Is there “junk” in your life? What kind? How do you get rid of it?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us JUNK.
A clean and tidy house calms me, assures that all is right with my world. Clean as in floors washed, dishes scrubbed, trash contained and clean as in visually calm and pleasing to the eye, everything in its place, ship-shape, serene. There is an order to the spaces and pieces in my home, purposely placed to show their function, use, or aesthetic beauty. Artful placement. Nothing mumble jumble. It has always been this way for me, a comfort comes in knowing and visualizing where everything is and why it is. Addicted to order and beauty, addicted to calm. I fear chaos.
I am addicted to order and beauty yet I can not pass by that one-off chair sitting by the curb, discarded, worse for wear. I can see possibilities and beauty. A project. Junk to you, treasure to me. Lately, I am drawn to shades of blues and greys, reminiscent of oceans and skies, the shades changing with the hour and the light. Moody shades. Addicted to shape. I touch all that is round, smooth, and cool. Rocks, chestnuts, shells, pottery bowls, and glass are heaven in my hands. Lately, I am addicted to words, those prolific, simple quotes that complete a thought. I selectively search them out, books, notecards, posters, pillows, words grace my space. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Junk challenges and over the years I have attempted to deal with that aspect in my life. Recycling when I can, discarding if I must, choosing with a selective eye, finding a home for each item, or walking away. When I see an item of beauty, it is the history that captivates me, the memories evoked, the stories. I am addicted to the stories that the pieces whisper forth as they sit in the thrift shop, or beside the curb. Sometimes, I falter and bring them along home, lovingly restoring and coaxing new life to the damaged shapes. Finding a place for the old. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Junk can clutter a home; it can clutter a life. Lately, I have decided to deal with the debris in my soul, sweeping it off and dusting over the scratches. Polishing up the shabbier pieces, illuminating the beauty and shine, finding my voice. It requires one to be brave, take a risk. It is difficult to let go and scatter the broken bits, the memories we frantically cling to. Some of these memories will find a place in a story, some banished, others will be forgiven, planting the seeds of hope and promise. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Oh~ and I will purposely leave a cup out-of-place. I will walk away.
Hello~ it’s Alice
Cheerio, Darlings! It’s Alice peeking through the clouds of Heaven. As summer winds down I felt it timely to share a wee bit of Alice Wisdom with you. Soon the chills will be upon us and we must have a plan to fortify the home and its members!
No home should be without honey and pure fruit juices. A spoonful of home honey every morning helps to fortify your defenses. Use the fruit juices to prepare hot drinks for colds and chills. Black currant is best, dears! They must be pure juices.
Finally, have a wee tot of whiskey in the house, love. A teaspoonful in a toddy is a grand pick-me-up when you come in chilled to the bone! Adults only, dears!
Now, Mother have a look in the medicine cabinet and make sure that you are prepared!
Until next time,
Word Press~ DP Challenge
My earliest memory is of myself as a three-year-old child awaiting the arrival of another, the sister. Throughout the lead up to the sister’s arrival, there were comings and goings, blurred images. There were the preparations, piles of snow-white diapers, the rosebud flannelette bedding, soft as bunny ear sleepers, and the wooden crib. There was, the kindly German speaking housekeeper hired to manage the home, when my mother went to the hospital, the one who served the bright pink borscht soup and encouraged me to “eat up, eat up.” There was my father flitting in and out to attend to work and visit with my mother, my uncle’s cheerful, teasing presence and Grandfather Boomba’s, quiet, watchful eyes from afar. Colouring pictures for my mother, waiting patiently for her return, watching the cherry tree from the kitchen window, its limbs bare, stalwart, anticipating winter’s coming storms. Finally, my father arriving home, flushed and excited to share the news, Marge had a baby girl! You have a sister, Grace. Let’s have a cigar, James! A sister. I cannot remember much emotion surrounding the news on my part, rather I believe that I hoped that the sister would play school with me, and allow me to cart her around in a baby doll buggy. A sister. This sister, a fragile, teensy little bit wrapped in a white knit blanket, arrived home on a cold, late fall afternoon, a winter fairy. A sister tucked so snug, her little pink face barely visible from beneath the blanket tightly swaddled around the wee body. The sister with such dark eyes, almost black, centered in a teensy pink face, grub like, she was so fresh to the world, a fascinating fairy child for entertainment. Immediately, I would discover that the sister, fairy child could be quite stormy, heartily screeching out, and dependent of the safety found in my mother’s arms. The sister was establishing and asserting her unfairy like ways into our lives with amazing speed and tenacity. In my young mind, there wasn’t anything magical about this one.
I recall a memory, a moment. Hearing some sounds from the hatchling, I tiptoed into my parent’s bedroom to view the little sprite wriggling in the crib, her little pink fists tightly clenched into balls, limbs jerking, poking up and out from under the blanket that loosely swaddled her limbs. The sister sounded like a restless kitten, mewing and peeping as she struggled to unwind. My mind wondering, what if I just picked her up and carried her to the kitchen, to my mother? I carry Betsy, the plastic wetting doll, I can carry this one. The sister was wiggly so I quickly grasped the writhing body by the legs plucking it from the crib. Upside down, quickly becoming agitated, hysterically frantic by the time I walked the short distance to the kitchen, the sister’s face the colour of beets. Here’s your baby, stated in a rather disgusted tone of voice. My mother leaping from her chair, grabbing the sister and righting her body; the eyes back up toward the ceiling.
This story would resurface in conversations over the years, my mother adding in the part, she held you by the legs upside down almost damn near dropping you on your head! Luckily she didn’t!
The sister would be fine and forgiving with this fact as she quickly learned that had she been dropped on her head, it would pale in comparison to the bumps and crashes she would later experience. The sister is a brave one, far stronger than me. I am grateful for her presence and love. My earliest memory is of a three year old awaiting the arrival of another, the sister.
Tea with Alice was amusing, if not, slightly charming. My Grandmother Alice enjoyed a spot of tea, Earl Grey being the tea of choice. Alice used a cooking pot to boil the water before transferring some of the scalding liquid into a metal teapot to warm it up. Then, my grandmother would take a minute timer and tip it over, the sand slipping through the tiny channel of glass. After 3 tips of the timer, 3 minutes, according to Alice, she would dump the warming water into the sink and fill the teapot, adding Earl Grey to the mix. From my vantage point at the cluttered chrome table, I could see Alice’s prep area, a tiny room that extended off of the kitchen area, as if built as an after thought, Where shall I cook, Charles? There was a window through which Alice could observe her two sisters who lived in the house next door. Looking to the right, Alice could see her garden of pansies. Usually, Topsy, the cat was sunning on the brick borders or the adjoining sidewalk between the two houses. Painted white cupboards attached on either side of the sink area. The counter top was wooden. There was a plunger on the floor. Beneath the sink was open shelving crammed full of various odds and sundries, a container of Ajax, a tobacco tin, plastic bucket, oil, paper bags, bolts, washers, and a mousetrap. The Scotch and Sherry were hidden behind the plastic bucket. The everyday cutlery sat in a large empty tin of Nabob’s Instant Coffee. The yellow handles looked like they were fashioned from bone. Open shelving lined the wall opposite the sink, where Alice kept her box of saltines, sugar biscuits, canned ham, flour, and baking items. Did I mention the cookie bags and cake boxes? I should tell you that Alice stashed cash in the bottom of cookie and food packages. Like a resourceful little mouse wife, Alice managed to stash a lot of cash.
The stove was in the open area of the kitchen, where I would patiently sit, watching and waiting for our tea to brew. Alice preferred her tea strong and would let the tea brew for five minutes, before pouring the dark, amber liquid into a teacup. I preferred my tea, weak. It’s practically water, Grace! Carnation Evaporated Milk to flavour the tea, turning the liquid to a creamy, caramel shade. Alice would pour a drop of canned milk into her cup and stir it slowly with a teaspoon, the creamy milk creating swirls in the dark liquid. The biscuits were usually Peak Frean’s Sugar Biscuits, the thin wafer deliciously sweet with sprinklings of fine sugar.
We always sat across from one another, Alice with her back to the mudroom, mine to the stove. Picture this, Alice’s drying rack hanging directly behind me to the left of the stove. Always, there would be bits and pieces of personal garments hanging from this suspended contraption. Slips, nylons, knit wool socks, when my Grandfather was alive; Alice never wore socks, only nylons. Sheer scarves would dangle, along with the occasional brassière. I always thought that this was rather unusual and out-of-place to air your laundry in full view of the guest, so to speak. If the space heater was blowing or the window open, it was not unusual to find a sheer half-slip or a pair of nylon stockings on your head or dangling off a shoulder-blade, all the while sipping tea. It was rather cheeky and quite disconcerting to politely pick the undergarment off and return it to the drying rack. Alice was rather proper in her deportment therefore I never understood this rather improper arrangement she had with her laundered undergarments, scarves, and guests.
A comfy Queen Ann style chair sat beside the stove, under the suspended drying rack. Alice would sit and read the daily paper; teacup perched on the stovetop, before retiring off to bed. It was the very same chair that held her tired shell, the morning I looked in the window and saw her sitting in the chair, dead, with a half-slip covering her hair.
Alice’s sister, Molly fascinated me. Molly was constantly soaking her feet in hot water. Newspapers would be spread under the bucket to catch the splashes and drips. Sometimes, when I would enter Alice’s kitchen, Molly would be soaking her feet as she rested her ample bottom on the Queen Ann. My grandmother, Alice, said that Molly worked in a local Fruit Cannery and had, rheumatism. Molly’s legs bowed as she ambled with an awkward, stiff gait. Aunt Molly never spoke, ever. We would look at each other and I would say politely, How are you Aunt Molly? She would nod and grin. Whereas Alice was pretty, Molly was crone like, slightly frightening, her feet plunked in a bucket of hot water, watching and grinning. I’m ashamed to admit, I imagined Molly flying about the night skies on a broomstick. Molly read trash magazines; that’s what my father called them. The National Enquirer was her choice. This tidbit piqued my curiosity as I was only allowed to read real books, forbidden comics, no sensational trash. Once I located Molly, sunning in her chair, I would stroll by, attempting to crane my neck enough to see the tabloid cover shot of the MAN WITH TWO HEADS or some other fantasy alien creäture. Purposely, I would venture to the side of my Grandmother’s house, lurking about, hoping to find a forgotten copy of Molly’s trash tabloids. That opportunity ended abruptly, my childhood days spent visiting Alice, over, and by the time I was seven.
That’s the perplexing thing, why did our occasional visits to see Alice cease? My father appeared uncomfortable in his childhood home; he didn’t seem to handle the small, claustrophobic space that well. Pacing about the perimeter of the small kitchen, sitting for a few minutes, standing and pacing, that’s how I remembered my father’s actions. Sometimes, my Grandmother would bring out some of my father’s tin toys with wind up keys. Minstrels, feet tapping on a tin stage, wind up cars, a one-eyed sawdust teddy bear, and mechanno covered the living room carpet. Our visiting time was usually up, shortly after we arrived. On the car ride home, father would comment on his mother, She’s an odd old bird, junk and stuff everywhere, never throws anything out. Dad does everything for her and the sisters.
It was about the time that our visits ended when Alice began to take it upon herself to preach the word about, Cod Liver Oil. Alice decided that my sister and I could use a bit of fortification and took it upon her self to administer a tablespoon-sized dose of the ghastly oil. We weren’t impressed. The grown ups crowding, Molly, grinning that crazed grin, watching as the spoon got closer and closer. My sister would cry until my father picked her up, puckering her mouth shut, refusing the vile liquid. I would resist for as long as possible until finally weakening, succumbing as the hard edge of the spoon was pushed into my mouth. It was about that time that I decided that it would be best for all if we never returned to Alice’s house. We never did, not as children.