Right Brain Left Brain

Left brain files it.  Right brain piles it.  Probably not research driven but a nice way to explain strategies for handling paper in the not-so-paperless-world of the computer age.

Colleagues would try to hide their smile that followed  me as I moved to  a particular stack of paper containing exactly what she/he had asked to borrow.  I knew.   I knew exactly which stack and how deep into the stack.   Never failed.

My desk is a gift commissioned from a local carpenter.  Bob thought I should have a school size desk so retirement wouldn’t seem so bleak.  Guess I had done the retirement whine to the point that he was desperate to cushion my reluctance.     Twenty minutes after delivery, the desk disappeared.   And I don’t exactly know where those piles were before the desk arrived.

And then there are toys.  It is a requirement of grandparenting.  Too many toys are never enough and garage sales are a fact of life.

Once upon a time, the right brain system flourished in my space.   My nightstand, my office/computer/storage/toy room.  The rest of the house got left brain priority.

For several months, our life has struggled with a new rhythm.  The old routines are gone as we reestablish volunteer commitments and family routines.  Our situation with Four Ordinary Women requires dedicated time each day.   Health issues nudge into the mix and the scramble just gets more complicated.

Even that trusted “15 minute rule” fails me.  Clutter is reproducing exponentially.    I turn my back and it happens.  The piles  have taken over.  And it isn’t a right brain triumph.  It is a personal quirk gone amuck.

But I have a solution…the only possible solution.

Move.   Get lots of boxes, dump the piles in, tape securely, label right brain and call the moving truck.  Oh.  Wait.  I have to move right along with those boxes.  The boxes will follow me, right?  A not so perfect solution.

Anyone for toasting marshmallows on a blustery winter afternoon?  Now that really could be my perfect solution.

Seventy-One and Still Not Done

Three year old grandson spent Thursday with us and opted to stay the night.  This kid is a dream combination of his mom and dad, with just enough stubbornness to keep it interesting.   During the night, a little voice would whisper,  “Nana, it is two zero eight.  Is that close to morning?”

Not quite.

About 10:00 this morning, I walked through the ‘Sunday Room’ where he was laying out elaborate train track designs.  Sam has an aversion to battery or electric operated trains.  “Papa, do you know why we have fingers for?  Use your fingers to move the trains.”

Good enough.

Sam looked up and  was about to give me a bazillion dollar smile which stopped at half-mast.   “Wait.  Wait just one minute.”  Dead-run to the counter in the bathroom.   Back in a flash, hair brush in hand.  “Sit down, Nana.  I can help you fix your hair.   I can fit Nelson’s hair really good.”  Nelson is their dog!

The mouths of babes?

Mid-day and we are playing with Sam and his baby brother in their home.  Mom was busy with a phone call so we were having extra fun while she handled some business.  Called ended.  Mom asks Sam if he wants to give us a good-bye hug.  Absolutely NOT.  He did not want us to leave unless he could come  with us.  Usual adult ‘stuff’ about why we had to go and why he needed to stay….a few tears, some extra hugs while his mom and I got involved in a new conversation.  “So you don’t want to play trains, Papa?”  Long pause….  “OK.    So, Guys, you are leaving now, right?  Nana, here’s your coat.  I’ll help you put it on.”

Humility is important, right?

Valentine Day

Snap shot.  Standing at the card rack looking for non-smarmy sentiments for husband, adult children and grandchildren.   Gentlemen standing a bit to my left. Moving a bit closer, he asked,  “What cards are you looking for?  Husband?  Grandchildren?  There are some good .99 cards here.”

When my non-committal answer did not end the query, he said, “Want to know what I am looking for?”

OK, my conscience pricked.  Maybe he is lonely and just wants to talk about someone special.  He was grandparent category.  So I smiled and waited.

“A dog.  I am looking for a card to send to my daughter’s dog.  Want to help me look?”

Not especially.  Again, I tried that non-committal smile coupled with, “Good Luck”.

An extra doggy treat, a longer walk in the park, more affectionate petting would seem a nice choice, but a greeting card?

Finding The Humor

“Listen carefully and the sound difference from Middle C to D is obvious.  Train your ear. You will learn to distinguish and name every note.”

Right.  Just like I mastered the hypotenuse of  a Greek named Pythagoras.    Some things are not possible.    I have a faulty brain program in music, geometry and sadly, humor.   I don’t get them.  Most of the time, that is fine.  Music responds to my mood even if I don’t hear sharps and flats.   A nip or tuck in a triangle does not affect the warmth of my quilts.

Humor is different.  I need a crash course in humor.

A couple of relatives do a running dialogue that is like a frenzy of out laughing one another.   To be polite, I smile but cannot muster a laugh.  Yet, in a theater, in church, watching television I am sometimes overcome with laughter—-and no one else is even smiling.  There are other times when a  single word can sound so out-of-place that I am laughing alone—again.

Wonder if there is a yellow and black book designed for people like me?  Humor For Dummies?

Lighten Up

That is what they tell me.  Too serious.  Too uptight over things that are totally out of my control.  Spending time, energy and money on situations that dry the resources.  Lighten up.  Worry causes wrinkles.  OK, at 71 the wrinkle thing doesn’t do much for the cause, but I know they are right.

Fine.  New plan.  Lighten up.

We attend church in an area where 20 VW bugs might ease into the available parking space.   However, SUV’s, vans and pick-ups far outnumber the gas (and space) savers.   It is not uncommon to walk several blocks from car to church.  So we arrive 30 to 45 minutes early to avoid the walk that is very difficult for Bob.

Good again.  Part of my new plan includes reading on the lighter side and I now have 30 captive minutes.  I can sit in the car and work on ‘untightening’ that uptight.  In total disclosure mode, I  confess that reading inside the church has been known to happen.  Frigid temps make me uptight.  And, of course, I know that praying matches church, but praying rises in many forms.

Quiet corner pew backed against two walls and a few feet back from the flickering vigil lights marks our regular spot.  Bob can stretch that bionic knee into the aisle without fear of tripping late comers.  I can read, reminiscent of a furtive kid hiding a novel behind the chemistry text.

Wally Lamb is one of my favorite authors.  My shelf has two copies of  I Know This Much Is True and She’s Come Undone. If someone borrows and neglects to return, I still have a copy when no other book will fill the need.  Wishin’ and Hopin’ is Wally Lamb’s book set in the halls of St. Aloysius Gonzaga Parochial School.  Sounds perfect for reading in church, right?

Wishin’ and Hopin’ is not a quiet book.  Ten year old Felix speaks in the innocence (and ignorance) of my ten-year old self.  This is a new Wally Lamb. It is so funny.  The third time I laughed out loud (in church, remember?) it was time to close the book or choke on the words.  Besides,  I knew a marathon reading session would fill the evening and people were beginning to suspect this wasn’t a prayer-book.

So praying does match church—- through the gift of laughter in a place of worship.  I feel lighter already.

Friendship Tested

Missed you yesterday, Gentle Reader.  I didn’t ‘talk’ to you because I was volunteering at Strawberry Hill Museum…amazing experience  that will be a subject for another blog very soon.  But this morning my email exchange with a friend left me laughing out loud.

My friend, casually minding her daily chores, passed her linen closet.  Without even opening the cabinet doors, she knew that this was the day!   No more casual folds.  No more evidence of the kids grab-and-go.  No more mismatched sheets crying for order.  Especially no more mismatched sheets.  In 30 dervish minutes the planet righted itself.  Order restored.

Well, at least order south of the river.  Up north, in my planet spot,  not so much.

So I confessed to my friend, braving the thought of her disbelief.   No response yet, but she had to know that my linen cabinet is a crazy quilt of color, bottom sheets rolled tightly and top sheets folded with precision but matching??

Bob and I share laundry duties though I am steward of bed changing.  Even if I take the sheets off the bed, carry them to the machine and begin the process, the match stops there.  Magically.  Really.  They go in as 300 count queen sized ecru buddies and the dryer gives back sheets from some neighbor’s supply.    Probably passed through the single sock universe.  Well, OK, I may have purchased them somewhere— sometime, but I gave up matching a long time ago.  Wonder how this happened to me?  Wonder if my friend counts this as a camel-straw?   Probably not.  She accepts so very much more than my linen closet disasters.  Friendship doesn’t have to match.

Uphill, Both Ways!

If your family is blest with old-timers who remember the aftermath of the Great Depression, you have heard stories of life-when-mettle-was-tested-every-day.

You know the stories.

Treks against the wind, dark of night trips to the out-facility.   Saturday night baths which might or might not include shampoo.   Repetitious meals eaten with gratitude.  Chores taking most waking hours.  Falling exhausted on attic pallets where kids huddled  for warmth.  Even tales of icicles forming around the mouth from night breathing in the bitter cold.  But the best is that story of walking miles to school, trudging through several feet of snow–uphill both ways!  Talk about mettle!

No trudging in our SUV culture.  No icicles in our down comfort world.  Microwave meals insure variety for the most inexperienced.  But, oh what fun to remind us (old-timers) that this December, 2009 snow storm is nothing compared to those other winter lives.   What fun to see the smiles when we come in like powdered sugar creatures from shoveling–over and over and over.  Suddenly, this life of downhill comfort trumps the need for those ‘good old days’ memories.

The Way We Are

He collects.  Stuff.  Anything.  Everything.   Clay pots, brass things, wooden carvings–things designed to show how much I dislike dusting.

I discard. Give away.  Loan.   Anything and everything.  If it isn’t here it isn’t dusty.

At approximately 2:18 he asks, “What’s for dinner?”  Each time I can offer several choices.  Each choice gets a veto in favor of whatever he is thinking at that moment.  Most times I can produce that flavor-favor.

My dinner choice?  Open the frig and take a look.

It is 11 degree outside.  To walk 100 yards to the car, he dresses for a polar expedition.

Below 20 degrees, I probably zip my coat.

He thinks that the furnace thermostat is like the TV remote–a question of ownership.

A single ring and I pick up the phone.  Caller ID is a waste.

He waits for the display and then might or might not pick up.

One day turn-around on my bills.  In and out immediately.

His statements are in a neat and date sorted stack waiting until the last possible moment.

He watches football as sport.  I see something different.

He reads each book, word for word, first to last as if the book might dissolve at sundown.

I read several at a time and might not actually finished any of them or I might reread each of them.

He might be mostly Republican in his thinking.  I might not be.

He washes the dishes one folk tine at a time insisting that I keep pace and dry before the rack gets crowded.   I can stack that rack with the balance of a wire walker.

To him, disagreements simply are.  They happen. Why talk about it?  Move on.  The John Wayne School of Communication.

Talking is sorting.  Understand so the same disagreement doesn’t happen again, right?  Moving on isn’t possible until we understand.   Psycho babble?

He can read blueprints.  He can repair just about anything.  He always knows at least one better solution than the one I am attempting at any given problem.

Duct tape is my tool of choice.

The way we are is either very  comical, a test of  our sanity or the ties that bind.  I vote for those ties.

Straight, No Chaser

First the mandatory disclaimer.

I do not know any of the 10 young men in the group, Straight, No Chaser. Nor do I know anyone connected with their group.   True, I am a contributing member of KCPT where Straight, No Chaser performed on Saturday, December 12.

In addition to that disclaimer, I have another.  When it comes to musical talent, I bake a great oatmeal cookie.  Dancing?  Forget it.  Singing?  Earplugs all ’round.  Playing an instrument?  Have another cookie!  There are times when I doubt that I actually hear what is intended in the way of music appreciation.

But I love it.  I love music, especially the human voice in all its splendor.  And last evening KCPT gave me an evening of absolute amazement as I listened to this a cappella group perform.  Their joy in music and in performance was obvious.  The faces of the audience reflected what I was feeling.

The perfect finale was a number  previously performed on U-Tube which may still be accessible.  Confessing that I don’t know about U-Tube–or is that You-Tube?    (Apologies to my savvy grandchildren.)

Straight, No Chaser will in at the Midland AMC in April of 2010.  Two tickets to this event are my Christmas gift to myself.  I am counting the days.

Making A List

Santa is coming.   Today.   5:30.   A special arrival for the grandchildren in the quiet comfort of family, food, fun.

For two weeks, we have talked about the food part, making a list, checking a gazillion times making certain that we, Bob and I, are looking at the same list.

Okay.   All early preparations have been made…chopping, peeling, dicing, baking, frosting, opening, smoking, shopping, arranging.   Table cloths pressed and house decorated to the extent that red bows and two trees allow.   Our little house  extended in every way possible.  Ready!

Maybe not.  The discussion begins.  The discussion that I do not have the intelligence to circumvent, no matter how much I scheme.

“Where will the drinks go?  Who drinks what?  Desserts–on the kitchen table or the dining room?  Hot foods where?  Salads?  This is too much food.   Are you finished in the kitchen?  Ready for the trash to go to the barn? ”

Our dance.  He wants it perfect in the planning, the arrangement and the food.   I know it won’t be perfect.  Martha Stewart doesn’t make house calls.  But it will be terrific.  Santa and his Elf are wonderful. They even bring wine to further the glow.  The meal will be late enough that hunger will perfect the food.

So we dance our tw0-step once again.  One of these days, it will be a waltz.