Garage-Sailing

A friend of mine recently had an outing with her adult sisters, and reported that they visited twenty-three garage sales in one day. I’m not nearly at their level, but I do admit to being captivated by the fluorescent signs that pop up around town, usually on Thursday mornings. 

This summer, I’ve decided to leave my garage-sailing adventures to chance, so I don’t study the newspaper advertisements, plotting out a route to make the most effective use of my time as I’ve been known to do in past years. Instead, if I see a sign, I turn down that street. A slow drive-by often gives me an idea of what might be available, especially if there are kids’ items towards the front of the driveway. Nana’s got her priorities!

This past week I stopped at a house in our neighborhood with a for sale sign on the lawn and an estate sale sign calling my name. I bought nothing at that sale, walking away with empty hands, but I’ve not been able to shake the emotions raised for me that morning.

There it was, displayed for all the world to see and to bargain over. The cupboards were cleared, the dressers emptied, and even the junk drawer was turned out, as the remains of a long life lined the driveway, hoping to be spared the dumpster. Their presence belied the old adage that one person’s junk becomes another’s treasure. Not so true in this case, as clearly the items begging to find a new home had been an old woman’s treasure only months before.

Like so many of us nearing or in our golden years, the assortment of music drew a timeline from record albums to eight-track tapes (by now mostly discarded), joined by cassette tapes and a handful of CDs. No Beatles albums or Jethro Tull, but I recognized a handful of Evie records because I once owned the same albums. Evie’s “Come On, Ring Those Bells” was a bit of a Salvation Army theme song for me back in the day.

Who was the woman who lived in this home, whom I assumed to be deceased?  She obviously took good care of her home, as evidenced by the lovely interior as well as the assortment of cleaning products and tools. Books, records and wall-hangings spoke of a life of faith, Now, looking back, I wish I would have spoken to the women who were running the cash box. “Tell me about your mother . . .”

Here’s the other thing that went through my mind as I gazed upon the remains of an estate, the detritus of a life. Someday, my sons and daughters-in-law will open our garage door, set up some wobbly tables, and spread out the accumulation of my life, of our family story. Will anyone want my carefully curated library, the baby grand that gracefully fills our living room, the Christmas decorations that have so much meaning to me? What about the little rocking chair with the caned seat that my great-grandmother used to rock her children? The wicker doll cradle, the elementary school scrapbook, the Frances Hook figurines?

We’ve got two VCRs and some Disney tapes, a cassette boom-box, and even a wire recorder and a Victrola. Not enough to interest Frank and Mike from American Pickers, but here they sit.

Will anyone want any of the books I’ve written? I’m worried about discovering one of my books at the library book sale, priced at one slim quarter, but the thought of my kids having to toss out a dozen copies of Only in Ashland– that breaks my heart.  But since I’ll either be in “the home” or resting in an urn on the mantle, I suppose it won’t really matter any longer.

Two songs, quite possibly on CDs buried in a box in my basement, are singing to me. Cookie Monster laments, “My cookie did crumble, ‘cause I held it too tight.”  And Michael Card stirs my spirit: “It’s hard to imagine the freedom we find from the things we leave behind.” I’m not quite ready for an all-out Marie Kondo purge, but maybe it’s time to plan a garage sale. Or not! 

That's Insulting

When hurtful words are hurled our way, how often does the childhood chant come to mind? “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” It’s a phrase often uttered to soothe a child’s feelings when the mean kids turn on them, but I’m not sure its premise is true.

Long before the advent of neon colored casts, I broke my arm two different times at the age of five and six. It was painful when it occurred, but fortunately, the breaks resulted in no permanent damage. In hindsight, the second fracture may have kick-started my literary career, as my report about the highlights of my summer featured the maggots in my cast when it was removed. No wonder it itched! 

But the nasty names, the hurtful words heaped upon us, the disrespectful or scornfully abusive remarks or actions of the insult – they stick around for decades. When Ashland author and poet Sarah Wells shared a social media post last week, her words dredged up one of those memories for me. She has a screensaver that randomly introduces new words, and the term ‘poetaster’ greeted her when she returned from a meeting. A new word to Sarah (and to me), a poetaster is a person who writes inferior poetry. She commented: “What an almost useless word. No one would ever use it in public settings to describe someone else without trying to be an arrogant jerk, and to say it of yourself would be met with, ‘No way!’ You’re an amazing poet.”

About fifteen years ago, I submitted some poetry to two denominational publications. In response, I received a letter from the first magazine, essentially labeling me a poetaster. Offering constructive criticism, the rejection letter suggested I take a course in poetry-writing, and then try again. Ouch! 

Insults come in many shapes and sizes: blatant or subtle, blundering or laser-like, shouted or whispered. For some, they become nearly an art form, dripping with sarcasm, a word that literally means ‘flesh-eating.’ Remember comedian Don Rickles? He earned a good living by way of the insult, and was nicknamed the “Merchant of Venom.” What an epitaph!

In 2011, George Weigel wrote a short essay on the art of the insult, concluding that “today’s political badinage is lame, lamer, lamest compared with the wits of yore.” In sharing some famous – or infamous – insults, he wrote of Winston Churchill. “Told over dinner by Lady Astor, the American-born female member of the House of Commons, that, “If you were my husband, Winston, I’d poison your soup,” Churchill immediately replied, “And if you were my wife, Nancy, I’d drink it.” 

What can we do when insults come our way? The temptation is to insult in return, but unless we have Churchill’s quick wit, we’re not likely to succeed. Philosophy professor William Irvine suggests an alternative strategy: become an insult pacifist. “When insulted, you carry on as if nothing happened.” As easy as ignoring the three-year-old in the throes of a tantrum in McDonalds.

Irvine continues: “If you do respond to an insult, you use self-deprecating humor; you insult yourself even worse than they did and laugh while doing it.” When Harry tells me I’m not fit to eat with the pigs, I can answer, “Sure I am!” I don’t like that strategy.

There is an alternative: we can practice a different art, the art of affirmation. The biblical counsel of I Peter applies here: “Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing . . .”

When I was wallowing in my induction to the poetaster hall of fame all those years ago, the second publication where I submitted my poetry responded. “Madame,” the editor wrote, “you are a poet.” I can’t begin to describe the difference those five words made for me.

Mr. Rogers understands: “Sometimes, all it takes is one kind word to nourish another person. Think of the ripple effect that can be created when we nourish someone. One kind empathetic word has a wonderful way of turning into many.” Here’s to many ripples in your pond – and mine. 

What Keeps You Up At Night?

The text from my daughter-in-law Lauren left me amazed: “My little man slept ten hours – I had to wake him up.” How is it possible that this four-month-old baby is the son of our firstborn, Greg, the child who woke me up every night until he was at least two years old? Is there such a thing as reverse karma? Not fair!

In contrast, our other new grandbaby, the sweet Emma Belle, has not mastered the art of sleeping at night, thus keeping her mom or dad on call as the hours of the night slip by. I vaguely remember living in the fog of sleep deprivation in my early months of motherhood as well, but I also cherished those hours spent in the rocking chair, as we were seemingly the only two humans awake in the silent world around us. 

Now, as those early childhood days are seen only from my rear-view mirror, I often sleep through the night, the way humans are created to do, waking rested and refreshed. However, there are other nights when my sleep is interrupted, and I watch the hands on the clock make their way around the dial. Usually, I’ll give myself a limited amount of time to fall back to sleep, but once that mark has been reached, I’ll get up and read or check social media, as television in the middle of the night is even worse than mid-afternoon.

Sometimes, I’m awakened from an unsettling dream, or with the need to “use the facilities,” and easily slip back into sleep. Other nights, I’ll toss and turn, focusing on my to-do list for the next day, outlining my next novel, and yes, even composing a T-G column or two at three a.m. However, unless I find a way to jot some words down, the ideas that seemed so brilliant in the middle of the night are either AWOL by morning, or lose their shine in the light of day. 

For people of faith, the night hours can become a time for watchfulness and prayer. The Psalmist understood: “My eyes are awake before the watches of the night, that I may meditate on your promise” (Psalm 119). Night can also be a time of soul-searching. As recorded in the book of Genesis, Jacob wrestled with God through the night until daybreak came. Perhaps Mosie Lister, a gospel songwriter, was remembering that account when he asked a question: “How long has it been . . . since you stayed on your knees ‘till the light shone through?” 

At other times, we are kept awake by the burdens we carry for family and friends. Our child is far from home. An elderly parent is near death. A cousin is suicidal. Our neighbor’s husband is in prison. Our spouse is unfaithful. A baby is coming too soon. Our sibling is deployed. We pray and we weep, and when we awaken in the morning, our pillow is soaked by the tears we shed in the night.

Yet there are also times when we are kept awake by the suffering of people we don’t know. As the horrors of the Epstein case unfold, my heart aches for vulnerable girls, for women who aren’t believed, for those who will carry the secret of their abuse to their graves. 

For author Francine Prose, what’s happening at the border keeps her awake. She writes: “I’ve been surprised, and not especially pleased, by my own ability to absorb each new outrage, each new shock – and move one. But not this one. Perhaps because I’ve spent so much of my adult life around children, perhaps because I have children and now grandchildren of my own, the reports and images of these devastated families have been keeping me awake at night and haunting my daylight hours. And I believe that this should be keeping all of us awake.”

Stephanie Marsh, who played ADA Alexandra Cabot in Law and Order SVU, shares her perspective: “Thinking about the heartbreaking number of young children around the world who think they are unwanted and are uncared for can easily keep you awake at night.” 

What about you? What keeps you up at night?

There Will Be An Answer

Film director Danny Boyle recently talked with NPR’s Audie Cornish to introduce his newest film, “Yesterday.” I’ve never been much of a movie theater fan – while I love butter-drenched movie popcorn, I hate paying ten cents a kernel – but as I listened to Boyle talk, the premise of this film fascinated me. What if any knowledge of the Beatles, any memory of their music, any image of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band, was stripped from the minds of everyone in the world? Seemingly only one stumbling singer, Jack Malik, remembers them, and so he begins to introduce this amazing music as his own to his handful of fans, and ultimately, to the world.

It sounded like a fun concept for a movie, and promised a meandering stroll down Penny Lane – oops, I mean memory lane. Larry was certainly shocked to hear me ask, “Want to go to the movies?” Those words seldom come out of my mouth, but I’m glad they did. Writing in Vulture, Nate Jones suggests that “’Yesterday’ is the kind of movie that works best if you turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream.” Side by side with a yellow submarine. Works for me.

As an added attraction to the film’s story, there was Kate McKinnon, my favorite actor from Saturday Night Live, cast as Jack’s agent of greed. As I watched her stride through Jack’s life, I couldn’t wipe from my mind the impromptu yet spot-on impression she recently did of Marianne Williamson, spiritual guide and presidential candidate. McKinnon has convincingly imitated Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III, Kellyanne Conway, and Elizabeth Warren, and I’ll never forget her SNL rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” in November 2016. What an amazing talent.

Yet I digress from the Beatles. How can we possibly imagine a world without John, Paul, George or Ringo? The Fab Four made their first U.S. appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show on my 9^thbirthday in 1964, but I wasn’t among the seventy-three million who watched their U.S. debut. Yet I was soon as enthralled as they were, making my first forty-five purchases of “A Hard Day’s Night” and “I Want to Hold Your Hand” (with “I Saw Her Standing There” on the B-side), back when forty-five still meant a record. For Americans, even the nine-year-old ones, it had been “a hard day’s night” since the assassination of President Kennedy less than three months earlier, and now the Beatles were somehow allowing us to breathe again, to sing again. 

By the next year, they were once again speaking for us: “Help, I need somebody.” Personally, corporately, they were singing what so many were whispering in the darkness. Yet they were also optimistic, reminding us that “we can work it out,” because, as their 1967 hit promised, “All you need is love.” After all, we can get by “with a little help from our friends.” 

Unfortunately, their optimism regarding relationships didn’t carry over into their partnership, and in 1970 they went their separate ways. Still, the music continued. As Paul McCartney said, “I loved music too much to think of stopping.” John’s solo album, “Imagine” soon made its way to my turntable, and I often sang along: “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one . . .” Even now, I still yearn for a world where all people live life in peace. 

In one poignant scene in the film, Jack tries to remember if Father McKenzie was darning socks, and why Eleanor Rigby was picking up rice in a church. I couldn’t remember either, but I do remember the category Eleanor and Father McKenzie belonged to – “all the lonely people.” Maya Angelou understood: “Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” 

All these years later, it’s not just about four young men from Liverpool. It’s about the music, and how it reaches us deeply, or, as Anne Porter describes, it “wanders where we wander.” Somehow, without knowing us, the Beatles spoke – and still speak – for us. That’s what music does. In times of trouble, in our hour of darkness, the notes whisper: “There will be an answer.”