My Wee Fireplace

On dark days I love to close the heavy red velvet curtains over the glass doors to the patio and light up my wee fireplace. A low library table harbors a variety of candles and containers for tea lights, most of which I’ve found in thrift shops. Then I stretch out on the sofa across the room and with soft pillows propping me up, I soak up the pleasure. If I had a fireplace like some I’ve had before I’d be watching that, but never mind, there are some benefits to my present one. It’s not as exciting as a crackling wood fire, true, and it doesn’t change from leaping flames to glowing embers, but there are no ashes to clean up, no sooty chimney, no hauling in wood. I find my wee fireplace nearly as enjoyable as any of its predecessors. I watch the various ways each candle burns, and how its holder or container gives distinctive artistry to light.

Before I dig into the daily newspaper I just retrieved from the front door and tackle the world and its problems I watch my wee fireplace and congratulate each little flame. I don’t need music or anything but the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock and its occasional chime to play on my senses. It is enough to look around the room, soak up its ambience and count my blessings. Especially, I don’t need the TV at a time like this.

As I watch each tiny flame seems to have its own identity, dance to its own music and shine its own friendly smile at me from across the room. I actually just saw one of them laugh! I think it saw itself in the mirror beside the table. But with all their illuminations the “talk” of my candles does not intrude, disturb or drum on the auditory senses. Instead it reminds me of how fortunate I am, and yes, how smart I’ve become to take out time to sit by and just soak up my blessings. I don’t have to chase away worrisome thoughts because I’ve left no door unlocked in my mind for them to enter. 

My brother has a sign posted near his desk that says, “OLD AGE IS NOT FOR SISSIES.” I know what that means and I’m determined not to be or become a sissy in my old age. If I have complaints I won’t fight them or dignify them with complaining, even to myself. An hour or two in a darkened room beside my wee fireplace can cure them. I’ll keep company with the angels here and think of all the other so-called oldsters who, this very day, are lucky enough to be doing the same. 

"Among My Souvenirs"

Grandma’s attic used to be a great place to spend time in my younger life. I don’t recall much of what I found there or being very interested in the history of those odd unrelated things. It was more the atmosphere I enjoyed, the feeling of being among friends and relatives too far back to remember. There was a smell of the place, a temperature that only a midwest summer’s afternoon can duplicate, both dusty and humid enough to make me perspire and not stay too long. Today I own only one thing from that attic, - a heavy well-crafted hammer that belonged to Grandpa and was no doubt used in building the very house the attic lived in. That house is long gone, but the hammer is still intact, the most solid tool I own, ageless in usefulness, priceless to the eyes.

Even more fascinating to me though was Grandma’s china cabinet. In it was a beautiful cobalt blue glass vase. Sometime after Grandma died Grandpa took me over to the cabinet one afternoon and said, “Joycie, I’ve seen you looking at that blue vase often. Do you like it well enough to have it as your own? Will you keep it forever and remember Grandma by it?” Would I? I was too stunned to believe what I’d heard but I said, “Oh, yes, Grandpa! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

I loved it for its beauty, transparency and richness of color in the sunlight. It belonged in a window and I had just the spot for it in my bedroom. First I needed to clean out the old rose petals I found inside the vase. I wondered why they were there but never thought to ask Grandpa. The shape of the vase was lovely. An ample round bottom, a narrow stem-like middle and a top that opened out like a bell. Foolish little pre-teen  girl that I was, my main interest was in the visual delight this object offered me, not in its history.

Through the years I used it on special occasions for flowers but often I would be frustrated that the middle part of the vase was so slender I could only get a few stems of a large bouquet in it. Many years later when an appraiser came in to list our few antiques before a move she said as she held my blue beauty, “Do you know what this is?” I said, “Why, it’s a vase, isn’t it?” 

“No, she answered, this is a ladies’ spittoon!” She added, “You see the narrow middle? It’s meant to fit easily into a lady’s hand. The top is to catch both ashes from a special ladies’ cigar and, well, you can guess the rest.” 

In one stunned moment I remembered the comments I’d heard as a child about “Liza,” my great, great grandmother. “She was a tiny woman, always dressed like a lady of some means, even though she was a small farm wife.  She always wore white collars and cuffs. And she’d sit in her rocker and smoke a ladies’ cigar!”

I’d never met this ancestor of mine but I did know her son, my great grandfather, Thomas Pulford. He, too, liked smoking cigars and people were always bringing him boxes of White Owls. I used to sit at Grandpa Pulford’s feet on a little footstool and get him to tell me stories about when he was a boy of eight and his father gave up the life of a sailor to come to the New World and claim land under the Homestead Act in the rolling hills of southeastern Minnesota. 

Later I learned about how his mother, (the original owner of the blue “vase,”) was the daughter of a wealthy ship-builder who owned a fleet of ships. On one of these ships when she had accompanied her mother on an ocean voyage she had secretly married Great Grandpa Pulford’s father, a handsome young seaman aboard the ship. The captain had married them unbeknownst to her parents and when they were found out her father declared that the marriage must be annulled. Great great Grandma Pulford would have none of that and even forfeited her inheritance to stay with her husband. They soon moved to The New World.”

I could tell more, but what this illustrates is how much we miss of the history of old possessions. My great great grandmother’s blue vase is now in the possession of her great great great great granddaughter, Kimberly Milliken Wethe Rily. Probably her daughter, Samantha, will someday own it. I must remember to tell her the story.

 Hardly anyone knows the old song “Among My Souvenirs,” but I love that piece. I play it on the piano from a tattered piece of sheet music and weep when I come to the end where it says, “I count them all apart, and as the teardrops start, I find a broken heart among my souvenirs.”  

The Liberated Woman

People sometimes ask me, “What did you do before you retired?” My answer is, “I ran my own business.” Then I add, “As for retirement, I’m not retired and I don’t expect I ever will be because the business needs me and I couldn’t be happier working.”

Of course, the questioner always probes further, “ Interesting! What might your business be?” I go on to explain. “I am a homemaker, I write, sculpt, play the piano, sketch, play bridge, read, sew, cook a little, keep house, garden and sometimes go back to school or volunteer for some good cause. On a day I look at my calendar and see nothing posted, I yell, 'Yippee!' I call that day a surprise package. Maybe, on second thought, you could call that retirement.”

If I'd been talking to a young and eager business woman attempting to break through the glass ceiling I’d probably lose my audience in short order. She’s likely to believe she can do what used to be called a man’s job, be a happy wife, raise a family and nearly everything I did just as well or better. Maybe she’s right. She’s the so-called “liberated woman” of the new century and I admire her. Sometimes I may even have envied her. I knew those secret yearnings to find some more interesting work and draw a pay check for it. Still, I’ve managed to love my work and never begrudge or degrade it. Somehow I’ve been too contented. I never aspired to finish my last two years of college and pursue another career. To get married to a good looking, intelligent and honest career Marine pilot at the age of nineteen was the ultimate for me. I felt I'd been catapulted over a sea of studies, tests, job-seeking, and hunting for the "right man" in one glorious leap. 

At first I did feel embarrassed to be sharing the money my husband worked for but he saw nothing unusual about it. We were of a different generation, of course. Soon enough I was able to see that I worked for our money too. I once wrote down an estimate of what it would cost my husband to hire someone to clean, cook, do laundry, shop, take care of the children, their pets, and generally act as CEO of a household. I kept that information to myself but once or twice I may have shown it to him. That would have been when some argument about money came up and I needed to strengthen my case. 

But here’s something worth thinking about: What do most working people look forward to? I’d wager that would be retirement. Unless they’re like my son, David, who told me once, “Mom, I’m so happy with my job I’d gladly work for nothing if I didn’t need the money.” That kind of person probably does not look forward to retirement. 

In one sense I’ve had that kind of job all my life. I’ve enjoyed taking care of my children and my home and occasionally taking on a volunteer job if it did not interfere with these. I’ve been able to do this without working for someone else with one exception. When I was newly widowed I tried a full time job as receptionist and secretary for a retirement community. It was enjoyable enough for the five years I was in it, but, since I no longer needed the extra money, I went back to home life and being my own boss. I’ve had some of “retirement” activity nearly every day of my life. If I haven’t made a name for myself or reached high levels of achievement it’s only because I didn’t have the interest or will. I may have missed many opportunities but I’m not sure I’d change much, even if I could.

There’s no real way to describe a liberated woman. I think that liberation in its highest sense comes from within. It is a state of mind, more than a condition of circumstances. So, somehow, I believe it’s within the reach of every woman on the face of the planet to become liberated, though it would be much more difficult, if not impossible, without hope, faith and love in her heart. 

There must be more definitions of liberated women than we know. Often we read about them, occasionally we encounter them in our own lives and, if we’re fortunate enough to count ourselves liberated, we women may save this weary world of ours.

How to Eat Candy

If you are overweight, I could tell you a simple way to eat that would reduce you to your optimum weight without a sense of deprivation. I call it my Forget Dieting Diet. I know it works because it worked for me. Whoever has struggled to stay on a diet and failed will find this one easy. You just need to start with one cardinal rule:

                                                           Eat Half Portions

Think what you’d like, no more than you’re used to, and divide it in half. Use the same pattern of eating you’ve had, just cut the portions in half. For instance, an hour or two after my morning meal of cereal, with milk and fruit, I hanker for a mid-morning sweet treat. Chocolate covered caramels are my favorites. I buy them at Trader Joe’s and they’re not quite an inch square. A sharp knife makes a clean cut through the middle. I put one half back in the box and I savor the other half any way I like, slowly by nibbles or in one big long lasting chew. That’s my candy break for the day. It’s a treat I can enjoy without guilt because I know I won’t even be tempted to eat more candy until tomorrow. After its gone my half piece of candy satisfies just as much as a whole one would have.

I tried this half portion program and in a few months I lost weight slowly until I reached a point where I stopped losing. Thirty pounds gone. Now I’m not skinny or fat. I'm not trying to look like a movie star. The best part is that I can, and do, forget about food until I get hungry. Then out come the half portions. I savor them slowly, including my favorite dessert, ice cream. I dig out a big scoop, take a sharp knife and slice it down the middle. Half goes back in the carton, the other half I enjoy without a trace of fear that it will make me fat. When eating out I either divide with someone or take the half portion home.

The main thing about this non-diet diet is to be absolutely honest. No cheating! Be consistent. When you’ve got it settled in your mind that the half-portion rule is fixed, non-negotiable, your cravings will cease. Then watch the weight leave. Be patient but persistent and satisfy yourself with some other interest. Believe me, there's more to life than food. 

When I think back on all the articles I’ve read, the books, the how-to-lose-weight programs I started before I made up my own, I laugh at money spent unnecessarily. This one idea doesn’t cost a cent. It seems to me to make perfect sense. So, try it. Save your cents (dollars) and give it a whirl. You’ll end up not only a better size but a better person. And you’ll feel satisfied. I guarantee it!

Working the Butterfly Way

One of the tricks of learning how to pray is knowing what to pray for. In my advanced (love that word!) years, I can see I’ve avoided asking for the one thing I’ve needed, a finishing school to show me the way to work in an orderly fashion. I don’t think that’s the kind of thing  most finishing schools emphasize. My finishing school would not just be for young women and, to tell the truth, I wouldn’t want someone else to be telling me how to work until a task is finished. I think I know that. So, I’m not sure I want to go to such a school, even if it exists. I’m stubborn that way. I want to figure it out for myself. Let’s talk Home-schooling.

Knowing how I’ve missed the mark all these years is a first step. I get started with great enthusiasm toward some goal. I keep at it long enough to see the possibilities and enjoy a degree of success, but after a while some other attractive option comes along and I get diverted. It’s like going down the road and being drawn into side roads. I don’t want to miss a thing.The side roads have their own side roads and before long I may or may not get back to the road I started on. I call myself a butterfly. A butterfly doesn’t stick to a road. But even a butterfly knows where to go at night. I, too, always go home, and I go to sleep blissfully knowing there’s another day to finish what I've started.

I’m not proud of this pattern. It’s just stating the fact as hitherto observed. So, what to do about it? My better self says, “Shape up, gal. Learn to stick to a job until it's done!” My other better self says, “No! Don’t become tunnel visioned. Take off those blinders you’ve been given and look around. Wander all you like; you have all eternity to succeed.” 

If a day has no particular commitments I love to approach it in my butterfly way. I start what I should do, like making the bed, but I deliberately let myself get side-tracked. Like seeing one of the “just for looks” pillows that occupy my bed during the day. It has frayed corners. I go to my sewing materials, find just the right fabric to make a new cover for it. I get out the sewing machine, and here’s where I generally do finish the task. The joy of seeing my new/old pillow on the bed drives me to finish making the bed. Then I get to indulge in the sight of it the rest of the day.

I’m at the point, this minute, where I’ve set aside both the bed-making and the pillow up-grading to write this blog. Now I know I’m not alone, and out there in the blue someone might exist who knows how I can be better with finishing my tasks and still not deny myself the option to start others before I finish them.

Somehow I manage to get things done eventually, but not in the order or pace that society likes to see them done. Dear God, I’m not really praying for a finishing school. It was only a random thought drifting by like another butterfly. Just let me exercise the free will You’ve given me and end up pleasing You. And me too. Thanks! You’re great and You’re good. And You see good everywhere. I’d like that too. Now that’s a task worth pursuing! Or no, I think it’s a gift worth accepting! Like a butterfly in a flower garden.

Dusting the Gate-legged Table

In my house there's a gate-legged table that belonged to my mother. She brought it from her childhood home to the new little starter house Daddy bought for the two of them to begin married life in Minneapolis. That was sometime around the last of the year 1924. I came along shortly before Christmas of the next year and, when I was old enough to tackle the task, dusting that little table was my job.

The table was the one thing I chose when my father broke up house-keeping. It stands in my bedroom now and looks rather sad. What it needs is some extensive repair and most of all a thorough dusting and polishing. Murphy's Oil might do the trick. I remember how Mother  got down on her knees and showed me how to polish those spindle legs and the oval drop leaves. She made me feel it was a  privilege to have inherited that job, a link to generations past. I remember best however, when I was finished with the job, she'd come to inspect my work. She, unlike other housewives of that era often wore "slacks." ("Pants" were something you wore under them.) But over her crisp white blouse and slacks there would be a fresh apron with a ruffle around the edge. She'd come and stand back to look at the table and under her curly dark hair and beautiful dark eyes was a smile that only mothers can smile. That was my reward.

It is no wonder then that when Daddy asked me what I'd like to have of his household furnishings I claimed the gate-legged table. By then I really didn't have room for it and so wherever I've moved it's ended up in my bedroom. I use it to hold those countless small framed pictures of children, grandchildren and other faces of generations past that have to be identified when a little one asks, "Who's this, Grandma?"

Now I have a hard time getting around to dusting, let alone polishing, furniture. It's too easy to put that job off until I know company is coming. The table's drop-leaves are down and a long runner drapes over its top and sides so dust doesn't show much. But the spindle legs peek out as I walk by and remind me that someday I've got to get down on my hands and knees and tackle the job of cleaning and polishing my treasured table. I know of a place I could take it where the man has a business of antique restoration. It would cost me a pretty penny to give him the job and I suppose that's the one obstacle. Still, someday I simply must have the table restored so someone can care about it, love it, keep it, use it. The alternative is too tragic to contemplate.  No one has the memories I have to go with the table but someone somewhere will want it, I hope. In the back of my mind as I walk past Mother's table I see her standing by and I know I must make the effort to give it new life.

 I'd love to imagine her pleasure. I'd love to deserve that smile!

My Library Room

I've always thought that having a library room in my house would be...I can't find an adequate word. Let's only say that when I think big-time I can see it clearly. Not too large but furnished with a couple of the kind of fat leather chairs you sink into with a sigh. The chairs must face a fireplace, of course. There I could lay aside my book, turn off the reading lamp and watch until flaming logs dwindle down to glowing cities of transparent embers.

The room would be dimly lit by lamps and tall narrow windows where red velvet curtains could be drawn open or shut depending on the weather.  A large library table set up for in-depth study would have a corner in my library room. I suppose there would have to be a computer there, though inconspicuous. A beamed ceiling, a rolling ladder to access the floor to ceiling bookshelves. A TV too for a few select programs and the soft music stations.

My library room's door would not be shut tight. There must be space for small feet to enter and carry little ones into Great Grandma's lap for story time. Friends must feel welcome to come and family too. A place for tea and cookies would be handy and on rare occasions a lap dinner. But in the quieter hours when I'm alone I must grant myself the indulgence of short naps. There could be a canary cage in the corner high enough so a cat or small dog could not disturb him. I see my library room as an all-day refuge where I could go to live, explore, study and wonder. So complete this little room might be that the rest of such a house can remain vague in my mind's eye.

But would you like to hear about my present-day real life library? Well, it's spread over the whole house, which incidentally is small enough to embrace only a corner of the kind of stately magnificent libraries you see in grandiose mansions. Books and bookshelves are everywhere. The library table, (yes, I have one,) cannot contain my current reading. Its contents are spilled all over, including the bed and the dining room table. They occasionally stray out to the patio as well, but never into the bathroom. No reading there. I must have something warm and cozy and attractive to look at when I glance up from printed pages.

The simple truth, I believe, is that we get what we want. I'm not sure I could want my dream library room any more than my cottage-condo. Besides, if the library room of my dreams is ever to materialize, it will have to wait for my ship to come in. I'm not expecting that very soon!