How to Survive the Coming…Whatever

As I wrote on Monday, I had no plans to watch or listen to what was called the presidential “debate” on Wednesday evening.  The news chatter surrounding this media debacle, appropriately staged in Las Vegas, suggested the event would give undecided voters one last chance to see the candidates in action.  As if somehow, after all these months of rhetoric, clusters of citizens did not possibly know the two major candidates.

Even without opening a news app, a search engine, or the silly slender paper offering chucked angrily on my doorstep each morning, I know the possible outcomes.  It’s either “happy days are here again” or “it’s the end of the world as we know it.”

So, which is it?

If “happy days are here again” then there is no need for me to write further.  The nation will move into a new sphere of nirvana, prosperity will return, and we’ll stop fighting with our neighbors.

If, however, “it’s the end of the world as we know it,” we’ll need to make some adjustments.  The world has never actually “ended.”  If it did end once and we are living in a new world, the old world left no survivors or evidence of its existence.  So we are left without a compass to navigate this last trip.

The question has been asked before.  How now shall we live?

I’ve pondered this question for a long time.  Not just in the few hours prior to writing this blog post, but since 2008 when I had an “awakening” of sorts.  In the years following the experience, I’ve considered a number of things I could do in the event “it’s the end of the world as we know it.”  I’ve made some changes, like moving to a less populated area which was also closer to my family.  The move has not been stress free; change is hard.  The last three years have been filled with as much anxiety as happiness; storms and calms.  I’ve encountered new and different tribulations; in 2008, my primary concern was having a reliable vehicle to transport me to Boston for Junior League meetings.  Now, I am thinking about how to make my home more energy-efficient and how to expand my garden next summer.

Sometimes I wish I had been born at another time.  I don’t care for the “vibe” of the current world; the divisiveness of social media, the coarseness of culture, and the lack of civic virtue.  I’ve blogged about “1949” and how interesting life seemed at that time.  True, nostalgia colors our view of the past.  But if I had a time machine, I’d like to go back and live in 1949 for a while.

When is Elon Musk and SpaceX going to develop a time machine?

Oh, he’s not?  Then I guess time travel back to 1949 will not be possible.

the-natural-worldDarn, that was my finest recommendation for surviving the coming…whatever.  The rest of my suggestions pale in comparison; they’re mostly a reiteration of things I’ve written about here in the past.  In the almost three years since I’ve lived here in my old house, I’ve done more of the following things:

  1. Reading books,
  2. Eating meals at the table,
  3. Fixing things that are broken,
  4. Getting outside every day, and
  5. Praying.

I won’t be able to expand on these things today, but they seem so simple they may not need any elaboration.

What are your plans to survive the coming…whatever?

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Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo

Since we last met at this electronic outpost, New England’s temperatures fluctuated up and down and two things happened.  First, we had a killing frost that turned the morning glories into mourning glories and I’ve begun the sad job of unwinding the once happy vines from the fence they climbed.

Second, I broke down and turned on the furnace.  Although it’s a new model, it’s still a forced hot air furnace; it bangs and clangs more than the average modern convenience as it blows heat through the old ductwork.  It’s dry and a bit dusty, too, in spite of the warmth.  It’s an acknowledgement of winter’s approach.

I make slow progress through Kenneth Roberts’ Arundel.  I noted his references to winter in chapter 10, where he writes “winters in Arundel and all our Eastern country lie hard and burdensome on idle folk,” and “I have long held that if a person plans chores to keep him busy, he will find our Eastern winters a time of relief from the blinding sweat and countless small tasks of summer, instead of a stagnant period during which each man comes to hate his neighbors, his family, and at last himself.”

A stagnant period; or maybe it’s idleness upon the land.  I’m no economist, but I do sometimes read the dark economic blog Zerohedge and I found an economic chart about unemployment numbers that made me shiver.  Is this lack of meaningful work part of the current pox upon our civic house, causing us to “hate our neighbors?”

Very early Saturday morning, while composing my “to do” list, a song came over the terrestrial radio waves and distracted me, however briefly, from such dark thoughts.

Wikipedia says it’s a “novelty song” originally written in 1949 for the Disney movie, Cinderella.  It’s a cute little ditty and as I listened to the silly lyrics and the made up words, I thought “this is what I hear on the news every day.”  Our national dialogue is full of words like “Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo.”  The song’s subtitle?  “The magic song.”

I don’t think our national malaise, meaningful work, and unemployment numbers will be brought up in the final Presidential debate this week.  I’ve made no plans to watch or listen to it because I already heard it on the radio this weekend.

Sigh…I’ve far surpassed my word count for a Monday “minimalist” post.

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Three Beautiful Words

It’s been a strange week here at the house.  The light, its amount and strength, seems to decrease more than a little each day.  Sitting out on the porch, even wrapped in blankets, is futile.

The world outside my figurative window is darker, too.  “Bad news on the doorstep…”  I think that’s how the song went.

My brother wrote a blog post a few days ago about being at a loss for words and that’s how I feel today, too.  I suppose I could write about my renewed focus, since July, on the creation of healthy habits and routines.  And while my work hasn’t been perfect, one thing I’ve done quite consistently is sit down at the table for an evening meal.

dinner-is-served

Even though this isn’t a food blog, let’s focus on three beautiful words today.

Dinner is served.

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Retreating into Autumn

We didn’t think Leo Kottke would sell out Rockland’s Strand Theatre; he did and we had to hustle like panhandlers before the show to get our seats.

handy-needed-tickets

We agreed if only one ticket was to be had, it would be Handy’s and I would wait in the car with a book, a pillow, and a blanket.

Fortunately, two tickets surfaced.  We paid just a little bit more than retail, but Handy didn’t seem to mind this once.

Another Columbus Day weekend…it’s officially time to retreat into autumn.

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The Decline of the West

Last night, Handy and I sat on the screen porch in our usual spots.  The setting sun dragged the temperature down and we wrapped up in knitted blankets.  (Is it still politically correct to call a “knitted throw” an “Afghan blanket?”)

I suppose I could have pulled out some old Bates bedspreads from an upstairs closet; nevertheless, wrapped we were and enjoying the end of the day.

Conditions in the south and west-facing gardens continue to deteriorate.  It’s becoming too cold at night for the moonflowers to bloom.  The changing light and temperatures confuse the large, twined flowers.  Next summer, I’ll plant them a little earlier so they’ll flower on a hot August night.  They did have a subtle, sublime fragrance which I imagine would only be enhanced by the heat.

The morning glories growing off the trellis in the gladiolus patch are no longer profusely blooming, but each day some still flower and I put off the sad chore of dismantling the strings they’ve climbed along.

Indeed, there is a decline along the south and west-facings gardens here.

I don’t think I wrote much about pole beans this summer and it was probably for the best.  I had a small, uninspired spot in the garden and a few packages of old bean seeds.  They were the type of bean seeds that seem like a good idea at the time and then never get planted.  This summer, I stuck three large tree limbs in the garden, teepee style, and planted those old seeds around them.  The foliage was beautiful, similar to the dense green of the morning glories and moonflowers, and I paid little attention to the sprouting beans.  They might have been good eating at one point, but no longer.  They’ve gone to seed now and are drying on the vine.  I’ve harvested a few of them, along with the scarlet runner bean seeds I’m planning to share with friends.

seeds

Handy and I are going to cook the maroon-colored cranberry beans when we have a few more of them.

I’m also saving some morning glory seeds, which are the tiny black ones.

If you follow the news, it seems there are few things worth saving anymore.  I see it especially when I go to my local library looking for a book that is more than 20 years old.  The shelves are packed with authors I’ve never read, pulp writers whose last names begin, appropriately, with “P” sounds.  I was fortunate to find an old copy of Arundel by Kenneth Roberts, shunned off to the side of the “P” pot; um, I mean shelf.  But I won’t get all Spengler today.  I’ll save my seeds, arrange them on my orderly checked tablecloth and create my own world of flowers next spring.

Roberts’ Arundel narrator writes in the prologue “the truth is I love the place; and if I seem to talk overmuch of it, it is because I would like those who read about it to see it as I saw it, and know the sweet smell of it and to love it as I do.”

Yes, for those reasons I write overmuch about the garden, so you might see it as I see it and love it as I do, even in its seasonal decline.

Handy says we’re having shepherd’s pie tonight made with some last ears of summer corn and newly dug potatoes.  These are our indulgences in this season of decline.

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The Crimson and the Gold

On Friday, I indulged myself in the purchase of a very small parcel of land that runs along Baumer’s Field.  In reading the warranty deed, I noticed it mentioned my paternal grandfather three times, particularly “along land of said Leo Baumer…”

Reading warranty deeds is much like reading old newspapers on microfilm.  It’s tedious and occasionally surprising.

The crimson, green, and gold trees that you see in this picture are my indulgence.

indulgence

The temperature here in the house has been hovering consistently at sixty-one degrees for the last week.  It’s time to bring out the old 49er, as I would like to wait a few more weeks before I indulge in the heat of the furnace.

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The Aging of Aquarius

A “story” came out a few days ago stating NASA “changed” the signs of the zodiac.  It’s a difficult story to “fact check” without Lester Holt sitting by my side.  (Lester was a Pisces, but now he’s an Aquarius, for what it’s worth.)  My “Bing” searches kept taking me to various Huffington Post blogs and then to a NASA children’s page.

I hadn’t thought about the zodiac much until the story showed up in a news feed.  The local paper still runs a daily horoscope using the “old school” zodiac, without the 13th sign.  I don’t read it because I don’t believe in astrology.  The zodiac revelation caused me to think about other astrologically-inclined people I knew, like my Aunt Dot.  She lived her entire life thinking she was a Sagittarius; according to the “new” zodiac, she was born under the sign of Ophiuchus.

It also made me think about that song “Aquarius” which I am embarrassed to admit I can pretty much sing from beginning to end without looking at the lyrics.  We sang it in 7th grade chorus, I think.  The timeline seems about right.  What silly lyrics:

“Harmony and understanding,
Sympathy and trust abounding.
No more falsehoods or derision,
Golden living dreams of visions,
Mystic crystal revelation
And the mind’s true liberation…”

I wonder what my 7th grade mind made of all that bird food.

for-the-birds

We had baked pork chops, late garden string beans, and potatoes from a friend’s garden last night.  Then we sat on the screen porch, noting it was dark by 7:00 p.m.  The acorns hitting the garage roof were especially loud.  We didn’t have any mystic crystal revelations and we decided we’ll need some blankets if we sit out on the screen porch from now on.

Handy, like Lester Holt, is now an Aquarius, too.

Sing along.

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In the Light of Day

Sunday after church, Handy and I went to pick up a piece of furniture I bought at an estate sale on Saturday.  It ended up being 5 pieces of furniture, actually, and once we were finished moving everything into the house, there was a lot more moving around.

Handy left and I moved things around a little bit more.  I’m not sure I like the new living room arrangement.

It was a weekend jam-packed with activity, including a fundraiser on Friday night and a harvest supper at the West Minot Grange on Saturday night.

in-the-light-of-dayThings will be clearer in the light of day.

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The Threads of Time

In the last few weeks, I’ve mentioned the feature I was writing on Museum L/A’s latest exhibition “Covering the Nation:  The Art of the Bates Bedspread.”  I interviewed the guest curator and the museum’s executive director; both of them provided me with a lot of information and a lot to think about as I was preparing my draft (which DID get to the editor at the promised day and time…phew!)

Although the exhibit focuses on only one of the products Bates Manufacturing created, the guest curator explained that the company actually produced “everything to do with beds” and bedrooms.

Sheets, mattress covers, blankets.  Oh, and curtains and tablecloths and napkins.  Innovators of the Jacquard looming process, Bates “did everything from the plainest…sheeting to the complex.  Like the matelassé bedspreads” guest curator Jacqueline Field told me.

Thinking about what a giant industrial powerhouse the mill had been, I interviewed my mother, hoping she would share a recollection of adding a bedspread to her wedding trousseau or buying a damask tablecloth at the local “company store” as a bridal shower gift for a friend.

She did not have such a recollection.

I was surprised, because I remembered the white summer Bates coverlet on my parents’ bed growing up.  It was cut down into a tablecloth at some point and then into pillow shams.  True to what Field had told me, no one ever threw out textiles back in “those days.”

I still have the pillow shams.

What my mother did tell me was it had been my Aunt Anna (Tante Anna) who had influenced her own decorating tastes when she (Helen) had been a fledgling housewife.  Then she said “Anna worked in the office at Bates before she got married.  I think that’s why she liked their products so much.”

That was some new information.  I picked up that thread and zipped out an e-mail to two of my cousins, asking them if they remembered their mother talking about her job at Bates.  Oddly enough, only one of my cousins affirmed that their mother had worked there while the other cousin refuted it.  Both reminded me, however ironically, that they had grown up on “Bates Street” in Lisbon Falls.

So what was the truth?  Had Tante Anna worked in the office of Bates Manufacturing prior to her marriage or had she not?

Both cousins did confirm “she certainly loved those Bates bedspreads.”  One cousin said “I think she had one for every bed in the house.”

I suppose I could interview Uncle Bob and maybe Aunt Rita, but as it turned out, I did not use that particular “angle” for my story.  I think I will do more research about Bates Manufacturing and their amazing output of beautiful and useful things.  They made practical cotton goods for every day as well as lovely things for high days and holidays.

This is not a Bates tablecloth.

preparing-order

Another stylish aunt left it behind when she died and it ended up with me.  Although blue is not the best match for my dining area, I love the order of the checks.  The dining table looks naked when it wears another cloth.

Bates Manufacturing promoted many of their higher-end bedspreads and woven goods with the slogan “loomed to be heirloomed” and it’s proven to be true by the vast number of vintage spreads that still exist.  Sadly, weaving through the threads of time and finding the truth in the midst of foggy memories is a little more difficult than finding a pristine “George Washington” on Ebay.

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The Last of the Glads

What’s your favorite procrastination technique?

Surely, you’re not one of those people who never indulge in the dreaded habit?  Congratulations if you are.  Me, I’ll do any other productive thing to avoid something daunting.  I’ll balance my checkbook to the penny, pay all my bills, scrub the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, and then weed the last blade of grass from the garden.

Fortunately, when the gladiolus are gone, I’ll have at least a month before the ground freezes and I dig up the corms from which they grew.

the-last-glad

No need to procrastinate digging them up today or use the task as a foil for something else.

My property taxes are paid and I’m writing out a check for the sewer bill.  There’s not much left to do before digging in to the ever more daunting task I’ve been doing in my head for two weeks.

Certain weather uncertainty arrived this weekend, with Sunday starting out dark and drizzly but then clearing off.  It was quiet on my street with the occasional interruption of a breeze trying to sweep out the muggy afternoon air.

It was a perfect afternoon for doing dauntless tasks like paying bills, balancing checkbooks, and thinking about next year’s garden.

No more interruptions.

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