Electric courage

June 3, 2013

Shooed dad out the door this morning and sent him to the gym for a workout. I needed time to create a holding space for his household goods in the kitchen. Kitchen gadgets galore. Everything came out  of the cabinets, cupboards, and recess of the drawers to fill the counter tops from one end to the other. Forewarned dad that he would have to make hard decisions about paring down his things. Loaded the laundry in the washer, scooched up the stairs to the bathtub to wash up. felt like a new woman when finished scrubbing down.

Got a few calls in to the utility company, this morning and afternoon, to beg them to finally connect our electric and gas service. Round and round from one unhelpful representative to another. As I describe my situation-on crutches, unable to hold a flashlight or candle to walk through the dark house, no fuel to make a meal, no refrigerator to house food, no means to drive a car to purchase groceries and no method of laundering clothes, they surely absorb the exasperation. Makes for a mighty bleak picture. Even still, it took chastising the agents to get me to the next level of management, to find a way to send out a worker to the house, to flip the magic switch. Couldn't be that difficult since they flipped it to the OFF position last week. I inquired as to which agency has jurisdiction over the utility companies. The state of MN, Frances assures me.

In the meantime, the new kitty peed on my bed and it soaked through to the mattress. Although Taelor stripped the sheets and swabbed at the stain, she was unable to run the load through the washing machine downstairs. We determined the appliances are actually shared between the units and it is the landlord's accountability for the utility bill. Oh, Dan's going to love that! Now he will be forced to either put his name on the Exel Energy bill and figure out how to charge the individual units, or purchase another set of appliances. It is MN state law that ensures the bill is paid correctly.

Dad finished the cat post and brought up the final product for me to admire. A work of art. He manufactured the bedroom furniture, his office desk and file cabinets, night stands and island in the kitchen, coffee tables, sofa and love seat, etc. A man of many talents. I aim to be skilled in a craft one day in the future. Up until now, I feel accomplished when I pound a nail straight into the wall to hang a piece of art. 

Antique Dealer

June 2, 2013

Cleaning out a deep closet revealed several carpet samples which turned into a cat post project for dad. He was down sawing, hammering and cutting for so long I feared he passed out when I didn’t get a response. Hopping down the treacherous steps to find dad, with a mask over his nose and mouth, contently operating a loud and unidentified piece of machinery, unaware of my frantic hollering from the next level up. Thrilled to have a different outcome, than the accusatory one in my head, as I descend.

Memories of my mother appear as I work my way with a dust cloth around the wrought iron spirals attached to the Singer sewing machine shell. These distinctive tables and other antiques graced the halls and bedrooms, sunny living room and kitchen in our home as a child. My mom was a wonder when it came to finding an eclectic array of pieces. We had a milk separator from grandma’s Minnesota farm parked in the front yard with flowers peeking out the top, a colander covering the ceiling light fixture in the back room, and hand crank telephone on the wall. Can’t recall a time when I did not appreciate the unique environment we lived in. The exception was the attention due to the baby blue 56 passenger school bus converted to a camper parked alongside our home. It had to be moved, eventually, because of a complaining neighbor. She must have thought the Magic School Bus an eyesore!

Nineteen years after my mother’s death, her influence is astounding. This piece was from a gallery in our home town, owned by a woman that my mom insisted on helping who was a divorcee and struggling to support her children. That piece was given to my mom by a woman she took care of in her final years. Another still with an unusual story to laugh about until we are near tears.

While I am focusing on this project with my father, I am conversing with siblings, filling them in on the details of the plan in action. Eventually most will come to do their bit, paint or power wash, scrub windows, plant, haul, sort and clear out one at a time or in a clump. All efforts will be welcomed. Over the twenty years this house has been in the family, we all have been able to enjoy the lake whether to dive off the dock, fish, canoe, sun, lounge by the water or grill-it has been a wondrous home.

Heron heroics

June 1, 2013

     The dog is in his glory, as my mother used to say, since he gets run of the dead end street, keeping track and control of everyone who is out and about, including the black squirrels. He was gifted a bone from the local infamous butcher and gnawed it down to a sliver in a few short minutes. Since my nephew and sister have left, however, he will have to be satisfied chasing a ball tossed heartily by a Chuck It (since I can't be responsible for my lame throwing arm) down the street versus getting a good long stroll around the wooded neighborhood. My foot is still wrapped and I am on crutches, my father has a pained knee from a bad fall on black ice this past winter. We are a pair! I have gotten begrudgingly accustomed to a more sedentary lifestyle and have to be vigilant about eating accordingly. Drat!
     My father is a sweet eater, particularly a chocolate fan. Everyone comes to the house bearing gifts of dark, rich chocolate, hoping he remembers to be generous and share. The smarter ones in the clan bring two of everything, one to hoard and the other to open immediately and devour. Brats are another given in the household. Butcher store bratwurst boiled in beer then tossed on the grill with a side of locally brewed beer are delicious.
      Dad shared a story over breakfast of a Great Blue Heron, that came up into the yard the other day, to stalk the chipmunks and squirrels under the bird feeder. He/she waited patiently (or I assume so) until a critter came within reach. The chipmunk was caught, though furiously attempting to bite the assassin, vigorously tossed around then carried to the lake, sloshed back and forth until it stopped wriggling and gulped down in one bite. The bird then sauntered back up to the spot under the feeder but all of the rodents were wary by then so it meandered to the neighboring yard to try it's luck there.
    
    
    

Lights out

May 31, 2013

A long-lost relative was starting a new lease on life at 22 years old. She began the journey in Helsinki, gliding aboard a ship containing 32 passengers from Liverpool to New York on 4/26/1899 landing 5/6/1899 with $10 in possessions to her name! Wow, Finns were tough! How did Hilda get from New York (prior to Ellis Island) to Sparta, MN on her own? These fragmented stories are incredible and a marvel to consider. Spins my head ‘round in disbelief at their tenacity and astonishing survival skills.

The wind picks up across the lake, rain enters sideways, and sun peaks around the corner reminding me of when I lived in Hawaii. Torrential rain turns to drizzle in conjunction with simultaneous brilliant sunshine, typically producing three rainbows glaring across the back yard. Never fails to cause me to search for them as water pours from the heavens, overlapped by the sun.

I fail to relate to days by calendar name. Instead I consider tackling projects and think about what rations we have available in the refrigerator for each meal, to break up scattered time. Communication with friends and clients is sporadic. Long groggy evenings of shuffling paperwork torture the crew. Unresolved concern, about the effort required to complete the job prior to the holiday sale weekend, stalks me. It is not so much the quantity but the value and history that silhouettes each item. There are stairs at every entrance that impede my freedom to come and go without effort. Fortunately the main floor houses most of the goods.

Meanwhile back at the rental in West St Paul, the electricity has been turned off due to our landlord, who failed to fax pertinent information to the energy company. Without any apology, he has made it my problem. The food begins to rot since I believe the refrigerator door seal is past its prime. After a lengthy conversation with Representative “X”, she agrees to have the landlord give the company agent a verbal okay for me to place the bill in my own name and be responsible for payment. At 5:05 the landlord calls to inform me agent “X” was misinformed and the company will no longer accept a verbal. I have to fax the lease which is at home in MN, while I am in WI. They also require a copy of my driver’s license. Of course, the corporation needs to check my background, which could take several days, and in the meantime my daughter is living without electricity. Even though the produce and dairy are placed in the freezer with bags of ice, we loose everything.

The washing machine, which was just replaced and supposedly billed to the upstairs unit meter, along with all of the basement lights, are not functioning. This leads me to believe all of the above are attached to our electric meter. I am overjoyed, of course, to be dealing with this while working on a family project in another state.   

Storytelling

May 30, 2013

Antiques consisting of pitch forks, hurricane lamps, wash/wringer tubs with a frame, leather hole punch, salsa pots with matching coal black lids, hall tree with built-in umbrella stand, Frank Lloyd Wright candlesticks, Fiestaware pitchers, hand carved Finnish cups, farm house essentials, oxen harnesses, and many other unique items I am sorting, pricing, dusting and packing for a future sale.

My father is such an eclectic and stimulating man who is interested in, but not limited to; politics, travel, history, economics, architecture and design, global issues, gardening, bird watching, hiking and biking, fitness, wood furniture, Finland, ecology, state issues, northern Minnesota, fly fishing and his family. Who has the energy to keep up with his 82 years?

Assisting people in managing collections from their lives is a humbling experience. Stories of their existence crops up with the shuffling of papers, photos, memorabilia, books, tapes, the smallest piece of jewelry can generate the greatest emotion. So much effort, time, energy packed into a single closet or file folder. Takes great patience, persistency and compassion to work through it all, piece-by-piece.

I honor my dad who is an incredible wealth of insight and tales of family history to divide amongst the inheritors. Besides the fact that he puts up with me and the hound visiting, invading his personal space, grilling him about the genealogy and helping myself to his stash of chocolate covered peanuts.

Synchronicity

May 29, 2013

A tangle of personalities and war between landlord and tenant arise. Back in Brasil, Consuela is battling with her landlord to get her rental house in ship-shape. The little office building, that broke ground before I arrived in October, is just recently completed. A fight ensues over the unexpected increase in rent and a lengthy list of far-fetched tenant accountabilities has come to light. Despite the windy discussion that was subsequently incorporated into a document, signed, sealed, and delivered last year, there is no guarantee it will be abided by, no one with jurisdiction to assist the wronged party. It takes an exorbitant amount of money, time and bulldog persistency to ascertain what was agreed upon. Probably not unlike the direction our country is headed. Mercy.

Things, collections, stuff, goods, luxury items, basic necessities, hoarding and, scarcity become allies or enemies. After a long bout of not having any essentials of my own, I fear I have to admittedly dive-in and collect once again. For many years at a stretch, my daughter and I did not buy anything new. At times I did feel vengeful and frustrated that I had made that agreement with myself yet, at the end of the day, it certainly felt as though I was living what I preached. A grand sensation.

Several intimate people in my circle are changing their environments, moving in another direction whether downsizing and living in a smaller home or simple co-mingling, which, in the end, provides for me. I am grateful yet cautious to not to purchase or accept things  I do not absolutely adore. To collect is both perilous and contradict my beliefs. Six months in South America provided me with a distinction between my thoughts about my culture and the beliefs of those who touched my life. We North Americans absolutely do “have it all” and yet we starve due to lack of awareness. A functional and sturdy can opener, for example, is hard to come by in Brasil. I find them available in nearly every shop in the US that I frequent. I marvel in their accessibility.

I actually love moving. Weird, I know. My indelible behavior pattern is to place the best treasure in a right locale. The technique is derived to absorb that favored goodie into my environment to create an ambiance of awe each time I enter the room. I like to create the sensation versus a focus on one thing in particular. The beauty of my pieces, collected from years of travel and crazy state-hopping (some downscaling as I relocated to Minnesota from Washington state) chant the memory of my purchase, gift or throwback. If I didn’t love it, I re-gifted, donated, sold it.

Papers are my albatross. They impede my progress to perfection. Stacks slide around the bottom shelf of the coffee table, end tables, nightstand, countertops, file drawers. They breed while I am not paying attention. Touch something once is my motto yet that particular rule eludes me with papers. Every scrap can be saved to generate a grocery list, items needed/wanted, important tasks, errands, notes to myself to never forget, books or films to watch and contact information. Much of it can now be recorded on my iphone however the incessant habit of collecting papers is cellular. Maybe an intervention is in order.

Changed

May 28, 2013

Compassion is overrated, don’t you think? I waited outside the library this morning in the drizzle. Upon spotting a figure through the glass I knocked on the door. The heavy-set woman with frizzy brown shoulder-length hair ambled to the door with a scowl on her face. She didn’t bother to mask the problematic request to come in out of the unexpected disastrous weather and sit to await the opening of the building in 20 minutes. The door closed once again while she evidently went to ask the Powers That Be if I could be allowed on the premises. “OK, this is not what we usually do but you can come in.” Wow, I am blown away by the sympathetic glare!

A crumpled wad of receipt and coins were pressed into my hands at the Office Max while faxing several documents. The "benevolent and generous" young man answered the telephone, interrupting his explanation of the mass of complicated buttons in the process to send off a long-distance paper. I am greatly appalled by the inability to understand the value of service. As a lanky wisp of a girl at eleven, I was taught how to count back change to a customer, smile even when I felt like crying when the customer asked for several dozen coney dogs, five root beers and seven orders of fries while a small village gathered behind him to order their own gob of food. The customer is always right was our adage and no one was to question that philosophy. It was with pride and conviction my parents trained their crew to serve the masses at the A&W in Middleton, Wisconsin. Has the commitment to the client gone by the way of the dinosaur?

We link the hands with our children, open the heavy oak door for the upstairs neighbor with loaded arms, grasp the end of a leash, shake hands with new friends, pull out a chair for the elderly man at the library, and lend a hand to a friend at the Laundromat. We are one, bonded.