But not for 24 hours a day . . .

It took me a long time to understand and respect things Gram would casually (? ) say, but so many of her thoughts have stayed with me, and I wish I could tell her how much her words, like those I write of today, have helped me.

“Ethel”, she said, “for a woman (and I came to know it’s also true for men) to be happy, she must find something, in addition to her family, that will bring joy into her life. And the more “hobbies” she has, the better off she’ll be.”

I listened, but really didn’t ‘hear’ her, for I was still in that euphoric stage when I thought that after marriage you automatically lived happily ever after. Impossible to think she could really mean that I might someday need anything besides my husband, her son, to bring me happiness.

But I also knew Gram didn’t waste words and so I filed her thoughts away into my mental computer, and, when the day did come, when ‘family’ wasn’t enough, her words re-surfaced and I began to follow her advice. See, she had ‘been there’ and was doing her best to pass the wisdom on to one she loved. Me.

Others have said it, too. “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket” is the old peasant way of saying it. Pearl Buck, and I paraphrase, said that if a women tries to confine all her energies, attention and love, into the sole outlet of husband and family, she will put a burden on the relationship that it was never meant to bear. Oh.

The husband (or wife) will retreat (escape) in self-defense to TV, behind a magazine or newspaper, golf, the neighborhood bar, or other activity. And children, if outspoken, will tell you to ‘get off their back’, will stay in their room, ‘live’ at friend’s homes, retreat into silence or rebel in any of the thousand ways a teen can devise.

When I first did something that my husband had no interest in, I felt guilty, but I went ahead and was startled to find that he liked those times when his presence or participation wasn’t needed. And slowly I saw that he had his interests. And it was good.

What Gram had learned, as we all must if we are to gain any measure of happiness, is that not one of us can (or wants) to spend 24 hours a day, with just one person. No matter how loved that one might be.

Gram knew that kids grow up and leave home. Death does come, and that jobs, life and sickness, both mental and physical, can separate people. So, for our own balance we must find outlets that absorb and bring delight to us. In addition to our families.

Women’s lives were limited at Gram’s time, but I think ‘Cooking’ was her first, (or second), and it shattered her when she could no longer be mistress of her own kitchen. Gardening was her second (or first) and I never greet Spring without recalling her delight in ‘getting outside to plant and dig’.

I have mine, and if you haven’t found yours, get busy. For there are times in everyone’s life when spouse, children, job and even life seem to fail us. Yes, these are the times when some hobby or avocation can actually be a life line to your peace and sanity.

And one of the most succinct phrases of all, as true today as when she passed it along to me, with a wry smile on her face. “We marry for life, but not for twenty-four hours a day.” Wise, wise woman, and I hope you and you and you read and remember. Might save your sanity one of these days, too. Or his.

       The Bra is about the only article of women’s clothing that wasn’t first worn by men.

Don’t believe me? Well, just wander through illustrated history books a bit and as you look you’ll agree and laugh with me. Get out your Art Pictures of older English Royalty. Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Pictures found etched on ancient Egyptian walls. And don’t forget the Bible.

For beginners, women in pants of any sort were absolutely unknown until quite a while after WW2. Women formed a highly praised branch of the US Army, the WACS, but they wore skirts. Unimaginable, but true. Regiment after regiment, and all in skirts.

Panty hose were worn by male noblemen at Shakespeare’s time and I’m sure they weren’t called Panty hose, for even on the stage today, they’re called Tights. But take a good look at them, and you’ll see they were the first panty hose.

And, to top off that long expanse of leg, the men set them off with Mini Skirts. No, they weren’t called mini skirts, but even a casual glance tells what they were. It took women well into the 20th century to claim not only the mini skirts, but everyone of the items mentioned above, Women were slow, slow, slow.

Legs were fetishes ‘back then’ even as now, but it was the male’s legs that wooed for attention, not the well covered female’s. It was the attire on the men’s legs that unashamedly was meant to catch the beholder’s attention. And I’m sure the women saw and followed the bait. .

No, they weren’t made of nylon, and they must have sagged and bunched at knees and ankles, but just the same . . . panty hose.

The Scots had their Kilts (skirts), and today still wear them for their formal attire. The Greeks had their white skirts and wore them for both battle and daily wear. ruffled, starched, standing out like to-day’s Ballerina tutu. Nothing new under the sun, and while women flaunt them all today, it was men who showed the way.

Abraham, and his brothers of Biblical times, as they herded their flocks across the hot sand, wore Kaftans. And the scarves they flung around their necks and heads the same as women do today when we want to be stylish, cool and casual.

Make-up was a male prerogative and they wore it long before Cleopatra put kohl on her eyelids, and henna to her nails and palms. Different than our make up kits, but the males of those centuries ago would eagerly use every item offered today.

And then we get to fancy shoes. We woman were still wrapping our feet in cloth to keep out the cold when men were wearing leather, fur and silk.

The shoes with long pointed toes were worn by men. The toes were much longer than we women have ever worn . . and were held up by ribbons fastened from the end of the point to the wearer’s hand, and when they wanted to impress someone, the ribbons were immediately put to one side and they walked carefully to make certain the toes did not get tripped over or walked upon by others. We women may have been slow to catch on, but it’s easy to see we brought about improvements. No be-ribboned toes for us.

Long ago Egyptian males wore ear rings and wigs. And think about it, but we’ve never, never seen pictures of  Benjamin Franklin, Jefferson, Washington, and Colonists of any standing with out their wigs, and wouldn’t recognize those men without wigs. And it’s the law in Great Britain that English Judges must still wear those stylized white curled wigs we wonder over.

Yeah, we women are late bloomers, but men, in some areas of the world, still cling to the old forms.

Now hair styles are a thing apart from clothing, but just the same, men found the comfort, styling and ease of the hair cuts that many women, and I’m one of them, wear today, but, men found that comfort and ease first of all.

Men never did wear bras, physically they’ve never needed them, but they made up   for it. Don’t ever forget those little items called Cod pieces that were so popular all through the 15th, 16th, and late into the 17th centuries. They were well padded. too.  And if some of you are so innocent you don’t know what Cod pieces were, well, Ethel isn’t going to tell you, Just Google it and laugh with me.

The same as men never needing our Bras, the Cod Piece is one we women will never copy, either. Have fun.

I attended a class where “What Makes People Tick” was explored and some ideas were tremendous. and so I won’t forget them, I pass them along. And, at one point, the person who, for want of a better word, has Class was discussed.

The one with Class never runs scared. He is confident in knowing that one can meet life head-on and handle anything that comes. The same set of circumstances can come to two people, and, while one will be crushed and beaten, the one with Class will take a deep breath, swallow, hold his head high and go on.

Jacob had Class, Esau didn’t. And, if we look symbolically at Jacob’s wrestling match with the angel, we realize that those with Class often wrestle with their own ‘angels’ and win victories that mark them positively for the rest of their lives.

People with Class don’t make excuses. They take their lumps, cut their losses, and learn from the experience. And as my friend Jake, used to say, “Don’t complain, don’t explain, for neither will do any good. Just square your shoulders and go on from where ever you landed”. Took me a long time to figure out how smart he was.

Those with Class are considerate of others. They know that good manners are nothing but a series of small sacrifices. A ‘thank you’ , or a ‘pardon or excuse me’ are all wonderful ‘oil’ for our complicated society and make for smooth, pleasant relationships.

Class reveals an ‘aristocracy’ that has nothing to do with ancestors or money. The most affluent person can be totally rude and inconsiderate, while generations of low-income people may show Class in every pore.

Don Blanding said it succinctly in his poem “Vagabond House” about his two beloved dogs. He wrote, “Both are thoroughbreds, right from the start. One by breeding, the other by heart.” He was speaking of Class and I shiver as I read the words.

One with Class never tries to build himself up by tearing others down. Class is always ‘up’ and does not need to try to look better by knocking others down.

As Kipling wrote, one with Class can “walk with kings and keep the common touch and talk with crowds and keep his virtue.” Everyone is comfortable with such a one because he is comfortable with himself.

I can’t help but think of Eleanor Roosevelt,  First Lady when FDR was President.  Caught on camera, (no TV at that time), she was suddenly face to face with an official from a far Eastern nation, and there was no one to ‘do’ the introductions. She quite calmly said, “I don’t know how to address you, but I am so glad to meet you.” He smiled, told her what most people called him, and then the two of them conversed.

That was real Class, from both of them.

I saw, of course on TV, when a younger Queen Elizabeth showed her Class one day, when an overweight woman was presented to her. The woman began to make the traditional curtsy, but dropped down too far, and terror filled her face for it was obvious that the poor  woman  had reached the point of no return, and, on her own,  didn’t  have the power to get upright again.

But Queen Elizabeth, saw the sad predicament,  and, without a change of expression, she put one foot backward, held out her arm and with both arm and body stiff as boards she actually levered and pulled the woman upright and balanced again. The Queen then went on to the next person without a pause. I shivered as my respect for her went straight up. That, let me tell you was real Class.

If you have that trait your whole life will be smoother. so let’s both take a class on “Class” development, beginning right now.   I would welcome the company.

ethelbrad@comcast.net

Dawn – The finest hour

No matter how wakeful or troubled the night, there is always reassurance and joy in the morning. I mean, of course, after the first horrible wrench of getting myself out of the subliminal state and on my feet.

Yes, I hate to get out of bed but once I do, the rewards are worth the struggle. There’s a softness to the early morning that cannot be put into words and i feel like Alice in Wonderland as she stepped through the mirror into a new world. That’s what early morning is like. Before anyone starts moving and breaks the spell.

I pour myself a quick cup and then step outside, for one must make the commitment and be outside for the magic to work. I go quietly, barefoot and nine-times-out-of-ten still in my night shift. I feel like an intruder on that world, so near my door, but at dawn it’s not mine, and go as quietly as possible.

The other morning I saw two pheasants, a male and his mate, strolling right across the street, and hardly daring to breath, I watched in delight. During the day I hear, but seldom see them, but at that hour, they had no fear, for the world, including the street was theirs.

The backyard was alive. I toss bird seed in sheltered nooks and the birds spread the word and come. There are the shy quail, greedy magpies, friendly sparrows, wild canaries, robins, doves, starlings, and some I don’t know, but they know my yard.

And, to me, the strange thing, is that if I sit still, they don’t see me. They are so secure at this hour of the morn that they don’t look for anything or anyone to fear.

Dogs and cats I never see at other times, go busily through my yard, so intent on their business they, too, pay no attention, not only to me, but to the birds, and the birds do not shy away from them. Odd, I can’t figure that one out.

There’s a perfume to the air that I would recognize as ‘dawn’ no matter where I should find it. The sky can be overcast, clear, cold or sultry, but the aroma is there and I’d like to bottle it. I’d name it “Early Dawn” and city folk would buy it by the gallon as it awakened within them, a deep almost painful response to an aroma they, in some long ago rural lifetime, had once known.

I see large flights of birds going overhead, speeding to get to feeding or mating grounds before the heat of the day arrives. I’m reminded that the sky is a great highway for birds of all species, and butterflies. too. They travel their familiar routes just as I do on my way to where I go, and I get envious of the fisher folk on our coastal areas who are just as aware of the highways in the oceans that the fish and whales all follow.

Sometimes I get in my car and drive around in the early dawn. I’d ‘die’ if I had to stop for some reason, and be found in my night shift, but, what the heck, that’s Ethel. Weird.

The world is a different place at the various hours of the day, with changes as abrupt as the seasonal ones, and each quickly recognized. Dusk, to me, is the Angelus . . . . ”the end of a weary day when all things come home at eventide” and it’s almost with tears that I recognize the feeling, and find it a bit sad, but yet wonderful.

Daytime is when the business of the world sets a frantic and busy pace. And Dawn is a far cry from the hectic flash/flash/neon/noisy/blare/honk of the midnight hour that was here but a few hours before. 

The early hours are a time of birth. The time when everything I ever dream of is still possible. The time when all I ever want is already mine. Yeah, you know the feeling . . . . I hope. And if not . . . seek it.

I catch the sun coming up over the Wasatch Mountains and know that I could give up much in this world and still be happy, but one of the last things I would ever want to give up is my Window to the World, and Dawn, to me, is its Finest Hour.

 A Parentheses In Eternity

Life is one long, long sentence, and I am not speaking in Prison terms, but a sentence that is used in writing. And the beginning of our Sentences started with The Big Bang, whatever that was, and continues on.

There are no Periods in this Sentence. Not a one. There are thousands of commas, semi-colons, dashes, exclamation points, pauses, and all else, but not a one Period. No end to this Sentence we experience, and makes no difference what Belief System we belong to, either. Just one Sentence.  

My Birth, when I slipped from some unknown Room into this Mortal Room where I dwell as Ethel Ohlin Bradford, was not the beginning of my Sentence, but prefaced, perhaps by a Comma, or Dash, a Semi-colon. Who knows?

And when what we call Death arrives, it will only be the end of the body I’ve used these long, wonderful years, and the  part of me that never dies will just slip joyously into the next Room. There will be no Period, maybe an Colon? Exclamation Point? I don’t know, but certainly not a Period.

I know, well, not first hand, but often my husband told me of when as a 17 year old, he died from pneumonia. This was before the age of Wonder Drugs, and he lay deathly ill, so sick, so tired, in the upper west bedroom of the Bradford home, and a Registered Nurse with him.

Oddly, my older sister, Amber Ohlin Bodine, worked at Thornton-Anderson Drug Store at the northwest corner of State Street and 4800 South, and where it was easy to hear any doctor’s conversation with the Pharmacist, and she came home one day, and at the dinner table told that the ‘Bradford’ boy would die that night. I did not know ‘the Bradford boy’ or certainly not that he would one day be my husband. But I remember her words. Life is odd.

But my husband later told me that ‘suddenly’ there was Light. A soft. wonderful Light, and with it, all feelings of sickness and weariness were gone. He was himself again, with not even a memory of sickness, happily running free, and overwhelmed with unbelievable Joy! He said The Light permeated his every cell and never before or after did he feel such utter happiness than what was then his.

But suddenly there was someone, (something?) wrestling with him, trying to pull him away from that Light. He fought back, but his opponent was strong, and then he was shocked and taken further out of the Light, by a sudden sharp bitter taste in his mouth (what mouth?), and the wrestler and the horrible taste, had taken him out of the Light and back to his bedroom, his bed, his sick, tired, weak, and unhappy body. And the ‘unwelcome’ Nurse was gripping him.

 He said, “My first thought was that it had been a struggle between me and another force, and that force had won the battle. I was the loser.”

 How marvelous that Next Room must be when an 17 year old would fight to remain There rather than here. For the rest of his life, he remembered that Next Room, the Room of Light that he had been a part of, and then being ‘pulled’ back from it.

 He later found that the nurse had poured a spoonful of some alcoholic stimulant between his lips and the glorious wonder that had been his only a moment before, was gone. And he repeated, “She won the battle.”

 So, with his story, my own experiences, and having the blessing of Classes with Dr.Ushurburg Arya, all, in their own words, told the same Truth, that there is no end to this Sentence that we are living right now.

 I, as we all do, have had flashback moments where I’ve been in different countries, cultures, and ages. Sometimes I’ve been male, sometimes female. And different roles, such as Kind, unkind. Pure, sinful. Wealthy, poor. Ruler, serf. Warrior, farmer. Sailor, store clerk. I’ve ‘clicked’ into many, and they were all Me. No, not the ‘Ethel’ me, but that Inner Being,  we all are.            

 Joel Goldsmith, penned a wonderful book entitled “A Parentheses in Eternity” and his words made me more certain that my ‘flashback memories’ are valid, and that this life really is a parentheses in Eternity.

 When we are in bodies, as right now, we are wearing Blinders. We can not see (except in wonderful moments) what we were ‘before’, or what we will be later on.   And it’s the answer to such unanswerables as when we meet  some ‘stranger’ and know that we know each other.

 And Einstein, the supreme Physicist of our time, told the same in his writings, using words I had to read and re-read to understand (?), but according to him, that when we have learned enough, or wise enough (who knows what the requirements are?) but we will experience the reverse of The Big Bang, and become again One with The Source of All.

 I write of my husband’s experience and my learnings  telling of how our lives are one long, long sentence, with many punctuation marks, but nary a Period. Even the event I wrote of in the last paragraph, will not be the End. but a most wonderful continuation.   TYG.

 A special  kind of moocher . . .

Grandpa Bradford, Archibald the First, was seen almost daily at the old AS&R (American Smelter & Refinery) and though not employed there, he had a one-room office (desk?) and the only key to it, was his..

He was good-naturedly called a Moocher, and in today’s lingo, a moocher is one who makes his wages off the work done by others.   And  that, in a way, was exactly what Gramp’s job entailed. So, on the surface, Gramps was a Moocher.

Actually, however,  he was employed by the New York office of AS&R   and here’s how it worked.

Every day AS&R took samples of the ore Smelted that day, and had those samples assayed, to reveal how much Lead, Silver, Copper, Gold, etc. was in the ore that day. Some metals were more valuable than others, and so the percentage of each throughout the whole, would determine the monetary worth of that day’s smelting.

I make myself unclear, but dealing with such large sums of money, AS&R trusted no one, and so the out-of-State AS&R office, arranged to have another person, not connected with the Smelter in any way, to also get samples of each day’s work, have them assayed, and then send  his, the second  report, to them.   In that manner, the N.Y office could double-check every day’s report and quickly spot and check any large difference.

Here in Murray, Utah, that man was Archibald Bradford. At that time, Gramps was a busy man in Murray, and AS&R was cagey. They needed some well known person, one not apt to be open to bribery, not having to rely upon the AS&R check for his ‘daily bread’, intelligent and with a good reputation. I understand they looked around; and, when asked, Grandpa said, “Why not? ”

In other words they needed a man who was trustworthy and actually did not need their small payment to survive. and yet was willing to spend a few hours each week getting their necessary job done.

Gramps took ore samples each day from the Smelter, had them assayed by an independent, but reputable Assayer, and then, sent that report. on to the main Smelter office, and just like that, AS&R had two separate assay reports of each day’s work at AS&R.

Murray was not a large town at that time, and our Grandpa and the Smelter men all knew each other and so, good naturedly they started calling him a Moocher, and it soon became used throughout all parts of the Smelter. What his actual title was I have no idea, probably had none, but the Moocher one held. He had a small locked space at the Smelter and was free to come and go as he chose.

The work on that report could not legally  be done in the Smelter buildings, and so Gramps had it done at the Bradford home, and of all people, it was Gram, Rachel Crozier Bradford, who typed up those reports on their ancient Remington typewriter.

One of my first memories of being in that old home, was on a Sunday evening and seeing Gram, on the east side of the dining room table, poking determinedly away with her two ‘pointer’ fingers on that tiny typewriter. She had the air of “Don’t even talk to me, I’m doing important work. Come back later when I’m finished.”

Today  that typewriter would be a collector’s dream, but who knew? I suppose that in time it was tossed into the garbage, but I still can see that table, cleared of all usual stuff, and Gram there very seriously typing away.

Gramps then ‘proof read’ the finished product before it was signed, sealed and mailed to the N.Y.C, office.  It became an expected routine, for me, to see Gram busy at her job of typing the Assay Report each Sunday evening after the dinner hour was over. She was serious as ‘all get out’, too. This was Smelter business.

So, our Gramps was a Moocher. He grinned and oft times used the title himself. Must have taken a bit of ribbing about his ‘job’, but he liked it, as well as the teasing, and kept on Mooching for a long, long time. Fun, isn’t it???   Gramps, of all people, a Moocher.

 Mirrors and Tools of the Soul . . .

       The first hands I was aware of were my father’s. Basically they were well formed, but a life time of carpentering and other hard work, had toughened the skin and nails until they were rough and work-worn as no others I, as a child, had seen.

Yet, Dad’s hands were sensitive. I remember them as he held a piece of wood, gently feeling the edges to see if it needed more smoothing. I saw his hands following the grain of the wood to make certain he had maximized its beauty, and it was as I watched his hands that I became aware of the beauty of polished wood. And of hands.

I don’t know how he could feel any roughness, for I would have thought it needed thin, soft skin to sense any snag or error. But when Dad finished a piece of furniture, it was done in a way today’s machine-made furniture can not rival.

I remember seeing Dad, almost without thinking, reach out to touch and gently rub some fine piece of furniture. I sensed it then, and now know, that his touch was a caress for its beauty. Yes, he had ‘rough and ready’ hands from a lifetime of hard work, but they were also the sensitive, sensual hands of an artist.

And I remember Gram’s hands. I heard her once say, that when she wanted a job done well, she had to ‘get her hands into it’. I can still see that dear woman’s hands as she cooked, going from stove, to frig, table, to set the table or cut a cake. Each movement sharp, clean and precise. No fumbling in the action of her hands.

And perhaps most vivid of all, because it seemed so ‘out of character’, was when she used their ancient Remington typewriter, that I now wish I saved. But she sat at their dining room table, making out her husband’s, (Gramp’s), weekly reports to be mailed to the Smelter office in New York. Incongruous to see Gram, of all people, there at a typewriter, poking away with one finger, yet doing it acceptably, too.

My husband, AW’s hands were far more beautiful, even for a man, than mine as a woman’s.  I  had seen those same hands on his father, then again on one of our sons, and know that the genes run straight and true.

One time when our son, JR. then in his teens, almost adult, reached across the dinner table for some dish, and for one swift moment, seeing only the hand,  I thought it was the father, not the son reaching out. Yeah, hands follow the blood line as any other feature.

I watched young Michael’s hands, another generation, as they began to lose their baby star-shape and I knew his hands would be replicas of Gram’s. And I smile, for though Gram is long gone, I am reminded of her as I watch Mike, her grandson, reach out with a gesture in the same delicate manner that was hers. Hands that seem to never be meant for menial tasks, yet Gram did many such a chore and I’m sure Michael now does the same.

Then there was Stan whose supple fingers brought the keys of his piano to life in a way that. even in remembering, brings goose pimples to my skin. And, in a different manner, I watched Bob Prince, down at the old Murray Printing Company, where, swiftly and surely, he put a full-page ad together, (as was then the way it was done), with nary a wasted motion.

I see my Carol’s hands as she makes beauty from thread and a crochet hook, and recall Jonathan’s as he bent over his cello and pulled your heart strings with the beauty of hands and music.

Yes, I love hands . . . . they truly are the tools of our Souls.

This one is too good to let pass.  It is from my nephew Jim Scott, and I appreciate him taking time to send me this observation on the times in which we live.   It originated with Clarence Page of the Chicago Tribune and is all in the name of Political Correctness, so read on and be amused with me.

Here are some politically correctness to consider: I agree with our Native American population. I am highly insulted by the racially charged name of the Washington Redskins. One might argue that to name a professional football team after Native Americans would exalt them as fine warriors, but nay, nay. We must be careful not to offend, and in the spirit of political correctness and courtesy, we must move forward.

Let’s ditch the Kansas City Chiefs, the Atlanta Braves and the Cleveland Indians.   If your shorts are in a wad because of the reference the name Redskins makes to skin color, then we need to get rid of the Cleveland Browns.

The Carolina Panthers obviously were named to keep the memory of militant Blacks from the 60’s alive. Gone.   It’s offensive to us white folk.

The New York Yankees offend the Southern population. Do you see a team named for the Confederacy?  No!  There is no room for any reference to that tragic war that cost this  country so many young men’s live.

I am also offended by the blatant references to the Catholic religion among our sports team names.  Totally inappropriate to have the New Orleans Saints, the Los Angeles Angels or the San Diego Padre.

Then there are the team names that glorify criminals who raped and pillaged. We are talking about the horrible Oakland Raiders, the Minnesota Vikings, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Pittsburgh Pirates!

Now, let us address those teams that clearly send the wrong message to our children. The San Diego Chargers promote irresponsible fighting or even spending habits. Wrong message to our children.

The New York Giants and the San Francisco Giants promote obesity, a growing childhood epidemic.  Wrong message to our children.

The Cincinnati Reds promote downers/barbiturates . Wrong message to our children.

The Milwaukee Brewers—well that goes without saying . . . Wrong message to our children

So, there you go.   We need to support any legislation that comes out to rectify this travesty, because the government will likely become involved with this issue, as they should.   Just the kind of thing the do-nothing Congress loves .

Beware of that excess baggage . . .

          “We live on top of a garbage heap.” AW used to say. “Every day we bring in arm’s full of stuff, but not one of us ever takes arm’s full of stuff out.” I was shocked, and knew he spoke the truth.

He meant that our closets, drawers and basement were full of things that were; too good to throw away; would come in handy someday; curtain rods; old lamps; picnic equipment replaced by new and better; pop corn shakers; wall pictures we’ve tired of; equipment for hobbies we long ago put aside; and I could go on forever, but you also have your own list of stuff you’re saving.

The habit of ‘saving’ is born in us, and continues slowly, but relentlessly. and before we know it, it’s not only a problem, it’s a PROBLEM.

Think it over. Gifts you never found a place for? Stuff brought from childhood homes? Each child’s baby mementos? Saving reaches so far, that I’d fight anyone who might even suggest re-painting the inside of a ‘broom closet’ door where I marked my son’s heights and ages on their  childhood birthdays.

And life is sad because death reaches all families, and we’re faced with a closet full of their clothing. (I called D.I. quickly) But handling their personal items from desk, drawers, shop or den is something else. It’s not only heartbreaking, it’s cruel.

I finally found a partial answer to ‘regular’ stuff. About twice a year, I’d take a great big sack and prowl. Closets, drawers, downstairs, garage, you name it, I poked, picked out things to garbage, and started making a dent. And, with careful choosing, and crossed fingers, not a thing was ever missed.

Then, one day I put out a screen door. Too good to toss out, but after five years??? Well, I put it at curbside for passersby to see. Everyone knows what you’re doing, and before evening came, the screen was gone. Since then I’ve done the same with other things, and it always works.

Once in a while someone will ring the doorbell and asks if you really want to get rid of it, and with your affirmative nod, they grin and are on their way with your ‘stuff’. And you grin, too.

The ‘saving’ problem grows, like when your kids leave home for school, to marry or take a job someplace else. Happens all the time, Your grown up kids just leave the stuff, thinking that ‘one day’ they’ll do something with it, but for now??? Yeah, it stays in your home..

It’s a hard task, it always hurts. and I have a few rules. I will keep some things that are of no earthly value at all, except, that is, if they’re beautiful, or an antique. And then there are always those things that fit no rule, but, again, if it’s something that someone I loved used and treasured, I keep it.

And, like most mothers, I’d like to save every toy and fingerprint those sons of mine ever made, but it gets to the point of whether you want to live surrounded by yesterday or to cut the hooks and begin to live for today. And often a compromise is the answer. We’re odd creatures.

But the next time you see an old table, lamp, TV, chair, or whatever, at a curb side, just grin and know that someone else is trying to lessen their own ‘garbage heap’. However, you must watch yourself, for instinctively you’ll find yourself slowing down ‘just to see’ if it’s something you might want, and I swear, you will.

Better beware, for this is the season when everyone is doing the same thing. With every turn in the road you’ll see more and more wonderful ‘give aways’ at someone else’s curb. Be prepared and disciplined. Firmly, shake your head NO. Keep your eyes on the road, not the curb, and your foot on the gas, not the brake.

Be strong and you’ll make it home without having to unload more than you got rid of.   I know, I’ve been down that road it’s a tough one. Good luck.

ethelbrad@comcast.net