The Silver Tray

I wasn’t sure how old the silver tray was. I thought it had been a wedding gift. But yesterday I discovered engraving on the back. June 11, 1971. I had received it as a gift when I completed my Masters Degree. Wow! Must have been from mom and dad. Who else would buy me a silver tray?

 I’m glad I discovered the date as I want to be accurate when I give it to my now 38 year old daughter. It is the largest tray in the cabinet, so it is always at the bottom of the stack of seven or eight others. For that reason alone, it is seldom used – that and the fact that I rarely have parties large enough to warrant its size and constant cleaning.

Yesterday I carefully took each ceramic tray from the pile, being cautious not to let one hit the tile floor or the granite counter top. There is a glass one that I’m pretty sure belonged to my mother – a light peachy pink that is probably Depression glass, but I’m not sure. Mom was like me – she had a lot of “wanna be” treasures. Like my fake Tiffany heart bracelet or my Zirconia diamond ear studs. I should get it appraised some day I guess. Before the kids have the estate sale. Although the “real stuff” of mom’s brought very little cash at my dad’s “house- leaving” sale a few years back.

The tray is sitting on the counter, about as black with tarnish as it could possibly be. My daughter mentioned at Thanksgiving that she needed a really large tray. So I’ve decided it’s time to bequeath it to a nice home where it will be used. Today the young women have baking pans that turn into covered and handled carrying trays. They have pans already divided into square-shaped pre-cut brownie sections, and they own fancy decorated pyramid cupcake displays.

My hunch is she’ll be like me and pull it out from beneath all the others once every few years when she needs to serve a few dozen appetizers at once. Or, like me, she’ll look at the work involved to clean the danged thing and pull out two ceramic ones instead!

Which leads me to today’s task of finding the silver cleaner that is probably at the back of the highest cabinet in the laundry room.

                                                Serves Me Right

            I have done nothing but complain for weeks now about retailers rushing Christmas. About not being able to enjoy Thanksgiving for all the hoop-la, about stores opening at midnight instead of 6:00 a.m. I’ve talked about the American need for gluttony – gluttony for more and more “stuff” that none of us needs. I wanted to boycott Black Friday – have everyone just stay home and refuse to form lines, to press elbow to elbow through aisles crammed with merchandise, to push and shove for 8 am-1 pm sales items. Ludicrous, ridiculous! I opened Thursday’s paper to find one inch of news and 10 inches of sales flyers. I fought off the urge to burn the whole mess. I peeked at a few of my favorite store ads and concluded I had no need to shop this entire weekend. No need at all! In fact, I’d not leave the house. I’d clean – decorate – read – anything but give in to this scam. Get you in the store with “come-ons” and sell you things you don’t need or want.

And then… later last night when the house was quiet and dark; I swear it was a sugar-induced coma following the feast of food I had consumed; I re-looked at Office Max, Best Buy and Staples. I had drowned my digital camera a month ago (don’t ask) so  I did need one, after all. I had admired my daughters’ on our recent trip – tiny, light, great pics. And there it was in all three ads. A $200.00 camera with case and memory card – $79.00. Wow—-hmmm—no. It’s the season to buy for others, not myself!

A good night’s sleep – up at 6:00 am – coffee, the paper, and the now star- marked camera ads staring at me. I’d research them on the computer – decide on what I wanted. And at 7:25, I combed my hair, threw on jeans – no make-up – no time – they’d be sold out. They opened at 6 am – it’s nearly 7:30. I found myself creeping up to 48 mph in the 45 zone; found myself mentally nudging people out of my way. As I parked I watched customers leaving and looked at their bags. Did they get the last one? I power walked past three people on their way to the curb. I raced through the automatic double doors and saw four young clerks in the center of the store. They smiled as I approached – of course they did – I’m a customer. “Do you still have any………” I sputtered and followed the young man to the camera section where he pulled from his small stack – the very one I Wanted – Needed – Had to Have!

Now here’s where “serves me right” comes in. As I stopped at a red light on my way home with a big “I won – gotcha” smile on my face, a young woman next to me motioned for me to roll down my window. I was suspicious – she wanted my camera – the very last on in the world! I smiled and she pointed– “your right rear tire is almost flat – really flat.”

            Serves me right!

Is it my imagination or did Santa arrive early this year? I hadn’t been to the mall for quite some time, so I’m not sure when he set up shop. But today, November 13, in Chandler Fashion Mall, as my friend Denise and I headed toward the escalator, she gasped and pointed to the long line off to our right. The line was full of over-dressed very small people. As we drew closer they morphed into children accompanied by parents; each one decked out in ribbons and bows and fancy clothes and shiny shoes, and yep—there it was — Santa’s Village – elves, and Christmas trees and a photographer to capture it all. Maybe I’m wrong and it’s been this way for a few years, but somehow I remember the Christmas season starting after Thanksgiving. Macy’s Santa was always the first to appear. That’s why we stayed glued to the long televised balloon parade – to watch that sleigh come down the street, the mechanized reindeer flying through the New York City sky, and the jolliest, roundest, most real Santa waving to the crowd and ho-ho-ho-ing to open the Christmas season.

Even in the recent past, the stores had the courtesy to let the turkey and leftovers coagulate in the refrigerator before Black Friday sales began. This year Black Friday is starting at midnight so the retailers can get a ten-hour jump-start on their profits. Now I’m not a Scrooge, really I’m not. In fact I had just spent two hours with my friend watching decorating demonstrations in Pottery Barn and planning my new silver and white Christmas theme for this year. I even stopped for a stocking stuffer moments before the sighting.

Call me old fashioned, but I’d really like to listen to Christmas music two weeks prior to Christmas Day. The thought of a month of Christmas songs makes me nauseous. I’d like to decorate the house no earlier than December 1^st, and I really see no reason to ask young children to finalize their Christmas lists by November 10^th. If they are anything like my kids were, their list will change a dozen times in the next month. And if they change their minds, will it require a second trip to the mall Santa?

I raise the question again – Why start so danged early??

They were a generation

born in the depression,

hammered by war,

forged by hope.

For the most part

they were simple, honest, kind.

There was little time for

corruption, greed or hatred.

A generation of men

destroyed emotionally by war.

Hard working men with families,

who laid down their demons, and

came home to eek out a living for their families.

A generation of women

left behind to raise the children,

make the weapons, nurse the wounded.

Laboring on hands and knees with swollen knuckles.

The glue that stabilized the country til their men came home.

Theirs was the last generation

to wash laundry by hand, raise chickens

in the city for eggs and Sunday dinner.

To hang the sheets and towels and shirts

for the wind to blow them dry.

Who enjoyed the simple pleasures

of radio and Canasta, hand-cranked ice cream,

hand-written notes to Granny each Sunday,

home-made meals twenty-one times a week.

Who took personal pride in the bursting fireworks on the 4^th.

My parents’ last living friend

has lung cancer,

fighting as hard as she can.

And I am torn between wishing her to live

and letting her go play cards with her husband and my parents.

Tell them hello from all of us left behind, Maxine.

Tell them we’ll be there in a blink of an eye.

(Maxine passed away yesterday, November 4, 2011. We will miss her.)

You’d have to live on a desert island not to know that today is Halloween. The stores have been full of the theme since July 4^th. The holiday is synonymous with children, and I sit in what I call “old fart’s-ville” where we don’t turn on house lights except to see the drive-way as we come and go. Or to tell the burglars we’re home – don’t come knockin’. The door bell won’t ring with tiny Trick or Treaters tonight. The last time I gave out candy was five years ago.

            My jack-o-lantern is plugged in. My screeching witch sits on the counter with two bobble-heads and a plastic pail of candy. I’ve been nibbling on chocolate for weeks. Both my face and waist-line show the results. Everything ‘looks’ like Halloween, except for one large missing piece – the costumed children!

I love kids. I was a mom who sewed costumes every single year, carved pumpkins, decorated, baked goodies as well as the pumpkin seeds, and gave out bag after bag of treats. I was a teacher, counselor, administrator. Just last week I worked with fourth graders and high school students as a volunteer. I miss kids.

            My last neighborhood was full of young families. The procession of door-bell ringers went on for hours. One year my son and his best friend decorated the front yard in horrible, creepy, decorations with loud scary music including a stuffed man hung from our front tree. Halloween is still my daughter’s favorite holiday. It’s a toss-up between Christmas and goblins, but her costume usually wins out. She decorates, celebrates and parties every year.

            I loved the little bitties who came out early – before dark. Tiny ghosts and goblins, some in strollers in adorable soft, fuzzy and cute costumes. The scary ones came later, more serious about the tricks if the treats were gone or your light turned off. But even those were fun. Creativity and imagination went into them, and I begged for no tricks as I filled their bags. Even the 5’6” kids who simply threw on some face make-up and baggy over-alls or freckles and pig -tails were welcome. I’d no sooner sit down than the bell would ring again. Up and down for hours. They came out of nowhere. The side-walk would be empty one minute, and the front porch, full the next.

Back in the old days, people had milk bottles to steal from the porch or clothes pins that hung on porch mail boxes – as if that were a huge loss! Boys might egg cars or t.p. a front yard. No silly string back then. A full moon every year was impossible, but that’s how I remember it. Costumes were home-made and often thrown together that afternoon. No realistic plastic character-masks or body-suits. Vandalism wasn’t possible. First of all, everyone knew you and your parents and secondly, no one even locked their doors back then. Goodies were seldom bought; they included home-made cookies, apples, popcorn balls, a small amount of candy from lazy or busy neighbors. We used paper sacks to carry our stash – folded over once, sometimes decorated, usually not. Or a simple white pillow case off our bed. Every child was on the streets. No party at church or school or neighborhood club house was needed for safety. We didn’t know you could x-ray food back then. Some-times I long for those old days.

 But today, I even long for those good old days of five years ago. I may have to drive across the road and park at the end of a cul-de-sac to watch the families walk the streets. Please don’t call the cops if you see me, ok?

It amazes me some times what brings me comfort. I used to love to bake and cook and make lunches for the kids. They hated cafeteria food, and a brown bag lunch from mom was what they wanted to open every day. I did what many moms do, threw in an apple and a home made chocolate chip cookie — knowing the apple was either traded or thrown in the trash. Occasionally I’d drop in a short note, “Have a great day!” or a chocolate candy kiss. They would buy their carton of milk and gobble down the same turkey sandwich day after day, year after year.

As a child I walked home for lunch every single day. It was the “old days,” and I think we had a cafeteria if kids lived too far to walk. Plus back then we had enough time for me to walk the 8 or 9 blocks home, eat lunch and get back in time for a last minute game of jump-rope or hop-scotch. Amazing when I think about it! Mom made very thin bologna and cheese sandwiches cut in half, but somehow they were worth the walk.

I loved the days when I came through the front door after school and smelled baking. Back then it was several times a week. We had dessert with every evening meal. Chocolate cake, chocolate chip cookies, pineapple upside-down cake. I especially liked the smell of cookies in the oven because I didn’t have to wait until I’d finished every speck on my plate. I could have one cookie with a jelly- glass of milk before I sat down to do homework. So I guess that’s where the comfort of baking began.

I wanted my children to have the same experience of walking in the door and being hit with the scent of vanilla, sugar, chocolate. They too preferred the cookies, and I was generous and let them have two before dinner. I always hated the fact that I’d eat as many as they would. I was an adult female nearing menopause and I knew I didn’t need the calories or the sugar. So when the kids went off to college, I baked and mailed them off, keeping a half dozen in the pantry for my nighttime nibbling. Then college graduation came and went, and I no longer had a way of getting rid of them. On occasion I’d box them up in plastic containers and drive them over to their respective houses, leaving them on the front door step if they weren’t home. I’d save a half dozen for my nighttime nibbling.

It became a habit, a pattern. And now that they’re adults and both on diets, I ask myself why I am in the kitchen this afternoon baking muffins and brownies. I don’t need the calories or the sugar. If I freeze them, I’ll eat them frozen. If I hide them, I will find them. If I try to pawn them off on the kids, they’ll decline them. I know that I will end up eating them. And yet —. 

Today it is cloudy, overcast, cool for Arizona. I am a little bit tired and a little bit bored and a little bit avoiding work (writing). So here I am at the computer smelling the just baked poppy seed muffins with lemon frosting that are cooling on the kitchen counter. I am angry with myself for giving in. I’ve had the mix for weeks and managed to leave it on the shelf. And now?

I can smell the faint ‘burny’ smell of muffin tops, the sweet, sugary smell of almond and a slight tang of lemon. I am making bets with myself on how long it will take me to eat the first one. I am making bets with myself about whether or not I can stop at one. I am making bets with myself on how long it will take me to eat the entire dozen. And yet…

I loved stirring that flour and sugar and eggs and milk and oil. I loved dipping my half cup container into the batter and filling each of the paper cups in the muffin pan to the exact 2/3 full. I enjoyed licking my fingers and the spoon and made sure I scraped the very last of the batter into my mouth before the dirty bowl went into the sink to be washed. There is still something so comforting about baking. It’s almost tangible. It’s in my blood. Love and care equal food. And today I needed some love and care I guess. I deserve this feeling of accomplishment, this feeling of sensuality. These calories that will stick to my hips five minutes after I eat the first one.

 Anyone want to make a bet on how long I hold out?  I’ll let you know.

This past week I stayed with friends in Minnesota, and I happened to mention how the cardboard insert in toilet paper rolls now leaves so much more room on the roller. My friend said, “Don’t get me started on the diminishing toilet paper roll!” We both laughed, but I decided to research the change.

I had no idea how big an issue this has become — articles, blogs — too many to list or quote. So as they used to say on Dragnet, ”Just the facts, Ma’am, just the facts.”

In 2006, one company decided to reduce their sheets of toilet paper from a lovely square of 4.5” x 4.5” to 4.5” x 4.1”.

Then suddenly in 2010, every company — Northern, Charmin, Angel Soft, Cottonelle, Scott, etc. followed suit – only – here’s why it’s not so noticeable:

The new sheet size is in fact 4.1” x 3.7”. Now that doesn’t sound too awful as long as the entire roll equals the same diameter as before. I mean, do I care if I tear off four sheets or six sheets at each wipe? But they didn’t leave it there.

The cardboard center roll was decreased in size as well. What used to barely fit onto an average size toilet paper holder in your bathroom, leaving just enough room to turn, now leaves an inch around the roller – it swings freely and turns easily, and it means that your 4.1” x 3.7” sheets are fewer, not more.

A 1000 sheet roll is now

280 sheet rolls are now 200.

So my double roll of 600 is now reduced to 560 sheets that are 20% smaller, as reported earlier down from 4.5 x 4.5 to 4.1 x 3.7   Huh? The irony is they are now marked New Improved or Now Improved! What?

And because toilet paper has gone up in price, it is estimated that the paper companies are making 50% more per roll than five years ago! Wow! I like that profit. I’m lucky to have an annuity with a 6% guarantee!

In 2007, we paid .25 per roll; a four pack was $1.00. I remember that clearly. Yesterday I paid $6.29 for a 12 pack of a non-major brand sold at Target.

Two-ply seems to be a thing of the past as well. At one point, Northern had a three-ply. If it is two-ply, it is pressed the thickness of single, that’s for sure. All of this info helped me realize why, as a one person household, I am lucky to use less than one roll per week and no, I don’t have G.I. issues. I may use longer strips but now I realize why. 3.7” certainly doesn’t compare with 4.5” — let’s see, if I use six sheets, that means I’m using 22.2” of toilet paper each visit. Five years ago that would have been 27”. And my 600 sheet roll is down to 560 so—I’m not good at math but I’ll probably be using two rolls per week soon.

I’m anxious to see how the new rolls without the cardboard insert are going to work. They aren’t round – that I’ve read. But I’ll have to find a Walmart that carries them to check out the particulars. I agree with eliminating the 17 billion cardboard rollers they say the U.S. sends to trash dumps each year. Maybe the Europeans have it right with bidets.

            While I’m on a “roll” (pun intended) let’s discuss the quart and a half (half gallon) of ice cream in my freezer or the 59 oz. (formerly 64) container of orange juice. Coffee was once one pound – now it’s 12 ounces. Notice the size of the chip bag has stayed the same? It fools us more easily that way. Lift that bag and you’ll see the chips fall to the lower one half of the package leaving us lots of air at the top. Lots of Hot Air – I would add.

A bar of soap? Well, most of us are using bottles of body wash anyway………..

Yesterday I listened to Joel Olsteen. I hadn’t caught his program for awhile, and I was taken by his use of an interesting metaphor. He suggested creating a file folder in our minds for “things we don’t understand.” A novel idea. Most of us have folders for the details of our lives: medical insurance, taxes, bills, family stuff.  But things I don’t understand? Hmm

I visualize file folders pretty well. I use them daily. I now have two file cabinets in my office; one for personal organization and one for my writing. Both are crammed full and are begging for a third, but I refuse to give in. Instead I’ve bought baskets that are placed around the office with important “stuff” like the novel I’m trying to write, short stories that need to be submitted, and assignments for my current class.  

I recently learned about the differences between the brains of men and women.

We women are able to multi-task better it seems. We can rummage around in many files at the same time without losing track of our goals. A last minute item needed at the store, what to thaw for dinner, Mary’s flute lesson, Tom’s football practice, the dry-cleaning, the monthly report due at work on Wed., the recent recall on the Honda. You get my gist.

Men, however, compartmentalize. They have lots of file folders, and they take them out one at a time. Work – open, complete. Anniversary – shop, complete. Call mom. Men don’t open files until they are needed, so mom’s phone call folder won’t come to the forefront until much later in the week, just moments before he needs to make the call. Wife folder will pop open as he drives into the garage; dinner when he is called; sex depending on how bored he is with the football game on TV.

But I digress. 

I had never thought of a file for everything I don’t understand. I have taken a liking to the premise of creating one. It would be a very full file, I can tell you that. Why did my mother die when she was 57? Why did my last relationship not work out? Why did my last five submissions get rejected? Oh, it could go on and on, believe me.

I tend to be a dweller, a worrier, a planner and doer, a control freak my kids might say. I think it through a dozen different ways. I constantly say, once I understand it, I can accept it and move on. Letting go can be very hard for me.

According to Olsteen, God doesn’t always tell us the “why”, and not everything makes sense at that moment. Sometimes the answers come later, and sometimes the answer is withheld. Whether you are a Christian, a Buddhist or non-religious, I think we all react in similar ways. Few people can take a negative experience and put it aside quickly. And sometimes our season of mourning turns into a lifetime of mourning before we realize it has happened.

I’m considering this new system. I open my brain, open the file, and pop it in. No sweat. No time at all. I simply place the unexplained situation into the folder and close it. God may open the file later and throw me some hints or maybe even a strong observation. He may, much later, make His will perfectly clear, and I will have one of those ah-ha moments of understanding. Either way, once it is filed, I free up my heart to happiness and my mind to better things.

Though knowing me, God may have to slap my hand when I try to re-open it!

I recently read an article in the Phoenix Republic newspaper about the budget cuts to mental health in our state. When these types of cuts are made, what we hear are the savings to the state and the benefit to us as taxpayers. The minute we read cuts to education, medical care, C.P.S. and the many agencies that provide services to women, children, mentally ill and the poor, my friends and I shout “foul”.

While I try to never make my blog political, this particular subject hits close to home. As a mental health counselor and an educator for many years, I always wonder at the short-range thinking of the people in charge. Yes, it’s easy to look at a line-item and say if we cut this, we save this much. And while that is most likely a very concrete and true statement, what will be the ramifications in five years or ten.

The following is an excerpt from an article that ran on September 21 about the effects of the mental health cuts in Arizona:

In Maricopa County, about 3000 people taking brand-name psychotropic medications switched to generic drugs. The most commonly prescribed anti-psychotics, including Seroquel, Geodon, Zyprexa and Risperdal, HAVE NO generic equivalents. Generics often are not as effective, tend to be more sedative and have many side effects according to doctors. One in five families has a member taking these medications.

Everyone receiving state services for a serious mental illness has a case manager, but the budget cuts eliminated that benefit for people without Medicaid. More than 300 case managers and support staff in Maricopa County and hundreds more statewide, lost their jobs as the agencies and clinics adjusted to see fewer patients. The case managers were a lifeline for many of Arizona’s most fragile citizens. They helped navigate complex paperwork and provided a sounding board for daily aggravations. They met people upon their release from jail or psychiatric facilities. They tried to head off suicide attempts and psychotic episodes and made hospital visits. Two case managers remain at each of the country’s 18 clinics to make reminder calls and coordinate appointments for non-Medicaid patients. 

The budget cuts put 255 people with serious mental illness in danger of losing housing which often includes 24 hour supervision. Dozens moved into apartments or assisted living facilities while others moved in with family. Some have since been hospitalized, jailed or evicted and ended up in shelters and boarding homes.

Without free bus passes or cab rides, people miss appointments, fail to pick up their prescriptions and may stop going out in public. Symptoms typically worsen when people stop taking medications and isolate themselves.

Thousands have lost access to group and individual therapy, severing relationships they may have had for decades with counselors and support staff. Cognitive behavioral therapy which has shown to benefit the mentally- ill, is now a thing of the past. They no longer learn to relieve internal pain, cope with stress and anxiety and express emotions. Those without Medicaid also no longer have state-funded job training or access to community drop-in centers along with the friendships, support and self-esteem that came with them.

While I’m on my bandwagon today, I will go ahead and yell “foul” on another topic:

We continue to cut education at the same time our President, all of the corporate CEO’s, and our legislators agree that what America is lacking is production, sales, and an educated work-force. We need students who excel in math and science, technology, engineering, and software. We need students who are trained for the jobs of today and the future. All of our economists and our business leaders know what those jobs will be and how to make America viable in the job market once again. And yet, we cut that very base. How are we going to turn this country around in ten years if, during those ten years, we are producing a less educated and ill-prepared work-force? Is Anyone Listening?

        I attended a women’s writing conference this past weekend. Five well-known authors spoke throughout the day–five published, literary award winning, female authors. I sat there at the luncheon table with three writing friends, pen and notebook in hand, ready to write down every pearl of wisdom about their writing process. The how to’s —Where should I write? When? For how long? Do I dress up and leave the house? Get an office? Pay an editor? Morning? Afternoon? Evening? Every day or five days a week? In my pj’s over coffee?  I waited. I listened. I jotted a few notes. I heard funny stories, personal backgrounds, story ideas and readings.

I left the conference center feeling exhausted, hopeful, hopeless, encouraged, discouraged, motivated, resigned to failure, and mostly a sore tail bone and aching feet.

Through all of their presentations and stories I heard one theme: Just Show Up!

One of my writing friends has an acronym for it – BOC – butt on chair.

Susan Bender writes long-hand in the car, in waiting rooms, at garage sales. She absorbs stories everywhere and writes for five minutes or twenty or an hour as she drops kids or picks them up or waits.

Ann Cherion sat at a dinner table and observed a scene that became The Good Indian Wife. She wrote fast and angry and purposeful. She wants to write the stories of her culture.

Meg Waite Clayton talked about research and “what if” cards and a lot of failure. She is an attorney and uses structure and outline as her tools. She writes either from 8:00 -2:00 OR when she reaches 2000 words that day.

Mona Simpson describes herself as shy and introverted; she goes within to write about love and how we treat each other. She knows how solitary a writer’s life is.

Aimee Bender writes two hours a day on a regular schedule. The rigidity gives her steadiness. She blends fairy tales, fine arts and free association into fantastical stories.

So—few specifics, different styles, pen and journal, laptop, old typewriter – it doesn’t matter. In the car, at Starbucks, in the office – doesn’t matter. Coffee and pj’s at 5:00 AM, jeans and shirt after Little League – doesn’t matter.

What matters is that rain or shine, day in and day out, an author sits down and waits for her muse to come because if you want her creativity, her flash of genius, her perfect descriptive word – you must Show Up!

            Later in the day I realized how broad and how profound the message is in all of life. If you don’t go to the interview, you won’t get the job offer. If you don’t go on the blind date, you may miss Mr. Perfect. If you sit in the house with the door closed, you won’t make new friends. And if you don’t put your butt on the chair the computer screen will remain blank. Whether you are a writer or not, I hope the message speaks to you – today, in some way, in someone’s life, your muse is waiting – please Show UP!