Shoes, Bags, Hats

Last week, I turned over the final month on my 2014 calendar. Finished. Done. Goodbye.  But this was no ordinary calendar.  Each month held a picture of one item—shoe, bag, hat—from the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The pictures are “embellished” reproductions including January’s evening shoe, designed by Roger Vivier in 1992, a gold-colored pump by Mabel Julianelli (1950’s) for May, a Brazilian evening clutch in silk, glass, pearls and rhinestones (1944) for August, a Madame Alphonsine straw hat with pink silk roses (1910) for October. It's gorgeous, with raised panels of color and beads around the edges of purses and on the vamps of shoes, with ribbons and paper flowers on hats.  Every month I turned my calendar to a new page and gazed with delight at the latest bag or shoe or hat to appear.  And it's particularly funny because my own shoes are all sensible, my purse is practical, my hats are to keep my head warm.  Still, I drool with envy at these works of art.

That’s not the reason this calendar is so special. This calendar was given to me on the occasion of my retirement at the end of the summer a year-and-a-half ago by a colleague of mine who had retired a year ahead of me. Diane, a school counselor, was a beautiful, stylish woman who was also incredibly kind and thoughtful.  By thoughtful, I mean both considerate and insightful. When we were both still working, she would drop by my office and ask how I was doing.  If I was down, she would share a positive comment from a student that brightened up my day. She always knew the exact right thing to say. Everybody thought so.

At my retirement party, we laughed together and talked about the future.  I welcomed her gift and thanked her.  We promised that we would get together, have lunch, talk about “life after work”.  But September and October and most of November went by and we didn't. Then it was Thanksgiving and then Christmas. I looked at my calendar in its box and thought how nice it would be to get it out at the beginning of 2014 and to call Diane and invite her to lunch and thank her again. Then, between Christmas and New Year's, I got the call. Another colleague had heard from Diane’s husband. When getting off the train after a Christmas visit to her daughter's in Chicago, Diane had experienced a severe headache and loss of muscle control. Her husband rushed her to the hospital, but she was gone. Stroke at age 78. She left behind a husband, a daughter and son-in-law, and three grandchildren, one of whom was a small baby she had met for the first time at Christmas. We were all, of course, shocked. Such a vital, interesting woman.  What a shame, what a loss.

Usually when a new year begins, I immediately set out the calendars.  After Diane's death, I put off opening her calendar. I’m not sure why. It was towards the end of January before I broke the seal and turned the page to the first month. There was the Roger Vivier evening shoe—gold stiletto, open heel, strap on the instep, open toe, with a pouf on the vamp and sparkles at the end of each filament of the pouf.  It included a history of the shoe—maker, date made, date given, materials, that sort of thing. I looked at that calendar page a long time. It was an amazing calendar; I had never seen one like it. I thought how very odd it felt to be finally opening this gift that Diane would never get to see or to hear me talk about.  How ironic, I suppose, that she was gone before I even opened it. Every month, I turned the page to a new picture of a new shoe, bag or hat. Every month I read the history of this artistic representation of a fashion accessory. Every month I thought of Diane and thanked her for the gift. Of course, I always wondered why she had chosen that for me. At some point, perhaps September, I realized something I should have known much earlier. She didn’t pick it because it was my style; it was more her style. She chose it because she liked it, and she hoped I would like it, too. I wish I could have said how much I liked the calendar.  I wish I could have said how it made me think of things I hadn’t considered before, like fashion as artistic expression. And I wish that I had called Diane to say, “Let’s go to lunch.” 

Now, as I close the book on 2014, I realize she has been gone a year. I think that year must have been very hard for her family and her close friends. And I think that maybe I’ll keep the calendar on my desk and turn through it to look at the shoes, bags, and hats one more time.  The dates will be wrong, but who cares?  Diane would laugh at me, and that would be just fine.

It’s Never Easy

I lost my wallet a couple of weeks ago. I know, it’s not unusual. It’s happened to everyone, I can join the crowd. But where I found it, now that’s unusual.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday my neighbor and I walk. We meet at 8 a.m. and drive either to the park when the weather is nice or, when it’s not, to a local college at which I used to teach. As Wednesday was a not-so-nice day, we planned to walk inside. I carried my water bottle and my cheese stick to the car. I cleared the debris from the front seat—not much, just a couple of small items, a cloth grocery bag, and the GPS that perches on the dashboard—then, drove us up to the college. We parked, I locked my purse in the trunk, and we walked into the building—talking, of course, because that’s what we do.

We dropped off our coats with the secretary in the office and we headed off. About 25 steps into our walk, I slipped my hands into my sweatshirt pockets to make sure I had the three things I routinely carry: car keys, cell phone and my small, dark gray soft leather wallet with ID and insurance card and house key. Jeans right pocket—car keys;  sweatshirt right pocket—cell phone; sweatshirt left pocket—hmm, no wallet; jeans left pocket—still no wallet. Odd, I thought.  I must have left it in my purse, which was, at that moment, locked in the trunk.  I mentioned it to my walking partner, and she agreed that must be where it was. “Unless,” she said, “You left it in your coat.” I agreed, that could be where it was.

We walked without incident, our usual almost-a-mile, and headed back to get our coats. We retrieved them, and I checked the pockets. No wallet. I was not worried because I was sure it was in my purse in the trunk. When we got to the car, I fetched my purse out of the trunk and checked. No wallet. Hmm. Maybe it was in a different section. I always put it in the front, but maybe in my haste this morning, I did something different. Not front section, not back section, not anywhere in my purse. “Oh,” said my neighbor, “It’s probably in the coat you wore yesterday.” I agreed, but I was pretty sure I’d worn the same coat yesterday.

At home, I checked my coat pockets—the green windbreaker, the navy rain jacket, the blue fleece, the pink fitness jacket—all of them. I went into the laundry hamper and checked my jeans. I told my husband about it and he helped me look. “When do you remember last having it?” he asked (and, yes, I’d already asked myself that question). I remember having it two days earlier when we walked, but that was the last time I was sure of. I’d taken my driver’s license out in the past couple of days because somebody wanted to see ID, but I couldn’t remember where that was. He couldn’t remember either, and I was pretty sure I’d been with him because we had been together most of Tuesday. (Retirement is such a trip.) I checked the pockets again. I went through my purse again. I looked on the counter under some mail. I called the secretary at school in the faint hope it had fallen on the floor. Nope, she didn’t see it. 

Where in the heck was it? I could feel my heart rate speed up. I decided to retrace my steps. I got in my car and drove back up to the college . Nothing in the parking lot. Nothing in the entry. Nothing in the elevator (Yes, elevator. I’m old. I walk down the stairs, not up.) I double-checked the office, then made my way to other offices in the building.

 Everyone commiserated with me.  “Ohh, did you check your pockets?  Did you look in your car?  Did you check way under the seats?”  Yes, sort of, not really. One suggestion was that I go to Campus Safety and see if anyone had turned it in. So I headed there.

On my way, I got a call on my cell phone from my husband. “You took your ID out when we voted yesterday. I just remembered.” Ding! That narrowed it down. “Maybe you’ll need to go to the polling place and ask them.” Yes, I thought I might have to do that. And I might have to go to the Secretary of State’s office and get a new license today, and I might have to call about my insurance card. And I might have to change the locks on my house because if you lose your house key with a wallet that’s got your address in it, well, I guess you’d be foolish not to change them. ARRGH!!

Meanwhile, I drove to campus safety, which is in a separate building about 100 feet away. Once I parked, I thought of the advice about checking my car. The car is pretty clean, but maybe the wallet slipped out of my pocket as I drove, or even as I rode in the passenger seat yesterday. I once lost my office keys under the seat when they became detached from the rest of the set.

 

So I parked and checked both the front driver’s seat side and then the front passenger side. I found a gum wrapper, a pre-packaged filter with coffee in it (don’t ask), a silicone packet to absorb moisture, and a receipt from the grocery store. No wallet. In the back passenger side, I found absolutely nothing, just a floor mat with nothing under it. Working my way around the car, I came to the back left. I picked up a winter hat that was on the floor. Nothing under that. On the seat were the hardware store receipt and the small purchases. I lifted them. Nothing. I reached for the GPS which I had folded down and placed on the dark cloth bag on the seat. From under the corner of the GPS, I saw a gleam—my house key. I picked up the GPS, and attached to the sticky underside, there was my missing wallet.

Relief flooded me. Apparently, I had taken it out of my purse that morning,and carried it with my water bottle and cheese stick to the car. When I moved the junk from the front seat to the back, I’d had that wallet in my hand and when I folded down the GPS, I managed to stick the wallet to its underside. In my early morning stupor, I simply plunked the whole thing down in the back, and that’s where it rested until retrieved.

So the sum total of the morning after election day: I spent one hour walking and a second hour searching for a lost wallet. I know what is and what is not in the pockets of each of my coats. I received appropriate commiseration and advice from a variety of people. And it seems that the finding of my lost wallet brightened up the day of at least four people, as they could laugh at my misadventure.

And if I ever want to hide something small in the car, I know where I’ll put it.

Yoga and Me

Yoga and Me 

Yoga is fun.

Yoga is soothing and restful. 

Yoga is graceful.

Yoga is . . . .  I don’t know what to say.  Four weeks ago, at age 64, I started my very first yoga class ever. I’ve heard so much about yoga. I know people who RAVE about what it can do for you. So I was prepared to be wowed. And right now I don’t know how I feel about it. I can tell you what it is NOT.

Fun—I had to cross that out because fun is something that makes me laugh and cheer and want to do it more, like eating ice cream or watching funny movies or going to lunch with my friends. Yoga is fun if I define fun as twisting myself into pretzel shapes, sticking my fanny in the air (a move called ‘downward dog’), and finding that I really cannot stand on one foot (‘crane pose’). At all. If I can include pain in my limbs, heavy breathing from holding my weight on my arms, and sudden, dramatic hot flashes in my definition of fun, maybe it’s working as fun. Umm, no. And yet I admit that I keep going back, that I try to do the moves between classes, and that I look forward to the class. Hmm.

Soothing and restful—I crossed that one out because even though we breathe in and out slowly, I find I can’t breathe that slow. So I’m always off breath from the instructor. When she is saying, “And on your exhale, bring your arms down, palms together in front of you,” I am already on my second inhale. So do I do a quick inhale and exhale so I am in step? Or do I inhale as I bring my arms down, thus negating the positive effects of the deeeep breathing that is so much a part of yoga? And I really really really can’t make all the moves she makes. So I’m finding it a tad stressful because ‘pigeon pose’ causes pain in my hip, and I can never roll up to rest on my shin with my hand stretching to the sky. To be fair, my instructor offers all of these moves as “suggestions,” and she suggests other poses for those of us who cannot do these. She does turn the lights down, and she speaks softly and slowly and keeps encouraging us to breathe in and out. At the end of each session, I stretch out as she suggests, feel the aches and muscles I did not know I had. I rest to the point that I’m not sure I can rise.  So perhaps that qualifies as restful.  Let me think about that.

Graceful—hahahahaha! Okay, give me a second. I’ll admit I’ve seen some graceful moves among yoga participants, but none of them was mine. I have a dream of grace, but I’m never even close. When we move from hands-and-knees to one knee forward and then to something called “threading the needle”, which is putting your right arm between your forward knee and your left arm, so that you come to rest on your shoulder with your backside in the air, I tip over. I mean, I tip right over. When I try the ‘crane pose’, standing on one foot with the other at the inside of my knee, I tip over. When I lie on my back and stretch my left leg up toward the ceiling, then my right leg up toward the ceiling, then lift my shoulders and arms toward the ceiling, so that I am  “balanced” on my gluteus maximus, I tip over—then, I collapse. And I laugh.  Because what else can you do? And my instructor laughs and says, “And that’s another way you can do it.” I guess that takes me back to ‘fun’.

So what is yoga? It’s a set of stretches and moves that are a little beyond my ability. I’m not 35 any more (Or even 45.  Or even. . .enough.). “Fun” is too strong a term, but I like going.  “Soothing and restful”—only if that means I come home exhausted but calm and ready to sleep. “Graceful” is only an idea, a dream. But I’m allowed to dream. Someday, maybe I’ll get almost graceful. Right now, yoga is hard work.

Oh No! I've been tagged. Or. Meet My Character Blog Tour

I was asked to participate in the "Meet My Character Blog Tour" by my friend, Martha J. Allard, whose blog is marthajallard.blogspot.com.  If you go to her blog, you can read about her character and her forthcoming book, the Black Light.

The idea of this blog tour is to introduce a character from a recently completed piece or a work-in-progress. The following questions were part of the challenge:

•    What is your character's name?
•    Is your character a fictional or historical person?
•    When and where is the story set?
•     What should we know about him/her?
•     What is the main conflict/ what messes up his/her life?
•     What is the personal goal of the character?
•     Is there a working title for the book and where can we read more about it?
•     When can we expect it to be published?

As the author, I can answer these questions.  But since this is called "Meet the Character", I thought maybe you'd rather hear from her directly.  So I've adjusted the questions somewhat. 

Hi.  What is your name?

Hi, my name is Katey Millman and I'm ten years old. Actually, it’s Katherine, but nobody calls me that. My family calls me "Midget" because I'm the youngest and the shortest.

Are you a fictional or a historical character?

 Well, I'm not sure what that means.  Once my story is written, I guess I'm as real as a fictional character can be. I read a lot, you know. I just finished "A Wrinkle in Time".  Historical?  Well, if you mean someone from long ago who everyone would know, like President Abraham Lincoln or Queen Elizabeth I, no, I'm not famous.  I guess I'm just a regular person.

Where and when is the story set?

My story starts in 1969 just after I turned 10. The Beatles are still popular. A man just walked on the moon. There's a war going on over in Vietnam. So I guess that's history, depending on where you are. I live in a medium-sized city in Michigan with my mom and dad and my sister and--

Wait, that's the next question.  What should we know about you?

Oh, sorry.  I live with my mom and my dad and one sister and three brothers.  My sister Kristina is the oldest--she's seventeen.  Then, Jason is 15, and the twins, Dougie and Denny, are 11 1/2.  I'm the youngest.  I just this summer turned 10.  "Double digits", like my dad says. We're pretty normal in my family, mostly just like everyone else around us.  My dad works in an office, and my mom is a housewife.  Even though she said she wants to be considered a domestic engineer because she has to keep our train on the tracks.  Pretty funny, huh.  But lately, weird stuff has been going on.  Everybody is a little tense, and there's been some yelling.  I don't really know why. They all think I'm still a kid and so they don't tell me anything. But I know one thing--if you just keep your mouth shut and your ears open, you learn stuff.

What is the main conflict/what messes up your life?

Conflict? Like fighting, you mean.  It's Mom and Kristina. Always. Jason goes to swim practice--he's on the sophomore team. That's what he does. Dougie and Denny are just goofballs--they get in trouble sometimes. Like every other week they are grounded for a couple of hours, but mostly the conflict is Mom and Kristina. Hair and clothes and her friends and curfew. I try to talk to them both 'cause I hate it when they fight, but they tell me to hush up and go away. Kristina used to play with me and read to me and take me with her, but that's changed, too. 

The story starts with this:  "I remember the day my sister left us."

It's funny how one change makes everything change.  Like dominoes. I guess that's the story.  I guess that's what messes up my life.

What is your personal goal?

Hmm.  I guess I'd say at the beginning of the story it was to grow up to be just like my sister.  Only then it all changed and I have to find my own way. It’s confusing.  And hard.

Is there a working title of the book?

Right now, it's called Running.  When it's done, it may change.

When can we expect it to be published?

Ha ha!  First, it has to get written.  It's only half done, so it could be a little while.

You've met Katey as she is at the beginning of the book--in 1969 when she is 10 years old. Things will happen to her and to her family over the next few years, things she can't predict or understand.  But when you read the book, it should all make sense—both to you as a reader and to Katey.

*********************************

The guidelines suggest we tag five friends to participate in “Meet My Character”.  Unfortunately, I only know three:  Trilby Plants, Chris Dungey, and Ashley Jeffers.  So I pass this on to each of them.  Tell us about your character.

Trilby Plants http://trilbyplants.com has written several short stories and books for adults and recently has moved into the world of children's literature with two books, Hubert Little's Big Adventure and most recently, Meena Mouse's Perfect Raspberry.  She is the president of the South Carolina Writer's Workshop and the editor of Petigru Review.

Chris Dungey <>  is the author of numerous published poems and short stories.  His most recent book, Pace-Lap Blues and Other Tales from the Seventies, features stories about Hector Fritsch, a man just trying to get along and make some sense of his life.

Ashley Jeffers http://ashleyrjeffers.wordpress.com is a writer of fantasy and paranormal romance. She recently published Blood of the Immortal and is working on the sequel.

 

Cataloging My Books

After you retire, friends you run into congratulate you and inevitably ask what you do with your time. I've got half-a-dozen snappy comebacks, including "napping," "watching the snow pile up", and "whatever I want,"-- all of which are snappy and also true. But there's one thing I don't mention to most people. Are you ready for this? I've been cataloging my books—you know, making lists of them like the old-fashioned card catalogs, only not on those separate little cards but in an Excel spreadsheet on my computer. Yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing with a large chunk of my time lately.

 

Here's how it came about.

 

When I retired a few months ago, I cleaned out my office (including notes, cards, calendars, pictures my granddaughters made, candy dishes, three coffee cups, two lamps, several small tools, personal items, my union handbook, copies of records I thought I might need, articles I'd been planning to read, and a few miscellaneous items) and tossed everything into several boxes. 

Then I got to the books. Now I don't know if you are aware of this, but college professors, especially college English professors, tend to accumulate books. And if we teach any literature classes, especially children's or young adult literature or poetry, we can gather a pretty sizable collection.  So I sorted through the books that belonged to the college and left them on two shelves for my successor, and I brought home the books that were from my own collection.  That amounted to about five boxes full of books. One by one I brought the boxes--miscellaneous stuff and books--into the house. Of course, I could have had had help carrying the boxes in. My handsome and good-natured husband is always ready to lend a hand. He did, in fact, help me with the heaviest of the boxes. But I did a lot myself. I hate to  bother him, you know? I mean, I can lift a few boxes, you know? And it took several trips from school, and he was sometimes busy when I want to move things, you know? Oh, all right. The truth is that I didn't really want him to realize how many boxes I was bringing into our home. My office upstairs was already packed to the gills, as was his downstairs.  So I brought them in and piled them up, and then it was a fait accompli. Kind of. 

The problem, as I suggested earlier, was that I also have a lot, lot, LOT of books at home, many in my office, along with file cabinets of materials I have gathered and kept over a lifetime of writing and research.  Add to the mix books my dad bought me at garage sales because he thought they were old and valuable, papers and books and memorabilia inherited from each of my parents when they died (Dad, 7 years ago; Mom, 2), and you have the perfect storm of stuff. 

So I did the logical thing; I closed the door. I avoided going into the office. But my computer was there, and while I can do email and Facebook on my iPad, printing, typing, and keeping track of my checkbook were better done with the desktop computer. Every few days I would walk into the home office and step over boxes to reach the computer. I had to move them to get into the closet. Once, I walked into the office without turning on the light and ran right into a tower of cardboard boxes that I had forgotten I moved.

After a few months of this awkward dance, I decided I better get busy and do something.  I began with sorting stuff in file drawers, the theory being that if you empty a file drawer, you have room to fill it with something else. Which I did. I also got some plastic containers to house the memorabilia from Mom and Dad. That went to the basement. 

Then I had to tackle the books. It's not as easy as moving them from boxes onto shelves.  There were no more shelves. I am a book hoarder, and all the shelves and all the wall space for shelves was full. Even though I know that some of the books had to go, I wasn't sure how to do it. I can't just put  books into the trash. If I knew they would go to a good home, it might be easier. So I had to do a little research to discover where I could dispose of my books.

Donate to a library sale? Good idea.  I read the website for the Friends of the Library sale.  They would love to have books, but NO TEXTBOOKS.  While my books are not your average K-12 readers and social studies tomes, many of them are books I used in grad school.  Nope, Friends of library won't want  those.

Donate to a college library? Cool. I called the school I just retired from and asked if they might like my collection of teaching materials and graduate school texts. Well, maybe or maybe not. They are downsizing and going to electronically stored and retrieved materials. Plus they really want more current things than stuff from 1996. We'll see.

Sell at the secondhand bookshop? They have a complicated system in which they take your books, fiction, and provide store credit so you can get more books. Like I need more books.  I could just give them the books and not take any new ones home.  I tried that, but ended up with four used paperback mysteries. I'm obviously no good at this. 

Sell them on e-bay, someone suggested. Some of the stuff my dad collected might be of interest to an antiquarian book purchaser. Well, I know a little about computers, but in terms of online commerce, I only understand how to BUY, not how to sell. 

Finally, I remembered my motto: one size does not fit all. Or in this case, one approach doesn't work for everything. So I decided that before I can really get a handle on what to do with this stuff, I better see what I actually have. This is the current plan. Every day I try to spend a little time dusting and sorting the books.  I'm making a catalog, a list of the books I own. On my spreadsheet, I type the author, the title, the publisher, the date of publication, the category of the book. In doing this, I learn what I have, I remember some of the things I read and some of the things I learned in my reading and writing. I recognize again the giants who influenced my thinking. And I am surprised at how many years have passed since each book was published. I also find things I meant to read and never got to.  Some of these I will eventually read, and some I will let go. Some of my favorites I will eventually let go as well.  But first I have to touch them again and take this trip down memory lane. So I am cataloging my books. It's the first step to letting go.

On Football

Today is the big day in  Michigan--the Michigan vs. Michigan State football game.  I'm excited.  I like football.  That may seem odd, considering that I am philosophically opposed to violence and that I play no sports myself.  But I actually understand the game (sort of) and I love to watch them run and dodge tacklers. And when the quarterback throws the ball and the receiver catches it--wow, I am psyched.  I cheer, I jump up.  Yeah, I'm that kind of fan.  I especially love it when my team wins.  However, that makes today a tad bit difficult for me.  I never know quite who to root for on this game.  See, I actually attended both schools and have degrees from each of them.  And I worked for each of them.  I have a t-shirt that's half blue Michigan and half green State.  So how shall I decide who gets my football loyalty?  For this game, maybe I don't have to decide.  No matter who wins, my team wins.  Cool.  I'm gonna have a great day.

On Blogging

So I've been thinking about blogging.  I've just gotten started with this genre of writing and, of course, I have discovered that the technology is a hang-up for me.  Honestly, I'm surprised by this.  I know. At my age, I should expect that I don't know everything about technology.  For a long time, I kept up.  I had my first email account when they were still working with a C prompt and 8 digit file names (1992, I think).  I did grad work on writing and technology.  I actually published a couple of articles about using technology in writing classrooms.  But technology has moved on, and I just spent a good chunk of time trying to figure out how to make the technology side of this work.  I'm not sure I'm there yet. 

The other side of blogging is the actual writing aspect.  What does one put in a blog?  Someone told me: "Whatever you want."  It's surprising how little that helps me.  I really need to know what other people are doing with blogs.  Maybe so I can do the same thing.  At least for a while.  Or maybe so I'll know what boundaries to push.  Yeah, I'm a boundary-pusher.  But I'm a stealth boundary-pusher.  So don't let it get around.  It seems to me that the point of a blog--right now, right here, for me--is to try out some writing and to see what happens.  That's good enough for now.  Now if only I could get the technology to cooperate.