Cleaning Drawers, Saving Memories

Used to be that whenever I'd call my mom - and I mean, seriously, EVERY time - I'd ask her what she was doing and her answer would be, "I'm cleaning out a drawer." One time it might be the drawer in the kitchen with all of her recipes. Another time it might be her underwear drawer. Or a drawer with family photos. It got to be a running joke with us. It got so I would just begin the conversation - with no hello or anything - "What drawer you cleanin' out now?" Naturally, she'd get finished with every drawer in the house and then just start over again. Years and years of cleaning out drawers and really never cleaning anything out.

I think I began to see a lifelong pattern when a friend of Kate's interviewed my mom about her recollections of WWII. My uncle was a paratrooper who landed in Normandy and fought in the Battle of the Bulge, so my mom's family was, as were nearly all families, directly linked to the war. Annie asked my mom what she was doing when she found out the war was over. Mom thought for a minute and then said, "Cleaning out a drawer!" Not even kidding. We laughed and laughed and laughed.

Over the last few years I've come to realize that those drawers hold the precious memories of my mom's life. I am the Rambo of cleaning out drawers. I can move through a desk in under ten minutes and eliminate its contents by half. I take no prisoners. Not mom. She looks at every piece of paper, every photo, every trinket. And it's not just a passing glance. She has a little conversation in her head about each item: "So and so gave me that recipe. I think I made it once." Does it go in the pitch pile? NO. Because somebody she cared about gave it to her.

A couple of weeks ago mom and I were at an antique store and she spied a set of lawyer's bookshelves that also had card catalog drawers. About six drawers wide and four or five deep. Her bright blue eyes lit up and she said, "Look at all those drawers . . . I could put so much stuff in those!"

Maybe I'll start a drawer cleaning campaign, but it will be a kinder gentler drawer cleaning campaign than my pillages of the past. Maybe I'll linger over the odds and ends I find and try to recollect how it made its way into my life. Then I'll have to face the fact that my favorite fridge magnet is a self-fulfilling prophecy. It says "Please tell me I haven't become my mother." When it's all said and done, though, I'd be lucky if I became the kind of woman my mom is. I already have her sense of humor. She's the one who gave me the magnet.

Stop the Madness!

Snap! There it is. I've lost it. Gone. Over the edge and then some. If I hear ONE more walnut hit the roof I'm clawing my way through the ceiling and personally ripping down every one of our seven mammoth walnut trees. With my bare hands. I don't care that I just got my nails done. Or that they look really lovely. Thud. Thudthud. THUD. Thudthudthudthudthud. It's been a nonstop barrage for two weeks. You know that commercial where all the weapons of yesteryear come raining down on some guy's deck? That's what it's like sitting on the screened in porch. I've got a permanent jerk to all of my features now because those damned walnuts keeps - DAMN - another one just hit! The product for that deck commercial is some weather proofing paint stuff you can put on it to minimize damage (it obviously also protects against those weapons of yesteryear, because if it didn't it would be considered false advertising). I think I just need to get some six foot thick foam rubber and blanket the house and yard with it. That wouldn't be too weird, would it? Can't be any more unsightly than the Motel 6 next to us.

When you add in the squirrel factor, Ron's the one who goes off the deep end. They are digging up everything diggable in our yard. Why? To hide the damn walnuts. Ron wants to buy a gun, which I've said is too inhumane, because I'm thinking that we'd have a bunch of squirrels limping around our yard, with little casts on their paws. That's just what we need. A VA hospital for varmints. If this constant assault of walnuts and digging doesn't stop soon, both Ron and I will need a hospital. And lots of drugs.

The War

Ron just looked over at me and said, "Do you think you can take twelve more hours of this?" We've just finished watching the first installment of Ken Burns' new documentary about WWII, called "The War." It runs through Wednesday this week (7pm on PBS) and three days next week. This first segment covered roughly the first year of the US involvement, beginning in December, 1941, just days after Pearl Harbor was attacked.

This documentary, like Burns' other films, draws on the personal experiences of soldiers who fought in the dozens of theaters of war during WWII. In an interview segment on MSNBC, Burns said that ten years ago WWII vets still weren't ready to talk about their experiences of over 65 years ago. He says five years from now, no vets of that war will be alive. He says 1,000 WWII vets are dying each day. That begins to illustrate the magnitude of that war. It's impossible not to draw comparisons from the war over six decades ago with the war we fight today in Iraq. Burns said that in his travels over the past five years across the country doing research, he would ask audiences for a show of hands of people who knew/know someone involved in this war. He said, outside of military communities, if more than two percent of the people raised their hands he'd be surprised. During WWII, every town, every street, almost every family had a loved one overseas. In the first year of war, 35,000 Americans died. By the end of the war, in 1945, that number was multiplied by ten. Estimates place the total death toll from 50 to 60 million people, and most of those were civilians.

I would encourage you to take some time to watch this compelling story. I've seen "Band of Brothers" numerous times and each time am completely overwhelmed with emotion as I consider this life changing event that occurred during my parent's teenage years. My uncle was a paratrooper who landed in Normandy on D-Day. He still doesn't talk about it. I'll warn you, the footage and still images are very graphic and horrifying. This documentary will provide a much larger picture than "Band of Brothers," which focused specifically on the 101st Airborne Division and its involvement in France and Germany.

World War II has sometimes been called "The Good War." At the beginning of episode one, a vet remarked that he didn't think there was such a thing as a good war. "There are necessary wars, and even just wars, but no wars are good." God help us.

This Will Be Of Interest Only To Photoshop Geeks

I'm thinking back to yesterday. I'm thinking, "Well, there's seven hours of my life I'll never get back." Yesterday I went to a Photoshop seminar at Bartle Hall. I went with three other women who happen to all work together at a wonderful photography studio called epagaFOTO (pronounced ee-pay-ga; it's "agape" spelled backwards). I am blessed to be able to design wedding albums for Jessica, the owner and photographer and work on some other marketing pieces - it keeps me busy and Tyler in college, so, like I said, I'm blessed. Check out her website . . . http://www.epagafoto.com/.

The seminar, however, was not blessed. Unless you want to call it a blessed mind-bending, mind-numbing, mind-altering event. Ohmyallah! The presenter was this middle-aged, bearded guy with a pony tail down his back with obviously waaaaayyyyy too much time on his hands. When he's not flying about the country doing these seminars he's hunched over his Mac creating rivets and scuffed up door mats and neon lighting for stupidly intricate photoshop "paintings." It takes him about a year to do ONE painting and then heck if I know who buys it. Probably Adobe, so they can put it on a beginner CD that states "See What YOU Can Do With the Magic of Photoshop!" When I design wedding albums, one spread (two pages) might have as many as 15 layers, and that's a big file. This guy's stuff has - get ready - 15,000 layers! It makes my head hurt just thinking about it. He has to save each painting in multiple files because the computer starts spewing green vomit and levitating and hurling lewd comments about his mother's computer when he tries to save it as one file. His computer at home has 16 GIGABYTES of RAM and three TERABYTES of memory (I don't even know what a terabyte is . . . must be dreadfully big).

All four of us agreed that these techniques were more geared towards commercial/graphic artists - he didn't show one picture with a zit on it. I mean, really. We also agreed to skip the last session - although he said it would all "come together" and make sense. I'm thinking that the session could have lasted until Christmas and I still wouldn't have a clue as to what he was talking about. After we made our escape through the bowels of the Convention Center we headed to Baby Cakes, a fabulous little bakery down in the River Market area. They make melt-in-your-mouth cupcakes and some pretty wicked chocolates. I'm planning on luring Ron down there some weekend to look at lofts and then kidnap him and take him to Baby Cakes. By the way, the hot new trend in wedding cakes IS cup cakes! I think about four of the last five albums I've designed have featured them. I'm over it already.

Gotta run. I'm getting ready to start re-creating the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Photoshop for our Christmas card. If you don't hear from me in a week or so assume I've been crushed by the suspended monitor - 'cause I'll be on my back, of course.

Only Ron Martin

Ron has said, from time to time, that I shouldn't write about him so much in my blog. I told him to quit giving me so much good material . . .

On Friday night, about 10:30 p.m., I happened to notice that Ron wasn't in the living room anymore watching TV with me. I think I realized that he had gone outside, but I hadn't noticed the time exactly. I was pretty sure he hadn't been gone an hour or more (I really get engrossed in my TV watching, but I can't recall what it was that had my rapt attention . . . ). Anyway, a few seconds later I heard the telltale swishswishswish of a broom just outside the screened-in porch. I think to myself, "You have got to be kidding me." I say out loud, "Ron Martin, what are you doing?" "Sweeping," he says.

I just sat there dumbfounded for a minute or two. Remember, it's 10:30 AT NIGHT. Then I could tell that he had moved to the driveway. Swishswishswish . . . I got up, walked out to the screened-in-porch and called out to him "I don't know whether to call you Emmett or Idiot." He chuckled and said, "How about Idiot Emmett." Emmett, for those of you who don't know (which would be everyone except Kate and Tyler), Emmett was the slightly off-kilter old man who lived up the street from us at our old house who routinely washed the street for no apparent reason. And he had an Native American carved out of a tree that sported a yellow trash sack for a headband. And it had a circle of forest animals sitting at its feet. And about eight million other odd yard ornaments. Now, I'm not sure I ever actually saw Emmett sweeping in the dark, but it's totally something he'd do. And, it was the only name I could come up with that kind of rhymed with idiot.

I may give Ron a lot of grief, but I have to give him this . . . he is a master with a broom. It's really a sight to behold. Quick, short swishes and the dust/leaves/walnuts/whatever just flies. He gets it from his mom, who was also a broom dynamo. Today was the fourth anniversary of her death. It doesn't seem possible that it's been that long. I can still hear her raspy voice and see her feet scurrying along. So, here's to you, Betty. You gave me a good man.

A Short Byte

Tonight Kate called. She says, "What's a good resolution?" I thought for a second and said, "Quit smoking." Turns out she was talking about the resolution of a picture.

Drum Roll, Please

Whew! At long last the bathroom is about as done as it's gonna get. I have one more thing I'm going to do, but thought I'd share some pix so you could see for yourself. The pictures really don't do it justice. You're free to drop by . . . just call to make an appointment. Seating is limited . . .

Blasts from the Pasts

I don't know if we're officially empty nesters or not, but we're sure behaving like we are. I think nowadays you are considered a "successful" empty nesters only after a period of, say, five consecutive years have passed without a child at home. But we don't care. We are doing what we please, when we please and we are pleased to say that it's agreeing with us. Today we decided to do a little road trip back to the town where I lived the first twelve years of my life, Marshall, MO, situated about 70 miles east of KC.

We took the scenic route on Highway 24 to Marshall (we hopped on I-70 for the return trip). We stopped in Waverly, where we got some freshly picked Jonathan apples that will no doubt find themselves in a pie soon. We drove through Grand Pass, one of the tiny hamlets where my dad did an itinerant preaching gig for several years. His claim to fame during that time of his life? Getting indoor plumbing for all the churches. Yes, I spent many a Sunday planting my bum on splintery outhouse potties, always in great fear that a spider or snake was going to interrupt me. Anyway, we got to Marshall around 11:30 and spent the first hour or so driving around town, with me saying, "Slow down! Slow down!" I was amazed at how small everything was and how very different it all looked. When I was a kid I thought the block we lived on was really long, but it's not. I almost missed our house, but once I found it I could identify almost every house on the block. It was a neighborhood full of kids and we spent many summer nights playing kick the can in the Fischer's front yard, or capture the flag between our house and the Yaeger's. It really was like a scene taken right out of "The Wonder Years."

We then made our way across town to the first house I ever lived in on Eastwood, a beautiful street lined with absolutely fabulous homes that still make my heart stop. My good friend, Susan, and her folks bought the house after we moved out, so I really have more memories of that house when they lived in it than when I did (I was five when we moved). To my surprise, it was for sale (as was our other house - how weird is that?). Ron called the realtor and found out that it was empty. He said that I had lived in the house years ago and told her my name and she said she'd be glad to take us through it. Turns out my dad was supposed to perform her wedding but had a flat tire and arrived after the wedding was over (another minister was on hand). It was wonderful to be able to walk through that house and have the memories come flooding back. The beautiful dining room and living room, big foyer and big staircase, the back "servant's" stairs . . . I remember watching Kennedy's funeral on TV in my parent's bedroom (really not happy that Captain Kangaroo wasn't on). My brother and I are both adopted and I remember quite vividly (or maybe I remember quite vividly being told) that I told the social worker who was making a home visit that she could just take that baby back. I wasn't having it. We were on the screened in porch, which has now been enclosed. The upstairs bedrooms were tiny, tiny, tiny and we thought the asking price of $185,000 was a bit steep because there was quite a bit of cosmetic work that needed to be done.

We drove through the city park, which is really huge and still beautiful. The very cool swimming pool is still there, with its classic art deco design. I remember thinking when I was a kid that it had to be the biggest pool in the world. It's still pretty big but has acquired several slides and other bells and whistles that kids today seem to need. All we needed was water and a dime for a frozen Snickers. The playground we spent hours was still there and I'm pretty sure most of the merry-go-rounds and tee totters were the same ones I played on. I'm thinking that it's probably not very safe, not to mention probably loaded with lead-based paint! We then headed downtown. Marshall has an old-fashioned square with a stately courthouse in the middle. It seems like there were weekly ice cream socials during the summer and frequent Midnight Madness or sidewalk sales. Sadly, the area has become rather a lonely place. The only familiar businesses were the banks. One of the girls who lived two doors up from us (one of the Fischers, whose front yard was used in kick the can games) owns an antique store so I spent an hour talking to her and her sister (who used to babysit me), reviving memories and finding out who was still around. Ron and her husband took off down the street to look at another building they own, the old Marshall Hotel. Ron came back drooling and, of course, now wants to move to Marshall.

It really was a perfect day. All day long, little flashes of the past kept firing in my brain and I remembered people I hadn't thought of in years. Throughout the day I found myself being filled with really deep, deep joy. I think revisiting places of my past that hold warm memories affirms who I am today and helps shore up the core values that my parents instilled in me. I feel so so blessed.

Almost There!

Finally. The bathroom is 90% complete (only thing left to do is spend some more money on other cool things/accessories). I was seriously beginning to entertain the thought of installing a Johnny On the Spot in our backyard, but wisely realized that if we did that we'd only be one step away from becoming - I'm seriously so tired I can't even make anything up. A county fair, maybe? An outdoor concert? Better quit while I'm ahead.

We chose two complementary colors: Ovation and Turkish brown; walls in Ovation, trim in the TB. Once Ron got the wall color done I was a little aghast. It looked like the room had experienced a nuclear bomb and the radiation was pulsing out all over the place. So, I did a little faux treatment with glaze, the TB color and those plastic grocery sacks. I have to admit, it looks pretty dang good. Kind of like a worn saddle. You can see me demonstrating my technique on HGTV's "Projects Designed to Threaten Even the Best Marriages." In the process I burned my arm on one of the wall sconces. Twice. Cussed twice, too. I'd taken off the shades for better access and that stupid little tiny bulb burned the heck out of my forearm. I told Ron I can't imagine what it feels like to have a serious burn injury. Dang.

Despite several logistical problems and the horrifically long time it took us to get it done, it was fun. Earlier this evening I commented to Ron that it was probably a good thing we didn't own a home for the first six years of our marriage because I don't think the union could have survived remodeling projects. But, after 26 years, we kind of know each other's strengths and weaknesses (and which buttons to push if we really want to get it started). I'll have pictures soon. We plan to have a private ribbon cutting ceremony next weekend and then it will be open to the public. Admission will be $2 per person, free to kids who are potty training. Included in the admission price is a guided tour and ten minutes of private time. Magazines will be provided at no additional charge. Hope to see you soon.