LOFT LIFE: Tablets Talk

I admit it. Having an IPad sucks up your whole life. That is simply because almost everything you do in your life is there: pictures, music, emails, SKYPE, FB, Internet radio, magazines, books on Kindle, books on Nook, books on IBooks, books on Ebooks, and more books, notes, reminders, ABC TV, Fox News, CNN (if anyone actually watches that anymore), banking, and really any sites you need from stocks to recipes, Talking Tom (hey, if you haven’t tried it, don’t knock it), games (Angry Birds, Words with Friends (a must have; I mean, if Alec Baldwin thinks this is worth getting arrested and thrown off a plane for, it must be good, right?), Bejeweled, Pop It, Solitaire--well, you get it), and now, last, but so newly discovered, certainly, not least--Podcasts.

I am crazy about Podcasts. I had a radio show once upon a time, and that was what solidified my romance with radio. As I have already told you (see A pause for the comma, July 2010--and by the way, this one was too good to have NO comments, so do it!), I am an audio kind of gal.

Not only am I smitten with listening to Podcasts, I am beginning to realize this is the venue for my getting both my column and blog to the greater public. I am a natural podcaster. 

Okay, true, first I have to learn a lot about what to do, how to do it, how much it costs, where to host it, how to market it, etc. But, hey, since this is the new frontier, that should be fun too. And, there are scads of podcasts about podcasting, of course.

Through podcasts I have also found other writers, other podcasters, who are becoming friends as as well.

If you haven’t entered the world of podcasts, I highly encourage you to do so. 

Some of my favorites so far are:

The History Chicks; I should be writing; Car Talk; Podcast Answer Man; Imus in the Morning; Laura Ingraham; Joel Osteen; Joyce Meyer; 1 Year Daily Audio Bible; and Stuff You Should Know. Most of these are free. A couple of them are paid. Imus’ podcast subscription fees go completely to his Kids with Cancer ranch, so that is a good cause, as far as I’m concerned.

I hope to learn how to podcast quickly and then will call on y’all to subscribe (free) to my podcasts. Until then, why not think about something you are passionate about and join the ranks of us who have it in us to share something good with those we know, those we don’t yet know, and those who just care about what we care about.

Suffice to say, my IPad will continue to take up a lot of my time. But, then it is also allowing me to make my time a lot more fun, and maybe even more productive.

LOFT LIFE: Sippers and Chuggers

I think I probably started out as a sipper, on one of many brewery and beer tasting trips we have taken, like the one in Boston where we discovered Brew Moon and were served those little compartmentalized racks of beer sampling glasses and I discovered that I do not, indeed, hate beer. I just hate that lite stuff, and those insipid lagers with no substance and generic flavor.

At Brew Moon I discovered you could squeeze lime, lemon, or orange into a beer and get a magnificent zest, that there are red beers with spicy, rich flavor, that the dark brews have a deep, lusty taste, and that there are a host of beer categories, none of which are insipid, watery, tasteless beverages.

But, it was on our visit to Boston’s Sam Adams brewery that I learned I had moved from sipper to chugger, when we were in the tasting room, listening to the tour guide narrate our tasting experience, and announcing to the entire, rather crowded, room that some people sip, and then some, like that lady in the back of the room (me), are chuggers.

I guess I can’t help myself. I try to drink my brews slowly, and maybe it’s still the wonder I feel that had I not tasted that first microbrew variety, I would still think beer is that stuff at baseball games that tastes like colored, bitter-dull watery stuff.

It was kind of the same discovery route to wine for me. Jay and I had only bought wines with screw top caps or that stuff in boxes, and I always got a headache from those; they didn’t taste good enough to endure headaches.

Then I became a food critic, and as part of the Southern California Restaurant Writers Association, we were wined and fed in style monthly at a fine dining establishment, where we learned about pairing. At these pairing meals, they brought out the good stuff, and I discovered, like with beer, that there are more wines than grapes, and that the wineries that produce them, pride themselves on creating taste experiences that are so memorable you want to write down the names of the labels and re-visit their nectars on some special occasion, or just whenever you need to celebrate life.

My first malalactically fermented chardonnay was from one of the Kendall Jackson's Reserve collections (if I remember correctly). It was described, for instance, as buttery. Buttery it was, a Select version of the white grape that I thought about for months after my sample.

I was so astounded by the experience, and how much it enhanced the food, that I asked my editor if I could write a feature about Wine 101, for the newbie, such as I. She agreed and I interviewed a vintner at the Robert Mondavi vineyards.

The vintner began explaining about the history of wines, and the four noble grapes. He said they were ancient, and for some reason that caused me to say: “Hmm. Ancient. I wonder which one Jesus used when he turned water into wine at that wedding.”

Without missing a beat, he answered, “I think He had a private label.”

Well, suffice to say, if enjoying wine at a special occasion is good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.  Everything in moderation.  I don’t read anything about beer in Scripture, but, I believe this too should be enjoyed in moderation by any who are not prone to addiction.

I will, however, try to curb the chugging.

LOFT LIFE: And seldom was heard, a discouraging word....

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about life, and how as mine heads toward what we laughingly refer to as the “golden years,” the desire to make sure I’m going to leave a legacy and make a difference presents itself.

It’s not that I have more time on my hands--I do. But, days go quickly, weeks speed by, and the realization is that the time is short to really chalk up the “good works” I wish to do, and often forget to do in my daily hum-drums.

I don’t mean fulfilling some checklist of do’s. I mean feeling good about the end times, which by the way are also on the sooner than later, schedule. It just stands to reason. If the world will end, we are closer to that than we were. And, at the least, my own life is drawing closer to the end time.

So how do I make that difference?

For me it comes down to encouragement. Do you remember the words to “Home on the range?”

“Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play, where seldom is heard, a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day...”

Ah, clouds, I’ve looked at clouds...no, no, that’s another time and place. 

The skies are not cloudy? All day? Have you read the newspaper lately--or looked at the news on television or online, where seldom is heard an encouraging word and the skies are not only cloudy all day, every day, they’re usually more like stormy, as far as the outlook for prosperity and the American Dream look!

So, maybe I won’t amass enough in the IRA to live comfortably. Maybe I won’t even own a house, travel the world, or enjoy a lot of restaurant food. The truth is, I’ve been living very comfortably, so far, I’ve owned two houses, and travelled enough to feel I have had some of that dream realized. As for restaurant food: I was a food critic in California, and they paid me to eat at a different place at least once a week. Then, moving to Connecticut our company paid for us to live in the hotel for 17 months, and also, for most of that time, paid for our meals, because all of our stuff was still in Illinois then. And, I can tell you that eating in restaurants two meals a day for more than a year got old. I still enjoy a great meal at a great eatery, but I will not feel deprived in the least if I don’t get to continue that habit on a regular basis.

But, even if I have not satiated my own desires in these areas, what I find gives me the most fulfillment, even joy, is bringing encouragement to those who are discouraged. We have plenty of discouraging words. Let's take that as a challenge to change the balance with our own efforts to encourage.

I remember telling one of my friends who was discouraged, that it is impossible to be thankful and upset at the same time. She took that to heart, began counting her many blessings, and felt much better. I like giving out hugs now, especially to people I know don’t get a lot of ‘em. And, I like looking for ways to let people know I appreciate them.

In my college days, my friend Nancy greeted me at her door, usually weekly: “Oh, Marjorie! Hello. Come in.” You would have thought I was her long, lost friend she hadn’t seen in years. I felt so wanted, so loved, so appreciated.

These may seem like such simple acts of kindness. And, that’s the point. They are simple, easy to do, and in the process of encouraging others, I feel a lot better myself.

So how about singing yourself a few bars of the old western tune and letting it remind you that the discouraging words you tune into every day in the media can also be tuned out. 

Let’s make a point of tuning in, instead, to our friends, family, acquaintances, people who serve us, even, strangers. Like today, I asked a woman in the checkout line at the store to read a label for me since I forgot my readers. She was delighted to help. I thanked her profusely, and I saw a smile. So easy. I needed something; she felt needed. 

It doesn’t really matter whether you’re talking to someone on the phone, sending an email, remembering to send a card of sympathy or congratulations, or even, thinking of you, or seeing someone in person and greeting them with enthusiasm. They all may just add up to your leaving yourself a wake of goodness and kindness. It makes a difference. 

LOFT LIFE: The eyes are the windows of the soul - Part two

Note: Please read Part one first. This is Part two of my cataract surgery experience:

My anesthesiologist, Susan said, “Do you journal?”

“I’m a writer,” I replied.

“Yes,” said she, “but do you journal? If you do, journal about this experience.”

So here it is:

“I don’t want drugs,” I told Susan. She chatted about that with me, and told me I didn’t have to have the valium. There was just a drug that put me out for a few seconds, long enough for the doc to inject my cheek and numb my eye so that he could perform the surgery. That was fine. I was amazed. Most of my anxiety was about the drugs.

“I don’t need Valium, Susan,” I said. “I have you.” She was so calming.

She was informative, compassionate, empathetic and kind. Oh, and believe it or not, this surgical center belongs to the first doc I had left. I guess his surgical staff is different than the office gals. How’s that for irony?

A surgical tech came around. “I sense some anxiety here,” she said.

I confessed.

“It’s a short surgery,” she comforted.

“Oh it’s not the surgery I don’t like,” I said, turning to Susan. “It’s the drugs; it’s you!” I told Susan, who by now knew me well enough to take the humor. She smiled. So did I. I had told her about my terrible experience with Vicodin.

“I hate Vicodin too,” she confessed. We were buddies.

When the light for the surgery came on, Susan was holding my hand. She did this throughout the surgery.

Suddenly, I calmed in that light. It was a corridor of light, like a large open tunnel with no walls. I knew it was just a surgical light, but it felt so much more--like “the light” you expect passing from earth to heaven, one dimension to another. But, there was no fear.

I assure you I was not drugged. I was completely aware of my doctor and my surroundings, but I really didn’t want to concentrate on those. I wanted more of this transformational, heavenly light.

I heard my doc tell the nurse how much more he liked the new product that allowed him to lift out (I believe it was either the cataract or my lens) better than with the old product. “Hey Jude” sounded from the speakers and my doc sang a few bars. He was cheerful, confident. This was assuring. But, it was the light that brought me peace.

I stared straight into it, glued to it, spellbound. All anxiety had left me. I didn’t cough; I didn’t vomit; I didn’t need the potty. All those worries had been unnecessary.

I didn’t even want to speak or ask questions. I didn’t want this light to end.

I had asked Dr. E. if I had a seven or ten minute cataract. When it was over, he said, “Fifteen.”

The light went out. The patch was taped to my eye. I could rest a moment or so across the room. They didn’t give me the crackers, after I had asked if they were whole grain. I did get the orange juice. :)

It had been two hours, start to finish, of painless, positive energy. Prayers for me, Dr. E., the surgery must have been flowing.

I felt God smile.

Thank you Dr. E. and thank you to the surgical staff.

Maybe there is some hope for the health care of the new millennium--at least as long as there are still doctors like Dr. E. out there.

LOFT LIFE: The eyes are the windows of the soul - Part one

I was extremely stressed about having cataract surgery.  This began with my initial visit to an ophthalmologist for an exam.

I went there three weeks before my appointment to ask my questions and get them out of the way. They couldn’t answer my questions about fees and costs, but indicated they could find out. So, when I arrived for the appointment, I, in my mind, was merely affirming what I had asked before, and expecting that after three weeks they could answer questions like, “How much does a cataract surgery normally cost?”

I asked, “Can you tell me the normal costs for the surgery?” They answered, “No.” I frowned a bit. Then the two back office people got involved.

“You’re not here for surgery, are you?”

“Well, no.”

“Then you don’t need to know that yet. Please go sit down.”

I was stunned. It seemed like a completely different reception than it had prior to this visit. And, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted me to sit down among the other waiting patients.

I kid you not. It wasn’t, “No, but we can find out;” or “No, but here’s a phone number you can call.” It was, “NO!” 

The exam wasn’t much better. The technician was abrupt and unkind in her attitude. The doctor was all-business and also was not open to even a short inter-active conversation. At the end of the exam, he simply said, “Well, do you want it (surgery) or not?” And when I gulped and said, “Yes,” he handed me a card, told me to make an appointment at his surgical center, and that someone would show me a video and answer my questions then.

I left with knots in my stomach. It felt like a cataract mill. Was this what healthcare will be reduced to in the “new world” of Obamacare, where time isn’t being paid for, so patient care isn’t a priority?

After calling my insurance company, they assured me that this was not a treatment I needed to succumb to, and that I should find another doctor.

I did. 

Dr. E.’s office staff was quite different. They are kind, they remember names, and they go beyond answering questions, to, with patients like me, anticipating what I may want to clarify. They seem to think this is about my best interests. That is comforting.

Even so, my apprehension pre-surgery had reached levels where my husband may have used the words, ‘basket case,’ when referring to me in this time period. I am not sure. I have blocked out most of that month.

I admit it. I was rattled. Really, I like doctors, and usually get along with them very well. I am cooperative, if my questions are answered. In fact, I think some of the questioning is more of a defense mechanism, just to keep some control over my body, my life, when placing myself in the hands of a stranger.

I actually have spent decades of my life promoting doctors and hospitals. So it isn’t a fear of the medical community. They even have a term for when your blood pressure elevates at a doc visit. They call it a “white coat” reaction.

 But, that first ophthalmologist’s office opened my cataract-clouded eyes to the horrifying truth that I am aging, and that old people have less and less say over their care, their choices, and their bodies. One of the psychologists I did some writing for said, “Aging isn’t kid stuff!” 

It’s a downhill slide to losing options. And, though caretakers and practitioners mean well (usually), it is no less stressful for the care-receivers who heretofore have been “in charge” of so many things, people and choices.

I know this isn’t big news to most of you. It is just a fact of life everyone faces eventually--if they live long enough. 

But, I sense that health care is changing for the worse in these areas. It is “hurry up” healthcare these days. There are regulations, and paperwork, warnings, and lawsuits, government mandates,  and, oh so many things to slow things down and take the personal care out of the equation. There is a definite feeling that they must move on to the next patient, and really, they must!

Just listening to the rehearsed speeches, as a doctor goes from room to room, about all of the risks, warnings, and side-effects, is enough to convince that this is no longer a patient-doctor relationship of the Marcus Welby ilk. (Us old people still remember Robert Young’s family doctor character). The doc today has a lot on his mind. He’s lost options also.

So in the face of even reasonable questions, when the day is long, and patients are many, and mandates hang over every doc’s head, they can’t always make reasonable time for reasonable questions. 

After several screenings, tests, a pre-op physical, my surgery was scheduled for December. I was not ready, psychologically, but I had to be ready. It had to be done.

I was apprehensive about the anesthesia, the drugs, having my face frozen, losing consciousness, losing control. 

What if I had to go to the bathroom when the surgery started? What if I coughed. (Some kind acquaintance told me they had a friend who coughed and lost his eye.) What if I vomited?

I had a month to ferment these fears. It wasn’t going to be a very relaxing Thanksgiving season.

LOFT LIFE: Feng Shui and Ch'i

Let me start right out apologizing to all of the people who will read into the following some “tone” or disdain for the practice of Feng Shui that are not intended.

But, let me also say that I do not practice these philosophies in the manner in which I am sure I would need to do to be approved. I am not sure if Christians will allow me to embrace an ancient Chinese practice with Eastern spiritual implications. (This is the part where I expect to offend almost everyone.)

That said, I have to tell you that in reading a news article about Feng Shui-ing bathrooms, I was intrigued. Not intrigued enough to buy into this with any kind of ritualistic or spiritual commitment, but intrigued enough to take a look at our loft in a new way.

I may not know which things are tall or circular or even life endangering about my bathroom, or my kitchen, living space, bedroom or any other rooms in our loft, and I may not be paying enough attention to the positive or negative (Ch’i) forces or yings and yangs of my decor, but I am now convinced that some changes are in order.

I know what makes me feel good: green things (plants), soft and vibrant colors, order and cleanliness. I know what things make me feel bad: dust, clutter, drab colors, and decor  that never changes.

So, I have begun my own version of Feng Shui-ing my rooms. 

I started with the kitchen. I cleaned the countertops, put away 30 per cent of the clutter (things sitting there to make readiness and convenience, but not beauty). I lit candles. I like good aromas. I put a pretty glass bowl of fresh fruit in place of a line of empty bowls, finished candles and empty cups. Then I threw away the pads under my teapots, got some fresh, clean ones, and put away food containers, again sitting out for convenience. 

In the bathroom, I disinfected the shower curtain, and I threw away products that were older than a year, emptied out the drawers containing old medications, almost finished tubes of creams and gels, and lit another candle. I placed the flowers on the bathroom table in a more attractive place. I closed the lid cover to the toilet (okay, I yielded to one actual Feng Shui suggestion just to see if the negative forces I have been living with in my many bathrooms, will turn more positive).

In the dining room I discarded the pots of dirt that no longer contain plants, and bought new, living plants, which will remain on the wire table until I kill them. I will eventually kill them. I always do. Unless the Feng Shui works, that is. My Ch’i is awaiting the verdict. 

That is all I have done for now. And, yes, Feng Shui or no, I should have been doing these things all along. So I feel better, happier, cleaner, prettier already--well, my loft does.

It’s winter. Rather than yielding to the doldrums winter usually brings, I am trying to change some of the external cues, as well as my internal ones (my spirit, my heart, my thinking), to let in the light, celebrate the season, refresh the environment, and become more aware of the impact my space has on me, on my husband, and my guests. I’ll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, let me know about your own Feng Shui efforts. I want to know.

LOFT LIFE: Home

We all look forward to vacations--the break, the change of pace, the new, the adventure, the exotic, the quiet time, or whatever it is that this year’s vacation entails.

In Europe they even call this a holiday: holy day. This is a set apart time, a time to savor, a time to restore and refresh.

I always jokingly say that work interrupts my husband’s life, and vacations interrupt mine. I like work. I do work I like. 

But, every year, I am in charge of scheduling, ticket buying, and all of the general planning that go into vacations.

Once, we took a 21-day trip through Texas, following James Michener’s book, Texas. It was one of the most wonderful trips we have ever taken. As we explored Ft. Davis, where the University of Texas observatory is, the director said: “You should stop on your way back home, because we are having a star party.” At the time, our son was really into astronomy, so we responded. “I will have to see where we will be then,” I said. 

“Oh, you’re probably like my wife,” he continued. “You probably have envelopes in your purse with the itinerary and budget for every day. My wife plans like that.”

I reached down into my purse, and said, “You mean these?” as I retrieved my 21 envelopes with the event and cash for each day of our trip. I had to chuckle that I wasn’t the only one over-planning such things.

Twenty-one days was a very long trip for me. I like being away four or five days at a time, and then getting back to work--even though my work can actually be done anywhere. It’s just that the fam doesn’t like to see me working when I am supposed to be relaxing or playing. I find both of those things very difficult.

So when I planned our recent eleven day holiday, including Thanksgiving, to California, with a few days in Las Vegas, I wasn’t concerned about the time, because I had work to do in between the fun. We would have a lovely Thanksgiving with our children and grandchildren, the first in almost 20 years, and that would be so wonderful--and was.

And, we would have a couple of days with our Los Angeles daughter and her husband, before the dreaded Black Friday and the surrounding days of preparation she needed as a retail manager. That meant the Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t going to be on Thursday. but on the Sunday prior to the real day. Retailers’ families accommodate. 

Knowing everybody else would probably be having their normal Thanksgiving plans, and that the youngest would be at her store, the rest of the week, we worked in a few days in Las Vegas, where, someday, are planning to retire.

Well, not really retire, since I don’t believe in that, but where we will start our second or third careers. Namely, Jay will do motorcycle restoration and continue building his adventure bikes and other cool bikes, and he will enjoy the diverse terrain of the desert for rides he has always wanted to do. His journey is being chronicled at blogspot also:  www.milesbeyondordinary.blogspot.com


I will continue writing and doing my networking, and my smaller businesses, and my business coaching and resumes. And, like I said, I can do that anywhere. And, since I hate hot, humid, and Jay hates cold, the desert is a good compromise. I will miss trees,  but, we will be less than five hours from the kids, so that will help.

Our days in Las Vegas were charmed. Our word for it is really that we had “favor.” God seemed to be putting people in our pathway who would guide us to the Real estate we wanted to see, and we already were quite pleased with the church we had found in Northwest Las Vegas. Thanks to Groupon, we also had scheduled other events, like U-Drift for Jay (see attached video), and a pedicure for me, and then we also had the whole four days of meals scheduled and paid for. (I told you I plan ahead!)

It was a wonderful week. We felt more sure that this would be a destination for us in a decade or so.

We returned to California Sunday night, and even though it took us eight hours instead of four (we forgot it was still Thanksgiving weekend for the non-retailers), we had a wonderful time just talking and praying, and dreaming of our new life--someday.

But, that eight hours, and the long transcontinental plane trip back, via Dulles to Bradley, and we were very, very glad to be home.

No matter how much fun a vacation is, there really is, as Dorothy said, “no place like home.”

What I find rather curious though, is how much our bodies seem to relax, recover the day after we return home--a place that only two years ago, wasn’t any more than another vacation place. Home is where your food is, your shower, your towels, your products, your tea pot, your bed, your pillows--your comforts. Even though the time share and hotel pillows were better than ours, and the beds, remarkably were firmer and more rest-producing, they still aren’t the ones we’re used to.

Maybe it’s jet lag, but I don’t think that is all there is to it. Home is safe; home is the place you can get back to normal. Good as vacations are, home is home.

LOFT LIFE: Weathering the storm

During a crisis, there’s always a lot of talk about how people behave. Some people reach out to help, others tuck in and wait, others get angry, some are depressed. Human nature is a fascinating thing to observe, especially in a crisis.

The recent Nor’easter that hit the Northeast, rare in October, wiped out power for more than 700,000 people in Connecticut alone. Other states were hit hard too.

In our apartment complex of about 800 residents, our old manufacturing buildings have central, boiler-room heat, which also supplies our hot water. There is a generator back up, only for emergency lights and the elevator corridors.

We were lucky. In our building there is a library, powered near the elevator, on the generator. In this library, there was still heat and power for light and electricity to charge phones, computers, IPads, IPods and, as we discovered, coffee pots and electric crock pots and griddles.

It’s quite fascinating, as I said to observe how people behave.

As we first wandered down our hallway, we discovered coffee awaiting us, with two lovely families there, providing three pots of the brew. This evolved, over the four days we spent together in the library, into one pot for regular, one for decaf, and one for hot water.

The first day, the coffee pots shared a table with the electronic gadgets, mentioned above, all plugged into power strips in the only two outlets in the room, the power strips also provided by a couple of the residents who had found themselves party to the library gathering. 

By the end of the day, we decided to pull over a second table from the other side of the room, making room for the electronics to have their own table, away from hot water and spills. This redecoration also provided a bigger play area for the children on the other side of the room. We were learning, adjusting, becoming homey.

One of the men was busy making bacon and eggs, and others provided bagels and sweet rolls, and bread, which one of the coffee families informed us could be toasted in their toaster, also now available to all.

By lunchtime Sunday, about 17 hours after the foot of heavy, wet snow had knocked down so many power lines, the clever people in our library had decided their food would spoil if electricity was going to be out for a week, as predicted, so they might as well share.

Dinnertime was a feast. One woman brought in about $50 worth of chicken and steak, and began cooking them on her electric skillet, while she chopped goodies and dished out salsa, sour cream and other ingredients for fajitas. She had thought ahead. Her generosity was dispensed without fanfare or need for applause. She was just being herself. Others brought bacon, brats, hot dogs, and various other meal-hearty foods, with no expectation for return, just sharing.

As new people came in and gathered that Sunday, there were at least a dozen people huddled together, at any given time, enjoying that strangers were becoming friends.

We kind of feared seeing management arrive, because we weren’t sure our electric skillets and coffee pots were allowed. But, we had no worries. Head of maintenance laughed, telling us he knew what was happening because he could see the generator output at his command center. Our general manager and his staff stopped by, actually to encourage us, and to say how pleased he was at our camaraderie. We offered them coffee, sweet rolls and other goodies, and began to realize how blessed we were that they understood and approved.

Families with young children kept them under watch, while they described friends with infants and other family members who didn’t have the luxury of our respite warmth.

By Monday morning, our cold, unlit apartment offered nothing. Coffee was on our minds, and we gathered what food items we could contribute, took our flashlights to the storage room to pick up plates and cups, and our cooler, and headed back down the hallway to the library. There was plenty of snow and ice for the cooler without having to open a freezer.

It was a similar crowd with a few more people, but still amazingly uncrowded, considering that in our building alone, there must be more than 100 people.

Monday was Halloween, and the students in the crowd rigged up a projector and a white board screen for a spooky, family-friendly, DVD. Others brought in bags of candy they had ready, and encouraged the three families present to get their children costumed and ready for tricks or treats, assuring that treats would not be missing, even if power was. The children were ecstatic. The adults felt empowered. Even these little gestures were very important to keep ourselves mentally stable during the long wait for our own places.

 By Tuesday, we had made friends, had begun to network, had shared all of the foodstuff in our refrigerators.

It is curious that others were invited, but were shy, or reluctant, or not willing to be thrown together in a roomful of strangers.

But for those of us who ventured out, we really did establish relationships. I met an entrepreneur who was thrilled to find a writer in her building. We exchanged business cards and promised future work together. 

     

The generous fajita cook has a home-based business we are sure to patronize.

Another woman promised to drive me to the Italian market in Springfield, since you all know I don’t do Interstates. I have wanted to go there for two years. 

One of the women who didn’t respond to the invitation, confessed to me the day after we got power, that she was intrigued by the big hearts of those who shared so much. And after the power came on, we didn’t all go back to our apartments and forget. We now see each other in the hallway and say hi. We know names. There’s a special place in our hearts for these people we shared a room with for almost four days.

And, a week later, while about 60,000 Connecticut people still have no power, our people, mostly the ones who had met in the library, responded to the flyer on the doors for a chili cook-off and football game in the Community Room. We gathered again for a meal, strangely again with our crock pots. It just seemed like a tradition. And, we got to talking about what our next Community Room activity would be. We’re friends now. 

They say that crisis brings out the best and the worst in people. Our new friends in Building 2 library certainly were a tribute to human nature at its best.

LOFT LIFE: Shredding my life away

Our move to Connecticut involved downsizing from 2100 sq. ft. to 1200 sq. ft. with a storage area of about 300 sq. ft. 

This seems to be a growing trend among boomers, so I don’t think we are unusual.

But, do the rest of you feel overwhelmed with the need to discard, dispense, give away, trash and shred the bulk of your life accumulations? It seems like bad stewardship to have spent my life accumulating all of this, and then not to disperse of it intelligently.   

I am becoming a shredder nonpareil. In fact, I am so consumed with un-consuming, I keep the shredder in my living room.

Granted the living room is one third of our 1200 square feet, so unless I want to add it to the dining area, which houses the dining table, buffet, server, chairs, and my 12-foot, regulation-sized, punching bag, or the bedroom, where the large screen TV (which we do not use because we do not subscribe to cable), the bed, the dressers and a chair reside, the living room is really the only place left for the shredder. And, since the living room (really our second bedroom converted to living space) also has our living room couch, chairs, tables and lamps, and our two desks and chairs, this is the natural place for office equipment like a shredder.

Many a day I sit in my living room and shred. I have ten years of banking papers all having to be shredded because in an apartment building with no fireplace (my former means of destroying paper), I can’t chance throwing even one piece of paper away that could contain personal financial information.

I don’t want to do this shredding task. Who does? I am not sure why it is my duty, since all of these papers belong to at least two people. But, I have somehow become the person obsessed with simplifying life, so I do it. I hate it. I feel like the few decades I may have left of life are going to be spent shredding.

When I am not shredding, I am sauntering down the hallway to our storage room to sort through the 400 boxes for something I need, wish to see again, or to give away.

 The boxes are all marked “basement” because all Realtors these days are obsessed with “de-cluttering” other people’s homes in the supposed effort to achieve a quick sale.  Never mind the housing market is in a gutter that no amount of de-cluttering will correct. 

And, never mind that removing all laundry supplies from the laundry room, and having no evidence of life existing in the home, or any personal activity whatsoever, is a major inconvenience. 

What they don’t realize is that when moving day comes, ALL of your belongings are now neatly stored in the basement. So ALL of the 400 boxes now contain your entire life in them and all get marked: basement.

Three years later my storage room contains 400 boxes marked basement. I can find nothing without going through every single box until it does or does not appear.

Like my muffin pan. Since it was not in a box marked “kitchen,” I have now, three years from the move, finally come upon it in my search for blankets for our guests.  Thankfully, I also found the blankets on one of my earlier searches for kitchen things.

I could just load all the stuff on a truck and throw it away. My father-in-law also generously offered to store it for me in South Dakota. I think finding my muffin pan in South Dakota could be more difficult than finding it in my storage room in Connecticut. My mother-in-law’s kind remark that she wished she were closer to help me with the sorting hit the mark much closer. I wish she were here too.

Throwing it all away seems irresponsible. I am not a pack rat. I do not like stuff. I want to live a simple life. Most of this stuff does not belong to me, or at least was not purchased for my benefit.

I mean, really, who is a muffin pan for? I would be happy with my homemade yogurt and granola, and not be sad if I never saw another muffin.

But, like the shredding, it seems to be MY job to open, unpack and dispense with every single pound of stuff in this storage room. We moved 17,000 pounds, 4,000 of which are BOOKS. I tell you, I will NOT move 4,000 pounds of books to our next destination. We have to get rid of most of them. There is just too much. And I can’t lift and carry heavy boxes, so I end up making seven trips to the apartment to unload one box, especially with books.

You know the organizational mantra: 3 boxes. One to give away, one to sell, one to keep. Right. With 400 boxes, three little ones won’t work. Any ideas on this you smarties?

I have stacked up piles of children’s books, clothing, kitchen equipment, and bedding so far, ready for shipping to California, giving it to thrift shops, and finding space for some of it in the living quarters. But, this all seems so hopeless to me.  

Someone suggested I get a wagon. UMM. Does that mean buying yet another thing to get rid of after its use? I don’t want a wagon.  

There has to be a solution short of my spending my last years shredding and hauling, but, I don’t know what it is. I am open to suggestion.