I’m (Almost) Back

friend e-mailed me yesterday and asked whether I’d been out of the country. She hadn’t heard from me nor had she seen much on Lull lately. Perhaps you were wondering the same thing.

I wish I could say that my husband and I spent January abroad on a much-needed sabbatical, but we were here—in the Horse Capital of the World, yet nowhere near the horses.

After my father died, it took me some time to get his eulogy written and the final arrangements made for his funeral service. Then we spent January doing exactly what we’d been doing for months prior to moving to the Bluegrass State: dusting items, washing items, wrapping items, selling items, and hauling items to charities. In fact, about the only break we’ve had in the last year from such dreary tasks has been caregiving for my father. (Now it’s not just my thumb that hurts; I hurt all over.)

Once we emptied his house—including 500+ hardcover books—and prepped it for painters to freshen it up, we began emptying his barn. More dust, more decisions (sell it? toss it? give it away?). Every day may be a new day for some people, but we typically know what’s in store for us. (Except for that one day when a surprise awaited us: Someone ran into our parked car and totaled it.) Makes getting out of bed a Sisyphean chore.

What’s more, we had no computer at hand for most of January (we were living at my father’s house) and when we did have a computer (when we visited our own home), we had only intermittent Internet access. Some of you may remember that the Net issue has been a problem since we moved here.

However, FINALLY our cable provider sent someone who figured out the problem—though only after he’d deemed everything fine and started off in his truck. I chased him down. Asked him how he knew it was fine.

“I checked it on my computer,” he said.

“Well, do me a favor and check it on my computer,” I said.

And guess what? It didn’t work.

Turns out, the culprit had nothing to do with routers or Macs or operators or anything else the cable company had been blaming it on. The problem was a tiny piece of metal on the cable in the basement that had corroded and couldn’t hold its connection. Once it was replaced, all was well. I still have to discuss getting a credit from said company, but at least I don’t have to look for a new provider.

Oh, other things have been brewing. But for now, I just need to finish emptying a barn and then I hope to bring Lull (and my life) back into full swing.

Another friend reminded me this week of a Winston Churchill quip that may well become my new mantra: “If you are going through hell, keep going.”

[Drop cap designed by Jessica Hische.]

Going . . . Going . . . But Not Yet Gone

Here are some pics we took of our Big Sale the weekend AFTER the first weekend we had it. The first weekend was claustrophobic—you could hardly move through the basement.

Yes, yes. I had intentions of photographing every shelf of books and plays and household decor so I had a keepsake of all we were giving up. But the night before our first sale day, I was still in the basement at 3:30 in the morning trying to price items. Never finished. Picking up the camera didn’t cross my mind.

Our customers frequently asked about “our store.” With such an eclectic array of items, surely we were liquidating a business. Were we going to open another store in Kentucky? One couple asked if they’d stepped into a theatre’s prop storage. Lots asked when our next sale would be.

Nope. Nope. And never.

We have enough left over to hold another sale, but we’re all saled out. We have some valuable items we’re trying to sell on Ebay and Craigslist, but outside of those, everything else will be donated.

If you know of someone (or an organization) looking for old film reels and canisters, or plays, or books, or camping equipment, or press camera accessories, or lamp bases, or vintage hats, or a Victorian pram, send them our way. Everything’s priced to move.

The Backup Plan for New Digs

Our search for a new apartment has begun in earnest now. I have little doubt that we’ll find something, but in case we don’t…

Our trusty, dusty books can provide us shelter!

Getting the Dish on Family Lore

I have been washing and packing—and washing and packing—my collection of vintage Fiestaware, the colorful mix-and-match ceramic dishes that debuted in the ’30s. With each piece, I’ve wondered about its history: Who used it before me? How long did they have it? Where did they get it? What moments of their lives are forever intertwined with it?

My current collection grew out of a set inherited from my mother and grandmother. When I left home after college, they gave me their dishes—which have moved with me from one apartment to another over the years. And now, as I prepare for yet another move, I want more details about the early history of the pottery. For instance, which color was my mother’s favorite? How many pieces of my grandmother’s Fiestaware came from promotional giveaways? Did either of them have any Fiestaware entertainment tales to share?

I called my mother, who laughed at my questions.

“I never liked those dishes,” she said. She couldn’t explain why, nor could she recall using them—though she must have for a while, she ceded. “They were a bridal shower gift and came from your great-aunt’s hardware store.”

Ah. Humble origins. From family to family. I like that.

“And those weren’t your grandmother’s dishes.”

“What do you mean? She gave them to me.”

“Yes, but she never used them. She found them out at the farm.” My grandfather had what today is known as a hobby farm. My grandmother found all sorts of treasures there—none with a verifiable provenance.

This wasn’t, of course, the history I’d expected. And certainly not the one I’d imagined.

Sometimes the better story is the one in our heads.

[For more pics of Fiestaware and its history, visit collector Heidi Kellner’s Web site.]

“La Vita è Affanno”

he title of this post is another quote from Wallis Wilde-Menozzi’s Mother Tongue. It was the favorite saying of the grandmother of the author’s husband. Translated, it means “Life is troubling.”

Amen.

I finished reading Mother Tongue the other day and can now add it to my “Reading through the Lull” list. What started slowly finally captivated me with tales of loss, discussions of politics and philosophy, and descriptions of Italian history I knew nothing about.

A third of the way into the book is this passage detailing Wilde-Menozzi’s preparation to move to Italy from the States:

“What is that pile on the lawn? … There is your bed. Children’s toys. Everything that wouldn’t work on the 220 current. A stereo as big as a 1950s car. …

I couldn’t bear to sell those things or any of the rest. …

The idea of dispersal, of setting a price—a nickel, a quarter, seven-fifty—for the intimate rubbed objects, the things hidden in drawers, the use of cups and saucers, nauseated me and made me nervous. I didn’t want to see people snooping and bargaining over my things. I gave them away. The morning the Goodwill scheduled the pickup, I left the house, as if I could put a bandage on those years.”

And here she describes her connection to books (in both excerpts, the italics are hers):

“Books, whose weight has broken the backs of all your suitcases, were the main physical objects carried across. You kept most of them. They are the unavoidable Sisyphean premise to any suitcase you pack. Their numbers and variety … are an awareness that you question but cannot imagine living without. Paid for in calluses, regrets, an itinerant attitude toward any possession except those arranged in hard-won patterns of discovered orders—you never leave a place without an intense load. In honoring books, you feel you are what you contain and carry and hope to keep alive.”

In another time and place, these passages may not have resonated so deeply with me. But The Lull has heightened my awareness of loss and memory and baggage and identity. I understand not wanting to know or see what happens next to my possessions, but rather to harbor them in my imagination for all time. I have felt and paid for the weight of my books and still they hold their place in my heart.

I’m glad I waited all these years to try reading Mother Tongue again; it turned out to be just the right time.

Unemployment Time Zone

Without the rhythm of a daily work routine, it has become apparent just how much time and energy I had been spending on my job. I hadn't taken a vacation in seven years, and much of what little personal time I had was spent worrying about or doing something for someone else. Once free of my job, I had to decompress.  I started by reading.

Purchasing new books is an old vice for me. But my changed income requires a disciplined restraint and a modified reading approach. Now that I borrow from my local library branch, I'm on the clock, which takes a bit of pleasure away from the experience. Typically, I read several books at one time: classic or new fiction, essays, short stories, memoir, and nonfiction. If a library book is in the mix, though, I have to focus on it rather than reading round-robin. I'll adapt sooner or later. 

I know that I'll have to move; I just don't know when or where to. But in preparation, I've decided to radically reduce the contents of my library. If you've ever moved a box of books, you know why.  You can't pack too many books in a box or it will be too heavy to carry.  And when you have hundreds of books, you end up schlepping oodles of boxes up and  down stairs (we always end up on the top floor of buildings, no elevator). Or you pay someone else to do it. Move often and those books get pricier and pricier.  So before I choose what to part with, I'm making certain that I've read each and every one.

Over the years, I've started many a book only to find myself not in the right frame of mind to finish it. I've put such books aside with the intention of trying again later. Well, now is later.