’t fully understand what was happening to her.  My father knew.  He became an expert on the subject of dementia.  He didn’t always let on as to how bad it was.  I don’t know how he did it really.

But he did, for five years.  And then she died.  Toward the end she was living in the memory unit of the community where they both lived.  He went to be with her every day, twice a day, to share meals, do her laundry, to talk to her.  And just to be with her.  

The last time I saw her I knew she didn’t know really who I was.  And she was babbling when I left.  I knew I would never see her again.  Very sad.  Very.  I knew who she was, and who she had been.

In the end she got tired of it all and gave up.  She stopped eating and after sixteen days she left, holding my father’s hand.  A lot of families have experienced this scenario.  They all know it’s hard, but some have better resources to help with it.

Today I find myself staring at another face that’s leaving us.  This time it’s my wife’s turn to watch the sinking ship that is her mother.  But my wife has it much harder than I did because her mother lives nearby and they speak every day.  And visit about once a week.

I generally only hear one side of their phone calls.  But I can tell there are issues.  Numbers don’t make sense any more.  Names are harder to recall.  And confusion is more prevalent.  My wife has to deal with this every day, and sometimes she is very frustrated.  And sometimes she’s just very sad.

There is no formal diagnosis.  And she is fighting us every step of the way toward acknowledging the possibility that she is slipping mentally.  As of now there is no way we can make her do anything.  Not even by force.  She still drives.  Scary.  

We want her to move closer to us, but she won’t.  She’s in a big house all by herself and says she likes it that way.  She controls her finances completely.  That’s a good thing, but I worry that someone might try to scam her.  It happened to her before, falling for a con artist’s spiel.  Blames it on the banker for not stopping her.

It’s a changing face.  But every detail of the change is right in our faces.  It’s hard. I feel bad for my mother in law.  I feel bad for my wife.  I’ve been through this, but I still don’t know how to help really.  

There is no cure, but great strides are being made in research.  Mental illness of any sort is seen as a taboo by many.  Cover it up.  Hide it from everyone.  Deny, deny, deny…That’s changing too.  One day…

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?

The Ornament

When people think of Christmas many things come to mind.  There is Jesus of course, but not always at the top of the list.  And then there are things like family gatherings, gifts, wrapping paper, Santa Claus, gingerbread men, parties, colorful lights and, oh yes, Christmas trees.

I do not recall a year when my family did not have at least one Christmas tree.  When I was a kid my parents and I would go out and get a tree about a week before Christmas.  We might go into the woods, or over to a tree lot that popped up for the holidays. We even had live trees to be planted in the ground after the holiday.  The tree would wait patiently either on the back porch or in the barn until Christmas Eve when we would bring it inside and decorate it.

In my adult life my wife and I have always had a real tree.  And maybe a fake one in addition.  The fake one is much easier, but it’s not the same so I insist on a real one.  There were years when we had a fake one in the front window with all white lights.  That was for the neighbors to admire.  In the family room we had a real tree with multicolored lights and shining ornaments.  That was for the family to enjoy.  These trees typically went up right after Thanksgiving.

In either scenario I received great pleasure in putting on the colored lights and adorning the tree lovingly with ornaments.  We have a very eclectic collection of ornaments to hang.  There are things the children made in school when they were little.  And things we bought along the way that have special meaning.  Things like the one that says “our first Christmas together.”  We got that the year we were married.   Or the Italian ornaments that we bought at the Christmas market in the Piazza Navona in Rome when we lived in Italy.  And so many others.  There is no rhyme or reason to what we have, for where we put it on the tree.  We just enjoy each and every one.

Not everyone has a decorating style like mine.  Some people like simple trees with a couple of balls hung.  Others want everything to be the same color.  There are those who want all ribbons and bows and garland.  So many possibilities.  They nay not be what I like, but they are all equally beautiful in the eyes of the ones who decorate them.

When my wife received an invitation to a wedding shower recently it included a note to bring a Christmas ornament for the bride to be.  What a lovely idea, even though the wedding isn’t until February of next year.  My wife likes to give nice gifts that will be appreciated, and that she enjoys picking out.  But she was perplexed on this one.

There was no indication of what the budget range might be.  And as she doesn’t know the bride very well, there was no hint as to what style or theme of ornament might be appropriate.  The hunt was on.  Almost.  Where to look?  Big box retailers?  The greeting card shop?  Christmas specialty stores?  Somewhere else?

As I am in the antiques business, she thought it would be fun to look for the ornament in the local antique stores.  A vintage treasure!  We went to three shops, and looked and looked.  There were certainly many to choose from, but she could not decide.  The issue of cost and style kept cropping up.  

She finally found a booth that had a tree with many unique ornaments.  There were secular ones as well as religious ones.  Cute and serious.  Old and older still.  Glass, metal, plastic.  The choice would define her among the shower attendees.  Good choice, or embarrassment?

She kept asking me for advice.  I don’t know I said.  You’re a woman, you know how these things work.  Don’t overthink it.  Whatever you choose will be wonderful.  In the end she picked two spun glass ornaments.  One was an angel, the other a snowflake.  Both with a kind of golden glow, and sparkles.  Perfect!  But she didn’t buy any of the ornaments I had for sale, even though she knew I’d give it to her for free!

That done she was quite relieved.  And rewarded herself for a job well done with a new pair of vintage, leopard print sunglasses.  So hip!  She will wrap these new discoveries in pretty paper and tomorrow at the shower everyone will oooh and aaah over them.  She wants things done right, and puts in the effort to do it that way.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?

Wrapping

This time of year some very pretty packages begin to show up under the Christmas tree at my house.  Not necessarily big, or expensive or in great quantity, but very pretty.  Wrapped with love.  And with colorful paper and ribbons and bows and all sorts of little decorative touches.  And each labeled with a from and a to.

I like to survey the pile every once in a while to see what says it’s to me.  What could it be?  I already know what is in the packages marked from me.  I always buy the presents I give out myself.  My wife would do the shopping for me, but I like to do it myself.  And I usually find some off the wall kind of thing to give that no-one else would think of.  And maybe no-one really wants!

Everyone knows which ones are from me.  They can tell just by the look of them.  I like to use the same pretty paper, ribbons and bows that everyone else uses.  No hints there.  But it seems that somehow the gifts that I wrap aren’t as pretty as what someone else might be able to do with them.  

For some reason I just can’t get the corners tight.  Or the tape straight.  I do ok with making bows, but it’s better if I use a premade one.  Somehow my wrapping jobs always look like a rumpled shirt fresh out of the dryer.  Wrinkles.  Not crisp.  I hate to say messy, but…

I try really hard, and have certainly had many opportunities to practice over the years.  But they always turn out the same.  Maybe if I had a real dedicated wrapping station.  I usually find myself either sitting, or laying, on the floor trying to do the job.  The scissors and tape and ribbons and bows just out of reach.

It used to be that you could go to a store and the sales people would wrap your purchase.  Or the store might have a wrapping center for customers where a nice lady would make your box beautiful.  Maybe a little plain if they use store logo paper, but still pretty.  And neat.  But they always had paper, scissors, tape and ribbon strategically located, and stood at a tall desk while they wrapped.  Many small shops in Europe still do this, even if it’s July and you bought a pair of socks.

Maybe it’s my personality.  I know what to do to make my packages pretty, I just can’t do it.  I’m always in a rush because I’ve procrastinated, or because I just have a lot of other half finished things I need to get to three quarters finished.  And I don’t really enjoy wrapping.  I like the decorating part better.  I can exercise my unique tastes and creativity.

Beyond the look of the presents I wrap, recipients always look forward to the tags I make.  It’s just a premade stick on thing.  Images of Santa, or trees, or reindeer.  Christmas related stuff.  Commercial Christmas.  It’s what I write in the to and from boxes that they look for.

Everyone has made a list of things they want to receive so there aren’t a lot of surprises.  Sometimes the gift is wrapped deceptively.  Like a pair of gloves in a shoe box.  So I always like to offer some kind of hint as to what might really be inside the paper.  The tag will read to Susie, or whoever, from the hint.

If someone is getting snow boots I might say they are form The Eskimo.  The hints aren’t always directly related.  The recipient might have to think a little.  But the tradition here is that when someone opens a gift from me there is no just ripping the paper off.  They have to hold it.  Listen to it.  Shake it.  Then read the hint.  And ponder.  And then they have to announce to all around what they think is in the package.

Sometimes they are right.  Sometimes they cannot put the hint with the reality.  I think they all enjoy this little game.  I know I do.  But best of all is that they always seem to appreciate the gift.  No matter how trivial or silly.

In spite of the messy presentation, they know the gifts are given with great consideration for who they are, and filled with love.  And love is what Christmas is really about.

Thats part of my story.  What’s yours?

Worship

Does God care or know if we pray?  That’s a question way too big for this author to tackle here!  But in order to give the next question any sort of foundation we will say that the answer is yes. That being the case, does S/he care when and where we pray?

That may depend on how you view God.  That is, is God a power hungry, greedy narcissist who demands tribute, or is S/he an omnipotent loving guardian and mentor?  Like I said, that depends on your perspective.

Over the course of many years I have been to many houses of worship, used by people of several different faiths.  What they have in common is that they are a place for believers to gather and to raise praises and thanks to the Almighty.  Where they differ is in the presentation of the space.

Some houses of worship are very humble.  A simple wooden building with crude seating.  And an altar with some kind of symbology present.  Others are palatial and opulent.  Plush seating, soaring buildings, golden accessories, silken cloths and alabaster stone making up the altar.  I’ve been in both types, and many in between.  From a country church with twenty members to St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City.

It can be hard to remember that the two have the same purpose in their existence because of the visible differences.  But in each prayers are lifted up, thanks is given, songs are sung and holy scriptures are read and heard.  It’s a matter of scale and grandeur.

Does God love one group more than the others?  Does a golden altar give a church or temple or mosque preferential treatment?  If you think about it in human terms we all know that it’s nice to feel appreciated.  A golden altar certainly shows a lot of appreciation.  But that doesn’t mean that a simple wooden altar can’t show the same amount of appreciation.  It depends on the material and financial resources that are available.

I do believe that God may expect more from those who offer golden gifts.  They have more to give and share with those who need it.  Who God also loves.  And their reach may be greater.  But it would seem that S/he expects all to offer succor and kindness to others.  Without that, the golden offerings are meaningless.  Except in making the worshipper feel better about themself.

Last night I went to see and hear a performance of Handel’s Messiah.  It’s a grand masterpiece of music and tribute often performed during the Christmas season.  It’s not really about Christmas, but it is about Christ.

The church where we saw the show is a big one.  A First Church of the city.  The sanctuary holds over a thousand people and the ceilings soar high into the air.  There are intricately carved wooden columns, marble floors, a fine organ, and a stained glass window embellished with gold rather than lead.  Big.  Opulent.  Grand.

With four soloists, an eighteen piece orchestra and a fifty voice choir, the show was magnificent.  I couldn’t help thinking about a conversation that my wife had earlier in the day with her mother.

My mother in law goes to a small country church in rural Georgia.  Wooden building, wooden cross.  Six voice choir and a piano.  That’s what their membership supports, and they are very grateful to have so much.  During their phone call, my mother in law told my wife that she was sorry that we hadn’t been able to come to hear their performance at church.  It was a very moving service.

How different.  And yet with the same goals.  Sometimes the grandeur gets in the way though.  If God appreciates humble people who come to worship, would he prefer that resource rich congregations use those resources to do God’s work rather than to raise monuments to Him/Her?  I can’t say, I haven’t gotten it first hand.

But isn’t the point of religion to unite people and to give thanks for our blessings?  To find comfort and guidance in living our lives?  Does it matter to God where you pray?  Or is his desire just that you look to Him/Her for strength and wisdom.

It’s offered freely.  It’s just a question of how we accept it.  Perhaps their is no right or wrong answer.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?

The Line

There are various “statistics” that purport to tell us how much time we spend in line over our lifetime, and the numbers, no matter which ones you believe, are not low.  Five years is a number that sticks in my head for some reason.  That seems like a long rime, but, I know I’ve been in some long lines.

Way back in 1964, when I was just a lad, my family went to the New York World’s Fair.  A very memorable experience.  One of the things I remember most however, was standing in line waiting to see some of the exhibits.  For four hours, in the heat of a mid September day, we waited patiently for our turn to enter the Ford Motor Company pavilion.  I say patiently, but I’m sure that wasn’t exactly true.  I remember nothing of what was in there.

We form lines in so many places that we go.  Gas stations, grocery stores, the theater.  Waiting to get in, waiting to get out.  But waiting.  And not always with a smile on our face.  It can be frustrating.  Especially when some people don’t respect the line and try to jump in someplace other than at the end.

In my current life as a junker I go to a lot of yard sales and estate sales.  Generally yard sales start when the first customer shows up, regardless of what the advertised start time is.  I try not to be too early because I know that not everyone is ready to begin their sale before dawn, or even by the time they said they would open their doors for business.  At estate sales the company managing the sale generally will wait until the appointed time before letting anyone in.

And people begin lining up sometimes hours in advance in order to be the first in inside.  You get first crack at whatever you’re looking for.  Most of the time.  I’ve been first in line, or near the beginning only to find that by the time I get in, two minutes after the opening, a whole lot of the stuff is already marked sold.  But that’s another story.

We want to get in.  We’ll wait in the cold, the heat and the rain.  Sometimes there are lists to sign up on to keep the record straight as to who was there in what order.  Sometimes numbers will be handed out.  All of that is great when the sale managers decide that not everyone can go inside at once, so numbers one through whatever are the first group.  I’ve been number whatever plus one many times!

Usually I don’t mind too much.  Especially if there is something there I really would like to acquire. But I can get cranky if the opening is late, or if the line isn’t controlled.  I know I waited forty five minutes past the stated start time for a sale once, and I, as well as a number of others, were not amused.  But we waited, grumbled and went in.

It’s when they line falls apart that I really get irked.  I’ve been standing here waiting for thirty minutes and so and so waltzes up and just walks in.  Sometimes the estate company will monitor this, sometimes it’s monitored by the people in line.  It gets testier if the crowd self monitors.

One time we all got a number and lined up.  Then when it was time to start the manager said everyone left face and enter.  The line had become a row, and everyone went at once.  Grrrrr!

Once inside you face the possibility of another line.  The one to checkout.  Hopefully everyone doesn’t decide to leave at the same time, but early in the day that’s a good possibility.  Twenty people with a couple of items will be in line to pay.  And you have to decide how much time you want to spend in line to get whatever you are getting.  An hour for a one dollar gizmo?  Nope.  Twenty minutes for a great treasure.  Yes.

But again, there are folks who don’t respect the line.  Sometimes it winds and twists and it might be hard to see where the end really is.  But the crowd straightens that out.  Sometimes some fool will jump right to the front and say I have cash and only one item, I’ll just be a second.  The estate company needs to manage that crap.  

Yesterday my wife and I were at a sale where the checkout counter was in the garage, near the entrance, and a display of many things for sale.  The people in there were either looking, on their way in, on their way out without purchases, or on their way out waiting to pay.  It can get confusing and jumbled.  It ended up that you had to go out of the house, into the garage, and then out of the garage to the end of the line.  It made several turns in that space, and people would see a corner and try to jump in.

Generally it’s an accident, but sometimes not.  When the people in line squawk enough that offender will move to the end.  My wife is big on following rules.  And she was determined that no-one was jumping in the line in front of her!  And she wasn’t hesitating to let the entire populace of the Universe know that.  Relax, it’s going to be ok.

We watched as people made judgement errors, but no-one got in ahead of us.  It’s frustrating indeed.  Like a lot of things.  But I try to look at the big, big picture.  In the overall scheme of things in the universe, if I’m second or third in line for an estate sale is pretty minor.  I just like to go and see what is a available for me.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?

The Mini Van

There was a time, back in the 1990’s, when every family needed a mini van.  These were the replacements for the family station wagon that had gained popularity in the 1950’s, and sold millions.  Even today there is a segment of society that likes a good station wagon.  But the mini van was bigger.

You could put more kids in it.  And carry all of the stuff that was needed for traveling with kids.  Fold up cribs, fold up high chairs, fold up playpens, diapers, clothes, toys.  All the stuff.  And older kids needed even more stuff!  So having a nice new van, with all the bells and whistles, was another status symbol in suburbia.

Of course there were those who preferred more rugged vehicles.  The Tahoes and Suburbans.  These were big haulers.  And they had that all terrain feature.  At least the look of it.  And since these cost even more than the mini vans, they were a symbol of even higher status.  

Today the mini van has lost it’s panache.  The SUV has taken over.  These range in size from smaller than a van to bigger than a tractor trailer.  Or so it seems.  Maybe what sells them is their rugged look.  Look at me they say!  And yes, these too are expensive.  You can even get an SUV from makers such as Porsche and Cadillac.  Seems counter intuitive to me, but soccer moms seem to love them.  As do many others.

Pickup trucks are still popular, but not as much as they used to be.  They too are being replaced by mini vans.  Except in the case of people who actually need a truck to do what they do, not just to look cool.

I’ve owned all sort of vehicles in my day.  Like many, I started out in a baby carriage.  Then moved up to a trike and a real bike.  I currently have a motorcycle.  And there was a little Mazda station wagon, and a number of sedans.  Chevy, Mazda, Olds, Ford and Nissan.

Then I got married and got the so, so important minivan.  Ford, Dodge and Toyota.  I also had a pickup truck for a number of years.  I used that as my “junkin” vehicle.  I could put a lot of treasures into it, stacking stuff as high as I could reach,  and cover them up with a roll up cover if needed.  That protected them from prying eyes as well as road hazards and sweater related issues.

Then my wife bought an SUV, and I sold the pickup to help pay for it.  In exchange, I got her old mini van.  You may laugh, or feel for me, but I love this van!  And I have named it Hoopty.  I drive it everyday, and every weekend my wife and I roll out on the “junkin” trail with it.  Yard sales, garage sales, estate sales and antique stores.  In the spring we take it on a road trip for a couple of days to gather treasure.

Why do I like it so much.  It’s not because of the style factor.  It’s sleek looking, but it’s still a mini van.  It has almost 300 thousand miles on it, and I’m determined to get it to half a million, if not more.  Either that, or get it to age twenty.  Both of those milestones are approaching pretty rapidly so I’m really hoping to keep it forever.

But the biggest reason I love Hoopty is because she is cavernous.  When I open the rear hatch you’d think you were looking into Mammoth Cave!  Did you hear the echo?  With the the rear seats stored away I can hold soooo much stuff.  I’ve had highboys in here, and full sized sofas.  And box loads of other stuff.  And I never have to worry about any of it getting wet in a rainstorm.

Sometimes I look at the vehicles that other people drive.  They are new and shiny.  They have new car smell I presume.  And so many bells and whistles that my seventeen year old Hoopty doesn’t have.  I’ll bet they don’t have a CD player though!  And I think maybe it would be nice to have some of that new stuff.  But it’s just something else to break or need repair, and it will be out of date in a short while anyway.  Hoopty runs, and is a real workhorse.  Happy to do any of the reasonable things I ask of her.

I’m not four wheeling.  Or drag racing.  Or winning any beauty contests.  She could use a fresh coat of paint.  But for hauling “junk” for my antiques business she cannot be beat.  Hoopty, like my wife, is irreplaceable.  And much loved.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?