Past, Present and Future are in the Cards

If weight gain, the odd grey hair and fatigue aren’t enough to signal my firm entrenchment in middle age (sneaking ever closer to senior citizen status), then the section I’ve come to frequent in the greeting card aisle is a dead giveaway.

Yesterday I purchased not one but three sympathy cards. In the past few weeks, two friends have lost parents and one a sibling. And so I found myself in the sympathy section of the card aisle, looking over their selection of bereavement cards.  It’s always tricky to chose the right one. Though I’m religious, the recipients may not be, so I have to walk that fine line between comfort and uneasiness.  There are very specific cards for mothers, brothers, fathers and sisters. There are even cards for the loss of a pet, though I’ve yet to buy one of those. I tend to shy away from anything that rhymes; it just seems wrong in this context. And though I’m a writer myself, I try to select cards that convey the sentiment for me, since the loss of a loved one seems to leave me at a loss for words.

It seems like a lifetime has passed since I bought an engagement or wedding card.  In my twenties and thirties, I felt like I was visiting the card store every other day.  The progression rarely varied: A “congratulations on your engagement” card, followed by a card for the bridal shower and then one for the wedding.  In no time, I’d return to buy the “You’re expecting!” card, followed by a baby shower card and then a card commemorating the actual birth.  The cycle repeats itself for second marriages and subsequent children.  In hindsight, I should have bought stock in Hallmark.

Over the years, the wedding and baby cards began to taper off, and I’d find myself frequenting the ‘milestone birthday’ section, searching for just the right card for my friends turning 40.   There were funny cards depicting prune juice and Geritol, flattering cards lamenting the recipient’s lack of wrinkles, and the out-and-out lie cards (“40 is the new 30!”).  Ten years later, I notice there are fewer choices among the “Hey, you’re 50!” cards.  Maybe it’s because there’s less humor in turning 50.  Maybe we just don’t want to be reminded.

And so now as I approach 50 myself, I’ve become a connoisseur of “get well”, “encouragement” and sympathy cards.  Many of my peers are dealing with the illness or death of a parent, a sibling or even a spouse.  As I stood in the card aisle, looking through their assortment, I noticed another woman, about my age, sifting through the same selection.  We kind of danced around each other as we vied for space, and when she caught my eye, I smiled awkwardly and said, “I can’t believe I have to buy three different sympathy cards”.  “Yes,” she replied, “I have to buy two myself.”  There’s comfort in numbers.

As I carefully made my choice, I suddenly remembered that one of the friends who had lost a parent recently is also getting married next month.  With a thankful sigh, I left the bereavement section and began looking over the wedding cards as well. 

It may be the last wedding card I buy for a while, so I’d better make it a good one. 

Let's All Try to Keep The Wave Current

I really miss watching people do “the wave”.

You probably think I’m referring to the phenomenon that occurs during sporting events and rock concerts, where people take turns rising out of their seats, waving their arms over their head.  When done properly, it looks as if a wave of motion is sweeping across the thousands of fans, circling round and round the arena.  Yes, it’s impressive, but I could live just as easily without ever seeing that particular sight again.

The wave that I refer to is that little “thank you” wave that people do when you’re driving in your car and you yield the right of way to another driver.  What happened to it?  Did it fall out of fashion?  Have we become too used to driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on our cell phone, GPS or car stereo to remember that the free hand can also be used to extend the smallest of courteous gestures?

Remember courtesy?  It’s the verbal “thank you” that you give when someone opens the door for you or lets you go ahead in the grocery line because you only have one container of Parmesan cheese and everyone at home is waiting for you, as their spaghetti dinner gets cold.  Courtesy is letting someone older than you take the last seat on the bus or the subway, no matter how tired you might be.  It’s realizing that some poor sap has been stuck at a traffic intersection for eons and is just waiting for you to take pity and let them sneak in ahead you.  And when the latter occurs, it’s having the gratitude and decency to lift your hand in acknowledgement to the person who just bestowed this small act of kindness.  Nothing burns me more than waving someone in and having them completely ignore the gesture because they’re too busy yacking away on the cell phone that’s glued to their head. 

It doesn’t have to be a huge wave.  I’ll even take what my friends call a “cape wave”, where you hold your hand straight out at a slight angle behind you while looking in the opposite direction.  A wave that says, “I’ll acknowledge you did something for me but it’s no more than I deserve, really.”  I’ll take a small waggle of the fingers, or a two fingered salute (just not the single finger variety, thank you).  For crying out loud, I’ll even take a nod of the head if that’s all you’ve got.  Just give me some indication that you appreciate the tiny bit of kindness you’ve just received.

Personally, I prefer dispensing the two-part wave.  When someone yields their right of way to me in a difficult intersection, I’ll do a brief wave to let them know I’ve received their go-ahead, and then a follow up wave with a smile after I make the turn.  If our cars are close enough, I might even add a silent mouthing of the words “thank you”.  Maybe I’m being overly appreciative by going with the double wave system, but is there such a thing as being too courteous?  I don’t think so.

I may be taking this too personally.  It’s a busy world we drive in, made more complicated by the phones and Tom-Toms and video players we have at our fingertips.  But if we completely dismiss the thank-you wave, what next?  Courtesy goes out the window, society breaks down, anarchy reigns in the streets and civilization as we know it grinds to a halt.  I have it on good authority that the decline of the Roman Empire actually began when chariot drivers stopped waving to each other.

So let’s take a lesson from the Romans, shall we?  Let’s keep the wave going.  It may seem like a small courtesy, but the “thank you” wave is the only thing that sets us apart from the animals. 

That, and opposable thumbs.

Nothing More Real than a Virtual Yard Sale

I’m a reality television addict.  For years I’ve enjoyed programs such as  “Survivor”, “Real Housewives of (insert favorite city here)”, “Project Runway” and “Dance Moms”.  I admit this is a guilty pleasure.

Recently I’ve discovered a new reality show, and it’s more addictive than all the others combined because it’s accessible 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It’s also found, not on television, but on my computer, on Facebook.  This new entertainment I refer to is found in the various “Yard Sale” pages I’ve discovered.

I began with “Hanover Yard Sale”, a Facebook group created to allow people to sell items they no longer need but which others might find useful.  This is a brilliant idea, when you think of all the work that goes into a regular yard sale.  You have to collect all your items, tag them with prices, haul them out to your front yard, put up signs and then sit around in the sun all day (unless it rains in which case all your hard work was for nothing).  Posting on a Facebook yard sale page is much easier: snap a photo of your item, set a price and post it online.  It’s like an even simpler version of Craig’s List, without the scams or worrying about creepy stalkers showing up at your door.  I loved scanning through the pictures of people’s furniture and home décor.  I was tempted to buy a couple of items, but each time someone else posted a response indicating their interest before I was able to.

This is where the reality television-style drama kicks in.  According to the rules of the page, whomever expresses interest first gets dibs on the item.  The seller and buyer need to contact each other to confirm the sale within 24 hours, or the next person who posts an interest gets dibs.  Shortly after the page was launched, I started noticing posts where people were grumbling about their offers being passed over in favor of someone else’s.  Adding to this confusion was the fact that many members of the Hanover Yard Sale page are also posting the same items on other South Shore yard sale pages.  So a person may accept on offer on one page, while someone on the other page might think that they are the first to express interest.

I saw a post where one person jokingly (I think) accused another of hacking into the neighborhood Wi-Fi to gain an advantage.  I saw another listing for a television set, which prompted someone to comment that they had just dropped the exact same television at their transfer station’s swap shop.  They thought the seller might have snagged it and then posted it for resale.  Who needs Teresa Guidice or Abby Lee Miller for drama?  You can’t write better dialogue than this!

I’m not the only one entertained.  I’ve seen several Facebook postings from other friends in town; lamenting how much time they are wasting time online, monitoring all the back and forth sniping on these yard sale pages. 

I admit my interest started to wane when posts for furniture and home décor took a back seat to endless listings of baby clothes, baby toys and breast pumps. I’ve reached a point in my life where I don’t need them for myself and I’ve long since given away most of my kid’s clothes and toys to family and friends.  Darn it, why didn’t I hold onto my Exersaucer, high chair and bouncy seat?  I could be rich!

I am a little surprised by the high number of items for sale that are $5 and under.  It’s kind of a lot of work to take a picture of an item, post it online, dicker back and forth and then arrange for a pick-up, all for a $3 hat.  But then again, maybe these sellers make a profit the way banks do: volume.

And then there’s the haggling.  I saw a listing for a small piece of furniture that was very reasonably priced for $20.  The buyer offered $10.  The seller said they could come down to $15.  The buyer asked if they would take $12.  Seriously people, are we on the South Shore of Massachusetts or the markets of Marrakesh?  It’s an end table.  It reminded me of a real yard sale I once hosted where a gentleman picked up an item I had priced at ten cents and said, “I’ll give ya a nickel for it!” 

Just when it looked like the drama might be dying down, another friend started a group for just home furnishings and décor.  Hooray! This new page serves two purposes: no longer will I have to scroll through endless pictures of bibs and cribs; and now people will post some of the same items on three different sites.   Let the mayhem begin.

For the record, I have not yet purchased anything, though I have been tempted. I ask myself if this is something I would purchase at a real yard sale, or am I just getting sucked into the frenzied mindset you see at auctions.  I don’t want to want something for the sole reason that someone else wants it. I may never purchase anything I see on these various yard sale pages.  In the end, that’s probably better for my bank account.

The entertainment, however, is free and I’ll gladly give up watching “Dance Moms” or “The Real Housewives of New Jersey” to make time for the drama that’s unfolding on my laptop.

Set For Life...and a little while longer...

The other day I was cleaning and filing in my office area.  My husband and I have a habit of shoving things like envelopes and stamps and note pads into an overhead cabinet, which means that each time you open the doors you run the risk of being bonked on the head with a label maker or stapler.

I hauled everything out of the cabinet and began deciding what should be kept, what could be tossed and what could be better stored elsewhere.  As I was performing this task, I began to realize just how many custom return address labels I had stuffed into this small space.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who receives those unsolicited return address labels from organizations like St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, the Audubon Society, Easter Seals, The American Red Cross and the World Wildlife Federation.  These are what I call “guilt labels”: these charitable organizations send free address labels with your name on them, banking on the idea that you’ll feel too guilty to just pocket the labels without sending them a donation.  Clearly they have never met me.

And so my office cabinet is filled with stacks of “Laura Anderson” labels bearing pictures of birds, cutesy kittens, classic cars, snowflakes and about a hundred other graphics.  As I leafed through the huge pile of labels, I reflected on how rarely I mail anything these days, and wondered at what point I could logically use up all that had been sent to me.  And that’s when I realized I had achieved S.A.B.L.E.

S.A.B.L.E. is an acronym my sister taught me which stands for “Stash Acquired Beyond Life Expectancy”.  In a nutshell, it means that you’ve collected enough of an item to guarantee that you could never possibly use up said item between now and the time you leave this earth.  My sister is passionate in the art of counted cross- stitch, and has an enormous amount of patterns, needles and embroidery floss.  When her local Wal-Mart eliminated its craft department and discounted all their embroidery floss to mere pennies a skein, my sister bought it all.  And that’s when she introduced me to the idea that, despite our best intentions, we sometimes go overboard in collecting and acquiring things that we couldn’t possibly use up in our lifetime.

S.A.B.L.E isn’t limited to return address labels or embroidery floss though.  You might be an avid scrapbook enthusiast, with thousands of pages of card stock and tens of thousands of stickers and embellishments.  Exactly how many photo albums do you plan to make in your lifetime?  Is it possible that you might have more scrapbooking supplies than you have actual photographs? 

Or perhaps you’re an avid newspaper reader.  Are there stacks of newspapers and magazines in your house, set aside for that rare moment of spare time when you can catch up on the news?  You might be surprised to find that the “news” at the bottom of the pile is more than five years old.  Why not just toss out this fire hazard and start fresh with tomorrow’s paper?  What will it feel like in 15 years when you realize you’re the last to learn about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes’ breakup?

I have a habit of acquiring books at yard sales, book sales and flea markets.  I can’t resist discount books (books for a buck are my favorite) and while I have all intentions of reading every last book, I get distracted by some shiny, new book that’s just come out that everyone else is currently reading.  The lure of the library and all those free books often trumps the books I have sitting right on my shelf.  I bet if I stacked up all the books I’ve got stashed around the house, I’d find that in order to finish them all, I’d have to live to be 105.

My husband has a tendency to hold onto things because “…some day they’ll be worth something.”  Items that might become valuable antiques or collectibles don’t really fall into the S.A.B.L.E. category.  S.A.B.L.E. items are more like consumables, which can be used up within a reasonable amount of time…unless you collect a boatload of them.

Getting back to the address labels…I thought about how infrequently I mail anything via snail mail.  Aside from the occasional birthday or sympathy card, and the one or two bills a year that can’t be paid online, these labels just sit on the cabinet shelf collecting dust and waiting for new friends to arrive from St. Jude’s and Easter Seals.  It’s not like I paid anything for them.  Why not just toss the majority and save just a few?

In the end, I removed all of the labels from the shelf, slid them into a folder, and then placed the folder in my filing cabinet.  Old habits die hard I guess; I just couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.  Apparently S.A.B.L.E. is the very top of a slippery slope, and at the bottom is the popular television series, “Hoarders”.

Hopefully you won’t see me on it anytime soon.  But if you do, you’ll know it all started with the labels.

At Peace with making Summer Pies

Some people seek serenity through prayer or meditation.  Others find their happy place in gardening or painting.  Some even find peace in mundane, household chores such as ironing or vacuuming. 

For me, there is Zen to be found in the art of making a summer pie.

Summer pies are completely different from winter pies.  During the winter, I only make pies around the holidays.  They are pies born of obligation, and they contain ingredients I associate with the dark, cold months: pumpkin, apples, evaporated milk and nutmeg. 

Summer pies are made for pure pleasure, containing fruits that conjure images of warmth and sunlight: blueberries just picked from a Nantucket high bush on a sunny day; peaches shipped north from Georgia or east from California, their fuzzy skin producing friction against my hands as I rinse them under the faucet.  Peaches always remind me of my son after he’s gotten one of his summer buzz cuts.  Strawberries hulled and halved, then combined with slices of tart rhubarb, tossed with tapioca and sugar and poured into a waiting pie shell.

I’ll often mix and match fruits to see which combinations produce the biggest sighs of contentment from my family.  Peaches are wonderful on their own, but also play well with blueberries or raspberries.  Strawberry and rhubarb are old friends who prefer the company of each other, so I don’t dare introduce a third wheel into that relationship.  However, when rhubarb isn’t looking, I’ll combine strawberries with raspberries, blueberries and blackberries for a no holds barred, all-berry extravaganza.  My husband maintains that blueberries and raspberries are the most flavorful combination out of all my experiments.  Personally, I believe that summer pies are like summer parties: no matter what combination of participants you include, the result is sure to be a hit.

Once the filling has been determined, the next step in my Zen meditation is making crust.  I know many who prefer to purchase crusts ready-made and, while there was a time I would consider that cheating, I’ve since reconsidered my position. I’ve made my own piecrust for years, both out of pride and necessity.  My mother taught me how to make my own crust, and this skill came in handy when my husband developed food allergies and couldn’t safely eat store bought piecrust.  Recently, I’ve discovered a ready-made crust that’s safe for him, and there is something to be said for the convenience of just unfolding it into a pie plate and pouring in the ingredients.  But the taste just doesn’t compare.  So homemade crust it is.

My  “go to” crust is one made from flour, salt, canola oil and water, what my cookbook refers to as “stir and roll”.  After years of pie making, I’ve gotten my crust down to a science.  Mix the salt and flour together with a fork and pour in the oil.  Gently mix the oil with the dry ingredients using a pastry blender until the dough resembles crumbs.  Ice water is added one tablespoon at a time, using the fork until the dough begins to just come together.  Too little water and the crust crumbles when rolled out; too much and it becomes gummy.  My mother’s best tip was to not handle the dough any more than necessary. If bread dough is a prizefighter that thrives on being pummeled, piecrust is a ballerina; light and fragile, requiring only the gentlest touch to achieve perfection.

After carefully rolling the dough between sheets of waxed paper, next comes the marriage of filling and crust, followed by a tropical honeymoon in the oven.  My family begins salivating like Pavlovian dogs as the scent of bubbling fruit filling entwines with that of flaky pastry crust.  Though they would happily dig in the minute it leaves the oven, I insist that the pie needs several hours, not just to cool, but to allow the filling to set.  There’s no greater culinary crime than wolfing down a piece of watery pie.

That evening, once the dinner dishes have been cleared and the fireflies are just beginning to appear, my family gathers round the table as I slide a perfect piece of summer pie onto each person’s plate.  The whipped cream is passed and as I watch each person’s face light up from the fruits of my labor, I sigh as well.  They have joined me in my happy place.