Boxes Have Left The Building

Yep.

Boxes, like Elvis, have left the building.

And are STILL leaving.

And nothing makes me happier.

My newest hobby - getting rid of "stuff."

Right now there are boxes in the car waiting to go to the container site, to recycling, to the swap shop, and to our booth at the antique mall.  

Some of the boxes are from the storage building that we are STILL emptying.  (I think boxes in the storage building are actually breeding like bunnies.  For real).

Some of the boxes are from the house.  Doing some springtime deep cleaning this year includes a lot of "Out you go.  Out YOU go.  Oh, yes, you too.  YOU! Why are you still here?" 

There's a little of everything leaving.  Including books.  Lots and lots of books.  (Note of import  😏  While continuing  our huge purge I found an old, well worn, and very well loved copy of Helen Hooven Santmyer's novel ''. . . And Ladies of the Club'' which made her a celebrity at the age of 88. I loved this book, and have now put it aside in a small pile of books to be re-read. Small pile includes the entire Rex Stout Nero Wolfe series. "Small" is relative . . . )

Funny thing is though, looking around you'd never believe we have removed a few dozen boxes of stuff in the past few weeks.

Out of sight, out of mind never seemed so true.

I'd love to stay and chat, but there are boxes waiting to leave the building.

A little virtual primal scream . . .

 

Our stars are out of alignment.

Or we've pissed off some gods.

Or we got entirely too lackadaisical about how smoothly things were actually going for us as we stayed pretty sheltered in our little house in the mountains.

The refrigerator replacement (and all the spoiled food) was not a cheap fix.

And now the washing machine is expressing its unhappiness by flooding the first floor.  Donald has been consulting people, ordering parts, etc etc etc.  The final verdict is not yet in.

And if you're in need of serious dental care, Sweet Jesus it'll cost ya.  I don't know about elsewhere, but here in the NC mountains dental implants run about $4,000 per tooth.  (Another reason I haven't minded wearing a mask).  My implant appointment happens soon, then it will be Donald's turn.

An inexpensive, but very sweet piece of jewelry I ordered from Paris has been stuck in Chicago in Customs since April 19.  Filing a claim with the Post Office gained me a response of "it's stuck in Chicago in Customs."  They make it sound like Customs answers to no one.  If I never get what I ordered, it's Customs' fault, and oh well.  

I was finally so annoying on the phone with the US Postal Service today that the poor, very nice, but very frazzled woman trying to help me transferred to me International Postal Service.  

The guy who answered the phone seemed confused as to how I got there and after listening to my story he agreed I needed help.  

The on-line form for filing an International claim that the US Postal people kept insisting I needed to fill out can ONLY be filled out by the sender, not the recipient, and that wasn't happening.  Nice International Guy filled it out for me, even while we were having a wee bit of difficulty understanding one another.  It took us about 40 minutes of conversation to get the task done.  I now have a U. S. Postal Service Claim Case Number AND an International Postal Service Claim Case Number.  

And I've learned a lot about Customs.  First off - if you order something from another country, say your prayers, click your heels and cross your fingers that it does not have to go through Chicago Customs.  You can read hundreds of horror stories on-line.    

Fact is - I had ordered something from this same shop in Paris before this particular fiasco and it was here in less than two weeks.  It did not go through Chicago.

Customs can hold your mail/package for up to 45 days.  Why?  Good question.  They've been holding my piece for almost that many days.  Almost.

The International Postal guy said they would actually attempt to talk with someone in Customs for me.

What?!

Really?!

I love this man!!

He says if I don't receive my package, or hear something regarding my new International Claim within 15 days from today to call them back, but he did not have a direct number that would connect me to him.  Waaahhh.

If I don't hear back and have to call them again, I will.  But oh my LordAMercy, I do not want to.  

WHY can't people just do what they're supposed to do . . .  <sigh>

And the thing that has finally broken my heart is my much loved Kindle Fire is as dead as fried chicken.

I use my Kindle Fire more than I use my laptop, and I have come to prefer reading on it over reading print books.  (Don't judge me - to each her own, right?).

So.  New Kindle Fire on its way.

That my story, my whine(s) for the day.  

Virtual primal screaming isn't nearly as stress releasing as the real thing (which yes, I have already done), but writing out feelings is a pretty good release.  Writing AND screaming?  Wow.  Feels pretty darn good.  I recommend the combination.

And a glass of wine.

Finally! A haircut!

 

Staying home due to pandemic dangers and restrictions meant missing and cancelling appointments we took for granted pre-COVID.

Like hair appointments.

Today I went to see my amazing friend, Ellie Miller at Shear Shakti https://www.shearshakti.com and had her work her magic.

Lordy, but it's nice to be back to being me again.

I will kinda miss pulling my hair up on top of my head in a messy bun, but oh well . . .   All that long hair hanging around my face is just not me. 

Woman at Work

Thirty-five years ago

In a small chapel in Atlanta, in front of family and friends, I placed this ring on this hand 35 years ago today.  Don Barley and I have shared many a cup of coffee since that day.  Happy Anniversary, darlin'.

 

Seeking Sanctuary/Making Art

Sometimes life is just plain ol' sucky.

There seems to be a domino effect to the suckiness.

There's a whole long list of sucky stuff that's happened over the past couple of months, but it's just not worth whining about.  That's not to say I haven't done a LOT of loud whining aka as bitching and moaning about these things, but you know - it hasn't helped, so I'll keep those things out of Meanderings and Muses.

Except that it shouldn't have taken 2 months for Donald to get new glasses with his new prescription.

Except that he shouldn't have had to wait so long for his dentist to get back with him about a damaged tooth that he had to take a second round of antibiotics.  And except for how crazy expensive dental care is.  Especially for the two of us looking at implants - Yeeow.

Except that the folks at a locally owned business we've done business with (a LOT of business)  since we moved here in 1996 lied to him over the phone and caused some unnecessary work on Donald's part.  And then acted like jackasses about the fact that they lied.

Except for this refrigerator that's only about 7 years old that needs to be replaced.  This after Don has replaced several parts on his own over the past couple of days.  Thank goodness we ate those big ol' ribeyes that were in the freezer . . . 

Except for those stressful, unnecessary, and expensive things happening bang bang bang that I won't mention. <wink wink>

Thank goodness for the things we have in our lives that become a bit of a sanctuary for us.

Like a good book by a favorite author. 

A furry pal.

And a room I can call my own where I can go to play with my art supplies.

It ain't fancy, although it does have a chandelier . . . 

And it has a caretaker for when I'm not there.  Miss Matilda.

Miss Matilda is happy to have some company from time to time when Annabelle and I go out there seeking sanctuary.  Always a pleasure to see her.

And Annabelle is curious as a cat out there because it's a hideway for things that haven't quite made it to the antique mall yet.  

Neither of us knows what we might find out there.

Or if it might be turned into something we can call "art."

May 1st

This has been an enormously sad week for my little town of Boone, NC.

Police sent to a home in a quiet neighborhood for a wellness check ended with five people dead.

Two police officers, a mother, a father, a son who died by his own hand after a thirteen hour stand-off.

Donald and I did not personally know any of the people involved, but share in the pain felt by our community, all of whom have been deeply affected.

As it is in small towns we, of course, know people who are closer to this than we are.  We have read their stories, and we have shed tears.  Realizing how many people are affected and changed forever by these deaths is sobering and almost incomprehensible. 

Boone being Boone has stepped up as a community of support. 

There are many stories about what the community is doing to honor those we've lost.  

After hours of following the story as it unfolded, reading every update posted on-line by local news sources, the one story that seemed to have been that proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was the one I read last night and could not stop the tears.  I thought I was all cried out.  There is, apparently, a never ending font of tears in each of us along with that ever expanding heart full of love.

This from The Pet Place.  A local pet store.

Our hearts are with the families and friends of Sgt. Chris Ward, K-9 Deputy Logan Fox, George and Michelle Ligon.

Community Night of Remembrance Planned for May 10th.

Aubade

for Edward Baugh


Flashing silk phantoms
from the promontory,
when seen at dark
rushing to their beds,
those lights corroding
over Navy Island,
never grow old.
In two enamel basins,
fill water to wash overripe
stars, eaten without
second guess, worm
and all, from veranda
chairs, where no guilt
brims over, whatsoever.
As frost, unknown, intimate
breath bursts hot its kind
silence. Get up, go greet
Errol Flynn’s ghost
at the empty footbridge,
leaning on the breeze.
Maroons hum out
of hills, restless as
unappeased trees,
ringing,
“Even days coming
are already gone
too soon,” then return
before the river’s lustre
hides their voices
and immeasurable
slow leaves bring
down our morning.

   - - - by Ishion Hutchinson

I Am Offering this Poem

I am offering this poem to you, since I have nothing else to give. Keep it like a warm coat when winter comes to cover you, or like a pair of thick socks the cold cannot bite through,                          I love you, I have nothing else to give you, so it is a pot full of yellow corn to warm your belly in winter, it is a scarf for your head, to wear over your hair, to tie up around your face,                          I love you, Keep it, treasure this as you would if you were lost, needing direction, in the wilderness life becomes when mature; and in the corner of your drawer, tucked away like a cabin or hogan in dense trees, come knocking, and I will answer, give you directions, and let you warm yourself by this fire, rest by this fire, and make you feel safe                          I love you, It’s all I have to give, and all anyone needs to live, and to go on living inside, when the world outside no longer cares if you live or die; remember,                          I love you.

Of History and Hope

We have memorized America, how it was born and who we have been and where. In ceremonies and silence we say the words, telling the stories, singing the old songs. We like the places they take us. Mostly we do. The great and all the anonymous dead are there. We know the sound of all the sounds we brought. The rich taste of it is on our tongues. But where are we going to be, and why, and who? The disenfranchised dead want to know. We mean to be the people we meant to be, to keep on going where we meant to go. But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how except in the minds of those who will call it Now? The children. The children. And how does our garden grow? With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row— and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow. Who were many people coming together cannot become one people falling apart. Who dreamed for every child an even chance cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not. Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head cannot let chaos make its way to the heart. Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot. We know what we have done and what we have said, and how we have grown, degree by slow degree, believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become— just and compassionate, equal, able, and free. All this in the hands of children, eyes already set on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet— but looking through their eyes, we can see what our long gift to them may come to be. If we can truly remember, they will not forget.  - - - Miller Williams

Bliss Point or What Can Best Be Achieved by Cheese

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

A.k.a.

          the other gold.

                    Now that’s the stuff,

                               shredded or melted

                                         or powdered

                                                 or canned.

                                                             Behold

                                         the pinnacle of man

                     in a cheeto puff!

Now that’s the stuff

                      you’ve been primed for:

                                             fatty & salty & crunchy

          and poof—gone. There’s the proof.

Though your grandmother

                        never even had one. You can’t

                                    have just one. You

                                              inhale them puff—

                                                                     after puff—

                                                                after puff—

                               You’re a chain smoker. Tongue

                      coated & coaxed

but not saturated or satiated.

                       It’s like pure flavor,

                                   but sadder. Each pink ping

                                                       in your pinball-mouth

                                                                expertly played

                             by the makers who have studied you,

                               the human animal, and culled

                    from the rind

         your Eve in the shape

                                 of a cheese curl.

                                              Girl,

                                come curl in the dim light of the TV.

                           Veg out on the verge of no urge

                  of anything.

         Long ago we beached ourselves,

                                 climbed up the trees then

                                          down the trees,

                                                knuckled across the dirt

                               & grasses & thorns & Berber carpet.

                                           Now is the age of sitting,

                                   so sit.

           And I must say,

                       crouched on the couch like that,

                             you resemble no animal.

                                    Smug in your Snuggie and snug

                                                     in your sloth, you look

                                           nothing like a sloth.

           And you are not an anteater,

                                   an anteater eats ants

                                                   without fear

                                       of diabetes. Though breathing,

                 one could say, resembles a chronic disease. 

                                                                                            What’s real

                             cheese and what is cheese product?

                              It’s difficult to say

               but being alive today

                                      is real-

                                                real-

                                                       really

                                like a book you can’t put down, a stone

                       that plummets from a great height. Life’s

                      a “page-turner” alright.

               But don’t worry

                                      if you miss the finale

                                                of your favorite show, you can

                                                   catch in on queue. Make room

                                      for me and I’ll binge on this,

                                                            the final season with you.

  ---  by Benjamin Garcia

Passion for Solitude

BY CESARE PAVESE TRANSLATED BY GEOFFREY BROCK

I’m eating a little supper by the bright window. The room’s already dark, the sky’s starting to turn. Outside my door, the quiet roads lead, after a short walk, to open fields. I’m eating, watching the sky—who knows how many women are eating now. My body is calm: labor dulls all the senses, and dulls women too. Outside, after supper, the stars will come out to touch the wide plain of the earth. The stars are alive, but not worth these cherries, which I’m eating alone. I look at the sky, know that lights already are shining among rust-red roofs, noises of people beneath them. A gulp of my drink, and my body can taste the life of plants and of rivers. It feels detached from things. A small dose of silence suffices, and everything’s still, in its true place, just like my body is still. All things become islands before my senses, which accept them as a matter of course: a murmur of silence. All things in this darkness—I can know all of them, just as I know that blood flows in my veins. The plain is a great flowing of water through plants, a supper of all things. Each plant, and each stone, lives motionlessly. I hear my food feeding my veins with each living thing that this plain provides. The night doesn’t matter. The square patch of sky whispers all the loud noises to me, and a small star struggles in emptiness, far from all foods, from all houses, alien. It isn’t enough for itself, it needs too many companions. Here in the dark, alone, my body is calm, it feels it’s in charge.

Paper-Cut

I got a nasty paper-cut
right where my writing callus used to be.
It bled; it hurt; it kept opening back up.

I showed it to my daughters.
They said in unison,
“That’s no big deal Mom.”

I sought out my son.
He just rolled his eyes.

Then I went to you.
You kissed it tenderly.
You told me it would be better soon.
You said to keep a band-aid on it, and not do any dishes––
that I could take some of your morphine if I needed it,
that it looked like I would get by without IV antibiotics.

Me with a paper-cut
You with cancer
It's hard to get any sympathy around here.

“Paper-Cut” by Julie Cadwaller Staub from Face to Face. © Cascadia Publishing House, 2010. Reprinted with permission.

The Committee Weighs In

HALF A SANDWICH

If you write a few words-
even half a sentence-
like half a sandwich
like the soup and half a sandwich deal
at Jojo’s restaurant
you can find a
glimmer of hope in between the words
like lettuce between the tomato and
the cheese
in the sandwich.

You don’t always find
the essence of our fathers
or god
or the hope diamond
but you might find a sardine like
glimmer
like mustard or pickles,
not so much the chicken or the beef,
but enough to let you know
lunch was served.