Organized Slobs

Today was the day I unpacked ALL of the china and crystal so that I could wash it and repack it again.

That's right. In the midst of moving, I took things already packed out of boxes, washed them, and packed them up again. Tell me this isn't the definition of insanity.

On the other hand, I've been promising myself to be organized with this move- organized to the point where I go through everything and determine whether it's worth keeping or not. Simplify, simplify, simplify. No more clutter. No more crap that just gets stuffed in boxes and forgotten about between moves.

The issue here is that this china and crystal is all heirloomy/grandmother hand-me-downs. You can't just huck that kind of thing away. You can't. And before you tell me how I can or should- hear me out.

We are sloppy eaters with no manners. All of us. The entire country. No one knows how to set a table. No one knows what fork goes where. No one gives a pea-turkey about any of this because we've gone to quick and easy. We sneak the simplify word in here, feeling virtuous, but what we really mean is- we're now okay with being sloppy with "simple" things. All the time. At Thanksgiving dinner. On Christmas Day. Just buy the paper plates/the SuperTarget ceramic mugs/the clearance melamine! That last one doesn't break! It was made by a four year old in a third world country, but don't stop and think about that because that's just how things are now!

Personally, I've spent a lot of time scavenging the dish aisles at all the big-box stores. Kinda because I like to see what they have, and also because I keep wanting to buy it when I totally do not need to. Why?

Because I have a set of Haviland Limoges- white with gold trim. This is very fine china. It's also in perfect condition, although I could use a few more place settings. I have a very old collection of Edwin M. Knowles china- white with gold trim and a floral design- mostly in a dark pink. These dishes date somewhere between 1901 and 1948- which was the last year the vase design was used as the identifying logo. I have a large collection of crystal- various sizes of stemmed glasses- water, champagne, wine, brandy, several matching serving dishes (there is a rather magnificent bowl) and dessert plates. Oh, and cups and saucers. There is a silver tea serving set- pot, tray, sugar bowl and creamer.

My favorite little thing is my children's tea-set by Jeanette Glass in Cherry Blossom Pink. These were made during the depression years and my grandmother was given them sometime during her eighth year- she gave them to me the Christmas I was 8. Later on we had a very magnificent tea party with that set- tea and cherry pie I remember.

We used these things. For Grandmother/Grand-daughter  tea parties, for Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas parties.

And today, I keep them in boxes. In the basement. They see the light of day every 12 years or so. This is really, really silly and rather unfortunate.

We keep the beautiful old things in boxes because we're afraid to use them. Or we don't want to wash delicate things. Or polish them. Come to think of it, we've forgotten how to polish them. What do you use? How long will that take?? Won't the kids just break all of them? They won't appreciate them anyway. Just like all those old quilts in the attic.

Well who appreciates what they have no memory of?

After 9/11 there was a shift somewhere. I remember President Bush standing up and yacking about enjoying America and going shopping. What most of us really wanted was to participate in some kind of effort. Well, other than being good little consumers, that is. Suddenly crafting was groovy. People started to make things again. They rethought their ideas about gift-giving at Christmas and made things for each other, or donated money in that person's name to a good cause- and they started thinking about being together as a family and appreciating the less-fleeting things (unlike that new set of unbreakable Target melamine that will go out of style in about five minutes flat).

They remembered things their grandmothers baked. They started knitting sweaters and socks and crocheting blankets. They quilted and painted and built things.

And they're still doing it. If you doubt this- check out the many hilarious articles about Pinterest Stress, which really means that crafting/making/creating is on the rise- we just need to remember to take the busy-ness down a notch and have a little fun with it. We need to remember what matters- what kind of legacy we leave behind and hope that it's the kind of legacy that will want to be replicated in future generations- rather than stored in a box in a basement.

So back to my dishes. I think I'll actually unpack them this time. I'll promise myself to set the table with them and eat off them at least a few times a week. I have this theory that table manners can suddenly appear in children when they're confronted with a formal place-setting and too many forks.

We'll talk about the kind of meals those dishes have seen. The pot roasts, the fried chicken, the fruit salad with marshmallows. And we'll talk about the times- the Depression, WWII, Korea, the 1950s, 60s and 70s- and how I remember them as a child in the 1980s- the last time they were regularly used.

And I'm going to bring back tea.

A reminder from the starling

We've been sorting all morning. Wait. Change that. We've been "sorting" for over a month and we've come to that nasty place where you think you have a lot done, but the house looks absolutely trashed. Papers everywhere. All of the important and pretty *things* are packed away and out of the way. The detritus that fills in the cracks remains and is no longer hiding in those cracks. It's out in the open. Mocking me. Ridiculing any effort.

The boys have been going through toys and negotiating which stay and which go. We've settled on Thomas and Legos as the main taking-along-forever toys. This frustrates Josiah who believes that we must not keep engines that are without their tenders. Totally opposite of myself as a child- an imperfection is a good reason to trash something for Joe. For me, it was a good reason to keep it forever, otherwise how would it feel??

Yes, I had compassion for inanimate objects at one point. Especially if they had a face, but even if they didn't. Pencils. Erasers. All of it might have a trace of life-energy running through it, and therefore, feelings.

While looking frantically for a pen earlier, I was called to Victor's cage by Victor himself. I was in a hurry to get to the post office, but I paused and stood by his cage. I put my hand in and he jumped onto me and gave me the sweet look that he seems to save for our moments of communication. I've always said that Victor seems to really listen when I talk to him- unlike our other pets, or even the other people in this house- he quiets down, looks me in the eye and really listens.

Instantly I felt a little guilty for the lack of attention that Victor has had these last few weeks. It isn't just Victor that's missing out, though. I've missed hanging out with him. On a normal day, I'll usually spend a few hours with Victor out in the house. He'll flock with me from room to room. He'll steal my food if I have any. He'll tangle any yarn I happen to be working with. He'll yell for more water for his endless bath-taking. He'll take a few rides on Darby's very patient back. And then he'll chill with me for awhile after the energy is expended. That's my favorite bit. The hanging-out part.

And there is the difference between a tender-less, wooden engine (face or not) and a live, feathery person like Victor.

Makes me want to get mean with the detritus and be a little unmerciful with the objects that once caught my attention.

This is never going to end

Today is one of those days I had the best of intentions about. And then none of those intentions have progressed into reality the way they would have with a better person.

Today I'm not a better person.

Honestly, I've been struggling a lot with this little moving thing. I like the place we're going. I'm tired of the place we are (no offense, fellow p-dalians- it isn't you, it's me). It's time for a change. It's just that the main price of that change seems to be falling down around my own shoulders. I have so much to do. So much to give up. So much to get rid of. And very, very little help.

Ever tried talking four unmotivated children into yard work? What happens is, I end up doing it, while they stand there saying they'll do it in now guilty voices, changed from the surly/reluctant/complainers they were before mom turned into the mean lady. I admit to an occasional parental explosion, complete with verbal wonderings about my decision to have children. It isn't something I'm proud of, but it isn't something I'm completely ashamed of, either. In essence- cruel or not- it's truth, and sometimes children need to hear some of that.

This isn't free-ride-land, folks.

And after all of this, I don't get the job I'd planned to get done, done. I end up having to be the overseer.

I hate that.

It isn't only the kids. It's other people. People who feel the need to question how I do everything. People who talk about helping and then don't. People who are friends one moment and cold and distant the minute something comes up. Something small, like knowing I'll be missed, would be.. nice.

Which sounds like the biggest cry-baby complaint ever, but there it is. When I feel inconsequential- after feeling quite needed- I then feel like I've been used. No one likes feeling used.

When I feel this way, I usually withdraw from everyone. Instead of reaching out and being honest- as I am so often with my children- I purposely shut everyone out. Could be part of my problem. Another part of my problem is that I need to understand that everyone is busy. It isn't only me.

So I'm stuck with laundry and clearing out the basement from hell today. Again. I've opened the door I'm hiding behind to tell the 12 year old to set down the legos and get back outside to do the job you were told to do two hours ago. He asked "what job"?

And I mean.. really?

Place

I haven't moved often in my life. The extent of my moving experience is dominated by memories of dormitories, which isn't quite the same thing. Throwing all of your clothes and a mini-fridge into the back of your mom's Geo Metro is a little different than the lengths one must go to move six of us, plus dog, cats and bird (and bird's rather enormous cage).

The worst part of this is the non-help of the children. I get a lot of advice about this, mostly consisting of "being tough" with them. Yes. Okay. But if I have to spend this entire time "being tough", I won't get my own work done and we'll be hovering somewhere near limbo. Not going anywhere. Getting nothing done. For the whole summer.

This is the reason summer camps exist.

So, I'm not an expert at this. I'm not sure anyone is, and I'm not sure any of us are supposed to be. We seem to be playing nomad in a culture that longs for place and community and somewhere to belong- and that is getting more and more difficult to find. I blame globalization and a race to the bottom, but that's a subject for another day.

Last weekend, Allan and I went to Mount Vernon to visit and see if we could find temporary housing while we wait for our house here to sell. We also began enrollment for our children in the schools there,  strolled the Chocolate Stroll, window shopped, made a few friends and had a very nice time. Without children. We missed them, but were glad of a few days of peace. While I write this, Josiah is busy having a meltdown because I asked him to sort laundry, Ben is probably sucking up any number of important things with the vacuum, and everyone is accusing everyone else of teasing them about having girlfriends.

Having a break at this point was a good thing.

When we drove into town last Thursday evening, we didn't go straight to the Sleep Inn, instead, we had a little drive around the town. Allan was pretty sure that I'd love it, and he was right. The biggest difference that you notice right off the bat is the lack of anything resembling Walmart. There is no gigantic, industrial smoke-belching factory hovering on the town limits, either. Nearly every business is local, with the exception of the handful of fast food joints and the Sleep Inn out on the highway. The very busy Lincoln Cafe in the main business district serves food sourced from mostly local farms. The Art Gallery on the other side features local artists. It is a different place from the common. In the words of the college president, "It is such a sweet place".

A few years back I read an interview with the author Jan Karon. She talked about how there were Mitfords out there still. I wanted to ask her to be more specific- as in, where exactly? Where are these Mitfords? Where are these towns where people greet each other on the street in the morning before going into the local grill and the local coffee shop? Where you live next door to people you talk to? Where the community tries to be one and succeeds.

I feel ready for this move. Which is saying something about the place, or for it. I think the thorn, as always for me, is to be okay with change. Be okay with the process of it all, the growth any sort of change always requires.

I should probably write something down about this

We're moving.

After years of occasional threats of leaving, we're finally making good on the deal and relieving our long-suffering neighbors from our lawn-care incompetence and loud children. Of course, we're somewhat long-suffering as well. The burning plastic. The revving engines at midnight. That wasn't us.

In this neighborhood I was the stray-cat/animal lady. If a stray cat showed up in town, chances were it would end up looking through my front door and hanging out there until I did something about it. Our dog came to us after being dumped by some person of questionable morals near our town. He was full of fleas and ticks, had an ear hematoma, raging ear infections, wasn't fixed, no clue about shots, and he had the ugliest collar ever. Idiots. The world is full of idiots.

It's been a somewhat quick 13 years in Pleasant Dale, although that seems somewhat suspect. During these years we've had four children, we've lost furry family members and gained others. We've made friends and even a few enemies. In short, we made a life here.

So now the hard work of pulling our roots up and away begins.

This week I decided to fight with the woodwork in the kitchen. There are two doorways and a window which, I mean, I don't know how people screw these things up so spectacularly. Besides the awkward layers of paint we were confronted with in this house, we also had almost no corners because the wallpaper was so thick. Apparently removing things first wasn't quite the ticket with the previous owners. We spent a good two years removing wall paper from every available interior surface- including ceilings. True story. Ceiling paper.

So, after the Wall Paper Wars, we grew weary and the doorways and window sat undisturbed. Disturbing, but themselves undisturbed-

You'll notice how it's been picked at. Like a nervous child with a nose-contents fetish, I'd stand there picking pieces of paint off while on the phone, while waiting for pasta-water to boil. Whenever. I was afraid to use the bad chemicals, so that wasn't going to happen. For awhile I thought of prying all the woodwork off, but then I remembered my adventures with plaster, and put that idea away for braver times.

Finally, I decided to try some of the bad chemicals. Here was the magnificent result-

Awesome, right? I was really excited about spending about $300 more on the green paste from hell in order to scrape off each individual layer of paint and varnish.

Oh yes. The Varnish.

The varnish lay beneath all the layers of (probably) lead-based paint. After talking to a guy at the Walmart in Crete about this problem, he suggested a heat-gun. Now, this wasn't the worst idea, ever. In fact, if not for the varnish, it would have been THE solution.

But the varnish. It was sticky. After having hot air blown on it, it was sticky and it was basically like molten lava. Put those two qualities together and what you get are burns everywhere and a whole lot of frustration, because after every scrape, you end up having to eliminate the sticky molten lava from your scraper, or else it will simply reestablish itself on the wood in large clumps. I caught a fruit fly in a clump of this stuff one day. I felt guilty. And then I remembered Jurassic Park. This stuff could last that long.

The heat gun worked. I'll give it it's proper credit- and after a lot of pain and suffering and cursing and burn-treating- this was the result-

Still not good enough. And... I hate sanding. I mean.. I really, really hate sanding, and if any of this paint is lead based, sanding isn't the best idea in the world. So back to the evil chemicals. 

I first thought I'd have to tape off the kitchen and keep everyone out and cover my face in things to prevent...breathing. The product I tried this time is called Citristrip. It warns you on the label about getting it on your skin or accidentally pouring it in your eye, so, you know- good to be careful. But it worked really well and fast and it didn't fill the house up with fumes, for which I'm grateful- here is the result of that- 

Obviously much better.

Gone to the Bird

This time of year is always at least partially spent searching our yard after storms for baby birds hurled willy-nilly out of bending, blowing trees. Over the years I've found many- too many to give any sort of accurate count. We've found starlings, cow birds, grackles, doves, sparrows and the usually ill-fated robin (I find robins to be the wimp of the bird kingdom). This usually involves a quick dash into Lincoln to the bird-lady of wildlife rescue to drop off the poor bundle- unless the poor bundle is being cared for by parent birds and able to survive without human interference- more on this below. Last Friday morning was a bit different.

 As I was cleaning up the breakfast things, my boys were outside playing and had run up the hill to see some friends who were flagging them down. The friends had found a baby starling in a mud puddle in their back yard. He was struggling with one wing, and had only the very beginning of pin feathers on his wings. My eldest son quickly picked him up and ran home with him. We happened to have a shoe box on hand, but after seeing him, I determined that he needed warming up first. We wrapped him in paper towels and placed him inside a teacup that would hold him still as he warmed up. His eyes were closed, and he only said one little peep. I found a straw and cut the end into a scoop, and located a tin of soft cat food which I mixed a small portion of with water and tipped a drop into the corner of his big, yellow lips. And wonder of wonders, he perked up. It took about three forced feedings for him to begin 'gaping' for the blue straw- a surrogate bird beak. For once, we were unable to locate 'the bird lady', so little bird has been with us ever since. Check out his progress-

Touchy things are baby birds. Their diets are varied- you have to know what each species diet looks like. You have to be willing to get up and feed at night, as with any other baby. They require a certain level of heat- especially those not yet feathered. I felt a little like I was flying by the seat of my pants with this little one. For once, it has worked. Sometimes the trick is knowing when to intervene and when to not. If a bird is a nestling and lacking all or most feathers, chances are slim they'll survive outside of the nest. Sometimes it's possible to place them back in the nest- other times it is not. That is when you intervene. If the bird is entirely feathered out and hard to catch- leave it be. If the bird is feathered out and injured- different story. Basically, it comes down to using a bit of common sense, and being willing to watch for adult birds caring for the baby. Usually they are.

Starlings are an introduced species to North America, and as so are considered a pest, something to get rid of by many people- even though current research has shown that their impact has been far less than originally thought on native bird populations.  I can't help but draw lines of similarity with ourselves in this respect: My ancestors came here and moved right on in, regardless of how the natives felt about it. But I didn't ask to be born here (not that I'm not happy I was!). Same with little starling. It wasn't his choice to be hatched in a tree in Pleasant Dale, Nebraska. But he was, and when he fell, someone noticed.

Handmade Christmas

In the last few years, I've noticed that when Christmas rolls around, gone is any desire on my part to shop. This may or may not have something to do with my overall stubborn nature in regards to societal 'Do's and Don'ts'. Perhaps I'm tired of seeing dead animals wash ashore after an oil companies 'oops' moment, or hearing about plastic garbage choking wildlife or washing out to sea. Maybe it has something to do with debt and my fear of any more of it, or the fact that most of the people that make these toys can't afford them for their own children.

Whatever this drive in me is, I've come up with something I'm rather excited about this year, and I think the kids will actually enjoy it, too. Here it is-

I've decided to make stuffed replica's of things my kids have drawn this year. My first project is a stuffed train for my four year old, Joe.

Here is Joe's train picture (he loves trains and draws them all the time). You'll notice that he's named this particular engine- Sam.



I've begun with the last car on the train~



Here, I am working on the windows- trying to get them as close to the picture as possible~



And here is a photo of the completed car with the next car in the works~



Stuffed animals (or stuffed trains) are one of my favorite things to knit. There's something about the feeling of bringing a character to life in this way.

So, here's hoping that I'll be able to finish before Christmas Eve:)