“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes Awww! Jack Kerouac -On the Road
Katy Perry’s new single Firework did something for me the other day. It made me realize that I am a burned out Firework. I was a Firecracker once. I once had that passion for work, school, marriage, child rearing, even my appearance. What happened?
Perry’s song draws reference from Jack Kerouac’s novel of random thoughts–On the Road. They both claim that it’s people that show their sizzle, their spark, their passion for life that sustains the day. I need some of that; I need some of that around me. Most of the time, I gravitate to a couple of people who are my fireworks. My daughter and my sister. My daughter; is an exploding firework. I do sit back and go Awwww! I can’t wait to see her perfect road. I am extremely proud of her, her accomplishments, her talents, her beauty, even her scary downward spirals when she makes mistakes and picks herself up. She dazzles me. My sister is a fabulous yellow roman candle. She lights up a room, is quick with the wit, and is hilariously funny. She explodes with confidence and sister crazy.
Maybe it’s the first born syndrome? The Serious One? Was I always? I don’t think so. My sorority sisters would say otherwise. As I got older I lost my spark? Has the harshness of age, trials and tribulations beaten me up? The Mojo is gone?
Maybe the line: Do you ever feel like a plastic bag; drifting through the wind, wanting to start again? YES! I do!
The line: Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin, like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?
YES! I do!
But then the hopeful lines: Do you know there's still a chance for you? Maybe you're the reason all the doors are closed, so you could open one that leads you to the perfect road?
Where IS that?
So I have pledged that Firework is my new anthem. For me and the other Fireworks in my life. I hope we all show the world what we’re worth. Make 'em all go AH AH AH.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Wax Thanksgiving Candles
If you like to wax nostalgic; take a trip down memory lane with me. When we were little, my treasured memories of Thanksgiving was the typical stuff. Turkey smells and watching the Macy's Parade on a grainy, bad color television . Because my parents liked to watch two televisions at once; the other television would have a football game. Seriously... side by side televisions, with competing programs. One for Dad; one for Mom and the girls. No wonder I went into broadcast journalism. I grew up watching dueling monitors!
Anyway, Thanksgiving was always about the perfect meal, the perfect table, and a quiet deaf dinner ambiance, since it was usually just the four of us and the blinking televisions. One thing about the perfect table, it was set with lace tablecloth, corelle-ware, and crystal bowls with cranberries, pickles, an assortment of dinner accoutrement's. And then there were the Wax Thanksgiving Candles.http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/view/42514. I remember them as far back as I can remember. A big mulit-crayola colored hued Turkey, a little Turkey, a Pilgrim, A Mommy Pilgrim, A Indian, and an Indian Maid . My relatives might have had the expanded family of Little Pilgrim Children and Little Indian Children... but my memory says; we only had these Thanksgiving Wax Candles: Pilgrim, Pilgrim Wife, Indian, Indian Maid, Big Turkey, Little Turkey. They commanded the center of the table and they were NEVER lit. A serious dead look would come from my Mother if someone said, "Let's light the candles!" "No, they're only for pretty" she would sign.
So one day, bored, with the blinking televisions on, probably doing homework at the table, I noticed, that the Pilgrim, Indian, and the Indian Maid no longer had eyes or mouths! Someone had taken their fingernail and scraped the painted wax dot eyes and mouths off their faces! They were blind, mute! AH! I shot a look at my little sister... really? Mom would kill us. Of course, my mom noticed, gave us a stern "WHAT FOR-WHY?" sign, and then left them on the table... blind and mute Pilgrims and Indians. It was a sad commentary on Thanksgiving. The candles were there for a few more years, and then my mom tired of the doll-like old decor; just put them somewhere.
Years later when I returned home from college for Thanksgiving break; I would say.. "Hey where are those cute candles we used to have? My mom would sign "Well you girls defaced them and ruined them so we don't have them any more." I was sad, knowing that I was getting older and a little piece of my nostalgia had created a bad memory for my mom. She replaced the ruined dolls with new ceramic vibrant Gold Turkeys to match her new Gold Checked wallpaper to go with the Gold, Burnt Orange and Brown recently remodeled kitchen that she was so PROUD of.
I never thought of those candles again. After countless Thanksgivings at my parents home with new grandchildren in place, relatives that would come and share our family gathering, new table settings would come and go. It wasn't until four years ago, almost to the week; that those eyeless, mouthless candles re-appeared. It was Thanksgiving 2006, and my mother was in Hospice...dying. Of course, we didn't have a real Thanksgiving that year. My father had just died, we were eating some kind of meal that we numbly put together because no matter what was going on at Hospice, we needed to have the sense that Thanksgiving would go on, and we were thankful to be there with our mom. It was her last days; and my sister and I were in the basement of my mom's house-searching for something. It seems bizarre now; but we needed to be in the basement, finding our memories. Something to cling onto because we couldn't cling on to what was happening at the Hospice house. It was awful. Rummaging through old Christmas stuff, old picnic items, vintage cooking appliances; stored in the cold cupboard was a white paper bag. It was the WAX THANKSGIVING candles. We screamed! It was a sign, it had to be! So we then and there decided that we would always have these candles at our family Thanksgivings...despite no eyes, no mouths.. we didn't care. I was given the treasured white paper bag with the candles and tucked them away at my house.
The following year, I bravely stated that I would host Thanksgiving. In our first year without our parents; my sister and I still wanted to have some semblance of what was our Thanksgiving tradition--will always be? Of course that isn't true today; but three years ago, my sister and I wanted so much to hang on to that. I looked for the little white paper bag with the treasured candles about a week before the festivities. I located the bag in a dresser drawer in a upstairs bedroom. Upstairs guest room, that probably never had a window open all summer, and where it probably got to 100 degrees that August since that was the summer of fires and heat. Inside the paper bag, was a melted wax ball of hideous brown, white, blue. Eyeless faces melted into wax turkey feathers. I screamed and just cried. I cried like it was the funeral again. Because in a way it was.
I cried to my sister that I had ruined Thanksgiving, and I was desperately looking for replacement candles. "They don't make them anymore! Did you know that?" I thought I could just go to Micheal's Crafts and they would be proudly standing there. I was defeated, sad, and felt awful as my sister's family came to join us for Thanksgiving. I put some lame ceramic Pilgrims and Indians on my table that I found on clearance at Joanne's Fabrics. It was insulting. I walked into my dining room after helping my nephews unload the car; and there on my table were the WAX THANKSGIVING candles! My sister found them. EBAY! She found enough for my table, her table, and our kids tables for years to come. She found the Thanksgiving Six, along with the little pygmie pilgrim-indian families. To this day, I cannot thank her enough. She told a great story of finding them, her whole office helping her outbid other Ebay freaks to save my Thanksgiving.
Today, I am packing up my little treasured WAX THANKSGIVING candles to accompany us to our daughter's college house to share Thanksgiving with her. For this, I'm truly thankful.
Anyway, Thanksgiving was always about the perfect meal, the perfect table, and a quiet deaf dinner ambiance, since it was usually just the four of us and the blinking televisions. One thing about the perfect table, it was set with lace tablecloth, corelle-ware, and crystal bowls with cranberries, pickles, an assortment of dinner accoutrement's. And then there were the Wax Thanksgiving Candles.http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/view/42514. I remember them as far back as I can remember. A big mulit-crayola colored hued Turkey, a little Turkey, a Pilgrim, A Mommy Pilgrim, A Indian, and an Indian Maid . My relatives might have had the expanded family of Little Pilgrim Children and Little Indian Children... but my memory says; we only had these Thanksgiving Wax Candles: Pilgrim, Pilgrim Wife, Indian, Indian Maid, Big Turkey, Little Turkey. They commanded the center of the table and they were NEVER lit. A serious dead look would come from my Mother if someone said, "Let's light the candles!" "No, they're only for pretty" she would sign.
So one day, bored, with the blinking televisions on, probably doing homework at the table, I noticed, that the Pilgrim, Indian, and the Indian Maid no longer had eyes or mouths! Someone had taken their fingernail and scraped the painted wax dot eyes and mouths off their faces! They were blind, mute! AH! I shot a look at my little sister... really? Mom would kill us. Of course, my mom noticed, gave us a stern "WHAT FOR-WHY?" sign, and then left them on the table... blind and mute Pilgrims and Indians. It was a sad commentary on Thanksgiving. The candles were there for a few more years, and then my mom tired of the doll-like old decor; just put them somewhere.
Years later when I returned home from college for Thanksgiving break; I would say.. "Hey where are those cute candles we used to have? My mom would sign "Well you girls defaced them and ruined them so we don't have them any more." I was sad, knowing that I was getting older and a little piece of my nostalgia had created a bad memory for my mom. She replaced the ruined dolls with new ceramic vibrant Gold Turkeys to match her new Gold Checked wallpaper to go with the Gold, Burnt Orange and Brown recently remodeled kitchen that she was so PROUD of.
I never thought of those candles again. After countless Thanksgivings at my parents home with new grandchildren in place, relatives that would come and share our family gathering, new table settings would come and go. It wasn't until four years ago, almost to the week; that those eyeless, mouthless candles re-appeared. It was Thanksgiving 2006, and my mother was in Hospice...dying. Of course, we didn't have a real Thanksgiving that year. My father had just died, we were eating some kind of meal that we numbly put together because no matter what was going on at Hospice, we needed to have the sense that Thanksgiving would go on, and we were thankful to be there with our mom. It was her last days; and my sister and I were in the basement of my mom's house-searching for something. It seems bizarre now; but we needed to be in the basement, finding our memories. Something to cling onto because we couldn't cling on to what was happening at the Hospice house. It was awful. Rummaging through old Christmas stuff, old picnic items, vintage cooking appliances; stored in the cold cupboard was a white paper bag. It was the WAX THANKSGIVING candles. We screamed! It was a sign, it had to be! So we then and there decided that we would always have these candles at our family Thanksgivings...despite no eyes, no mouths.. we didn't care. I was given the treasured white paper bag with the candles and tucked them away at my house.
The following year, I bravely stated that I would host Thanksgiving. In our first year without our parents; my sister and I still wanted to have some semblance of what was our Thanksgiving tradition--will always be? Of course that isn't true today; but three years ago, my sister and I wanted so much to hang on to that. I looked for the little white paper bag with the treasured candles about a week before the festivities. I located the bag in a dresser drawer in a upstairs bedroom. Upstairs guest room, that probably never had a window open all summer, and where it probably got to 100 degrees that August since that was the summer of fires and heat. Inside the paper bag, was a melted wax ball of hideous brown, white, blue. Eyeless faces melted into wax turkey feathers. I screamed and just cried. I cried like it was the funeral again. Because in a way it was.
I cried to my sister that I had ruined Thanksgiving, and I was desperately looking for replacement candles. "They don't make them anymore! Did you know that?" I thought I could just go to Micheal's Crafts and they would be proudly standing there. I was defeated, sad, and felt awful as my sister's family came to join us for Thanksgiving. I put some lame ceramic Pilgrims and Indians on my table that I found on clearance at Joanne's Fabrics. It was insulting. I walked into my dining room after helping my nephews unload the car; and there on my table were the WAX THANKSGIVING candles! My sister found them. EBAY! She found enough for my table, her table, and our kids tables for years to come. She found the Thanksgiving Six, along with the little pygmie pilgrim-indian families. To this day, I cannot thank her enough. She told a great story of finding them, her whole office helping her outbid other Ebay freaks to save my Thanksgiving.
Friday, November 19, 2010
The Better Dog
People who know me know about my dog. Gunnar is our family German Shepard. Gunnar is the third German Shepard that has been a part of my family household. I love Gunnar with all my heart. But, I was not always a dog person.
Growing up up with deaf parents, having a dog was sort of a challenge. We had a crazy Norwegian Elk hound ( that's what they passed her off as- but I think she was part sled dog-indian dog) with an unpronounceable name. Eleyska. Something we made up out of the World Book Encyclopedia. My mom thought it should have a Norwegian name, so dutiful little girls with the teacher mom looked up Norway in the book and found a town named something, Of course, not having a hearing parent to help us figure out how to pronounce the name, we came up with something like Ah LEESK a. A better name would have been "crazy indian dog". Deaf parents can't really command a crazy dogs attention. We had no training, and she didn't understand the deaf "NO!" which is very different than the Norwegian Elkhound NO!
She dug, she jumped up on everyone, it barked and ate the corners of the dog house, and then my mom's fabulous blonde furniture. That was probably the last day it ate any furniture ever, because then, one day crazy indian dog was gone. My dad said she ran away, but I knew.
Then, another crazy dog. This one was my sister's dog. Pepper. Pepper was a mutt faced mix of poodle, terrier and spaniel. If you could ever have a dog with a psychotic mix, this was it. Pepper arrived when I was about to leave home for college. Pepper also didn't understand the Deaf "NO" . She liked underwear. My sister's underwear. If there was a door, she would bolt. "It's a open door, I have to go, go somewhere, I don't know, but I'm going, I'm going to the street, then the neighbors, and I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you."
So my formative years growing up with dogs, was with two crazy dogs that ate furniture and underwear. Gah.
Then I met my husband. He came from Alaska with a dog that was a pure specimen of Dog God. MAJOR. Major was a purebred AKC German Shepard. Sable mix, 120 pounds of muscle that had traveled the Alaska Highway, ventured out on Oregon and Alaska rivers, spent every moment of his life with his ex-Army Ranger that logged, ranched, built log houses, guided king salmon fishing trips, grizzly and caribou. Major was an Alpha male that lived his life for another Alpha male. They were a team. He was not a dog that would ever eat underwear. He was magnificent and knew it. When I met them, I was truly in awe of the Dog God. He was obedient, he was loyal, he listened. He would actually communicate. He was respectful. He learned to love me. Especially since I had a warm apartment, and I smelled like cookies. Major was a superior dog, and there will never be another like him.
As our life moved into marriage, the hole without Major was killing us. We wanted another dog, but there was never going to be another Major. We knew he was irreplaceable. We looked. We even called the Oregon breeder, but decided that we couldn't heal the hole in our heart with a clone. We found a new German Shepard dog for our new life together- RUGER. All Black and from the Gallatin Valley, Ruger was essentially the essence of his name. Ruger-- a badass firearm. Intimidating, a little too serious, a combination of my husband and me, starting out in life with a new baby and the oppressiveness of life challenges on our back. Ruger was the protector. We trained him in Schutzhund training, mostly as something for us to do as a couple , and partly to see what would happen if you trained a German Shepard to actually defend, protect, even maim. He eventually learned to be brave on command, even in German. We showed him off with his little German commands... "Platz" "Auz" "Blieb". A little Nazi-SS dog machine. He was loving, but he knew his job was to protect the homeland. He did that. No one got in our yard in the ghetto. He would KILL YOU. Because he was a little defender on four legs, he did not like being in the house. He was not a house dog, and even if you smelled like cookies, Play-Doh or Barbies, he really didn't want to be with any of us. His job was to stay out there with the rabbit he almost killed, and the garden that smelled like old sunflowers. Ruger had a challenge with his digestive system, perhaps from the stress of defending the homeland, it eventually got the better of him.
A couple of bunnies, and a cat (story in a future blog) later; we decided that the bundle under the perfect Christmas Tree, for the perfect eight year old daughter, for the perfect new house, was a perfect little German Shepard Puppy. A puppy with five sisters, a big overbearing brother, and a runty brother, from the Hi-Line Plains of Montana. Dad and daughter played with the puppies in the Havre K-Mart parking lot on Christmas Eve, and decided that the one that kept coming back to her would be the one we took home.
We named him immediately, Gunnar. The Alpine name of a sweet brother combined with fearless tank sniper who could take out an enemy outpost. We hoped that he would be a combination of the two.
Gunnar is best dog I have ever had in my life. He is loyal, obedient, brave in the face of squirrels, somewhat stubborn, and a true imprint of what our life has become. Settled. Major was my husband's dog, Ruger was the protector, and Gunnar was my daughter's dog, but now has become my dog. He sleeps by me, gives me head hugs( dog head in-between my legs) he talks to me via brown eye gazes, helps me mow the lawn, helps me with the garbage, defends my yard from squirrels. Once in awhile, he decides to check out the neighborhood and roams around, but he has never been the mean scary police dog that I have to worry about. Neighbors bring him home, or call me and tell me Gunnar is over here. He's the best dog, with the best reputation. I found him last month, in the park with a bunch of children, and a little girl who I would have thought would have been scared of a big German Shepard, tied a plastic bow on his neck, and was dragging him around the school yard. Gunnar was in heaven, tongue lolling out, following this little girl who smelled like shampoo and outside. I couldn't ask for a better dog.
Growing up up with deaf parents, having a dog was sort of a challenge. We had a crazy Norwegian Elk hound ( that's what they passed her off as- but I think she was part sled dog-indian dog) with an unpronounceable name. Eleyska. Something we made up out of the World Book Encyclopedia. My mom thought it should have a Norwegian name, so dutiful little girls with the teacher mom looked up Norway in the book and found a town named something, Of course, not having a hearing parent to help us figure out how to pronounce the name, we came up with something like Ah LEESK a. A better name would have been "crazy indian dog". Deaf parents can't really command a crazy dogs attention. We had no training, and she didn't understand the deaf "NO!" which is very different than the Norwegian Elkhound NO!
She dug, she jumped up on everyone, it barked and ate the corners of the dog house, and then my mom's fabulous blonde furniture. That was probably the last day it ate any furniture ever, because then, one day crazy indian dog was gone. My dad said she ran away, but I knew.
Then, another crazy dog. This one was my sister's dog. Pepper. Pepper was a mutt faced mix of poodle, terrier and spaniel. If you could ever have a dog with a psychotic mix, this was it. Pepper arrived when I was about to leave home for college. Pepper also didn't understand the Deaf "NO" . She liked underwear. My sister's underwear. If there was a door, she would bolt. "It's a open door, I have to go, go somewhere, I don't know, but I'm going, I'm going to the street, then the neighbors, and I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you."
So my formative years growing up with dogs, was with two crazy dogs that ate furniture and underwear. Gah.
Then I met my husband. He came from Alaska with a dog that was a pure specimen of Dog God. MAJOR. Major was a purebred AKC German Shepard. Sable mix, 120 pounds of muscle that had traveled the Alaska Highway, ventured out on Oregon and Alaska rivers, spent every moment of his life with his ex-Army Ranger that logged, ranched, built log houses, guided king salmon fishing trips, grizzly and caribou. Major was an Alpha male that lived his life for another Alpha male. They were a team. He was not a dog that would ever eat underwear. He was magnificent and knew it. When I met them, I was truly in awe of the Dog God. He was obedient, he was loyal, he listened. He would actually communicate. He was respectful. He learned to love me. Especially since I had a warm apartment, and I smelled like cookies. Major was a superior dog, and there will never be another like him.
As our life moved into marriage, the hole without Major was killing us. We wanted another dog, but there was never going to be another Major. We knew he was irreplaceable. We looked. We even called the Oregon breeder, but decided that we couldn't heal the hole in our heart with a clone. We found a new German Shepard dog for our new life together- RUGER. All Black and from the Gallatin Valley, Ruger was essentially the essence of his name. Ruger-- a badass firearm. Intimidating, a little too serious, a combination of my husband and me, starting out in life with a new baby and the oppressiveness of life challenges on our back. Ruger was the protector. We trained him in Schutzhund training, mostly as something for us to do as a couple , and partly to see what would happen if you trained a German Shepard to actually defend, protect, even maim. He eventually learned to be brave on command, even in German. We showed him off with his little German commands... "Platz" "Auz" "Blieb". A little Nazi-SS dog machine. He was loving, but he knew his job was to protect the homeland. He did that. No one got in our yard in the ghetto. He would KILL YOU. Because he was a little defender on four legs, he did not like being in the house. He was not a house dog, and even if you smelled like cookies, Play-Doh or Barbies, he really didn't want to be with any of us. His job was to stay out there with the rabbit he almost killed, and the garden that smelled like old sunflowers. Ruger had a challenge with his digestive system, perhaps from the stress of defending the homeland, it eventually got the better of him.
A couple of bunnies, and a cat (story in a future blog) later; we decided that the bundle under the perfect Christmas Tree, for the perfect eight year old daughter, for the perfect new house, was a perfect little German Shepard Puppy. A puppy with five sisters, a big overbearing brother, and a runty brother, from the Hi-Line Plains of Montana. Dad and daughter played with the puppies in the Havre K-Mart parking lot on Christmas Eve, and decided that the one that kept coming back to her would be the one we took home.
We named him immediately, Gunnar. The Alpine name of a sweet brother combined with fearless tank sniper who could take out an enemy outpost. We hoped that he would be a combination of the two.
Gunnar is best dog I have ever had in my life. He is loyal, obedient, brave in the face of squirrels, somewhat stubborn, and a true imprint of what our life has become. Settled. Major was my husband's dog, Ruger was the protector, and Gunnar was my daughter's dog, but now has become my dog. He sleeps by me, gives me head hugs( dog head in-between my legs) he talks to me via brown eye gazes, helps me mow the lawn, helps me with the garbage, defends my yard from squirrels. Once in awhile, he decides to check out the neighborhood and roams around, but he has never been the mean scary police dog that I have to worry about. Neighbors bring him home, or call me and tell me Gunnar is over here. He's the best dog, with the best reputation. I found him last month, in the park with a bunch of children, and a little girl who I would have thought would have been scared of a big German Shepard, tied a plastic bow on his neck, and was dragging him around the school yard. Gunnar was in heaven, tongue lolling out, following this little girl who smelled like shampoo and outside. I couldn't ask for a better dog.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Second Hand
Lately, I've been hanging out at second hand stores. Stores like Goodwill, Salvation Army, St.Vincent De Paul. No, I'm not turning into a hoarder, although that show is very interesting. I can see how hoarders end up that way.. easily.
No, those second hand stores are like a peek into yesterday. Funky smells, weird stains on blenders, cups, greasy afghan "quilts". I wonder... who would ever want this stuff? Who had this stuff? Why is it here? Dark shadows run through my mind. Is this someone's "estate"? Is this the discarded remnants of someone's full vibrant life? Did they make pancakes every Sunday on this stained, wobbly, singed marked griddle? Could someone pick up this griddle and start a new Sunday tradition, and the traces of the previous owners Sunday morning griddle life would somehow transfer into a new place? Eh... creepy.
But then the quirky and weird always make me smile when I'm in those placees. Not quite antique, not quite vintage... but just the discarded stuff that someone didn't want anymore. Maybe they moved, maybe they got better stuff, maybe they married and their old stuff wasn't needed anymore? I saw nine George Foreman grills at St. Vinny's today. I'm sure they function quite well, but why are they here? And why did nine people discard them? Did they get them for Christmas? Was it some subtle hint by a relative, --Hey, I know you're trying to lose weight, here's a grill for Christmas. Nice. That's why the grills are there. George made millions on those grills, and there they sit on the salvaged shelf at St.Vinny's for $3.00 - $5.00 a piece. Means something I'm sure.
But mostly, I hang out there to find stuff for my daughters new life. Hopeful, that some of the discards will find a happy new life. Vacuums, pots and pans, blenders, even a funky weird chair from 1977 will become a treasure or at least a prized possession? I have great hopes for that funky find; that it will become a party chair, a featured backdrop in campus party pictures. "Hey, here's Kristin passed out on that awful chair. OMG.. that chair is so ugly it's hilarious."
Somehow tying the past of that chair- the once vibrant harvest gold floral pattern for the woman of the house, to greet her guests for a night of bridge-- to it's present day position of beer pong chair.. is just. Perfect.
No, those second hand stores are like a peek into yesterday. Funky smells, weird stains on blenders, cups, greasy afghan "quilts". I wonder... who would ever want this stuff? Who had this stuff? Why is it here? Dark shadows run through my mind. Is this someone's "estate"? Is this the discarded remnants of someone's full vibrant life? Did they make pancakes every Sunday on this stained, wobbly, singed marked griddle? Could someone pick up this griddle and start a new Sunday tradition, and the traces of the previous owners Sunday morning griddle life would somehow transfer into a new place? Eh... creepy.
But then the quirky and weird always make me smile when I'm in those placees. Not quite antique, not quite vintage... but just the discarded stuff that someone didn't want anymore. Maybe they moved, maybe they got better stuff, maybe they married and their old stuff wasn't needed anymore? I saw nine George Foreman grills at St. Vinny's today. I'm sure they function quite well, but why are they here? And why did nine people discard them? Did they get them for Christmas? Was it some subtle hint by a relative, --Hey, I know you're trying to lose weight, here's a grill for Christmas. Nice. That's why the grills are there. George made millions on those grills, and there they sit on the salvaged shelf at St.Vinny's for $3.00 - $5.00 a piece. Means something I'm sure.
But mostly, I hang out there to find stuff for my daughters new life. Hopeful, that some of the discards will find a happy new life. Vacuums, pots and pans, blenders, even a funky weird chair from 1977 will become a treasure or at least a prized possession? I have great hopes for that funky find; that it will become a party chair, a featured backdrop in campus party pictures. "Hey, here's Kristin passed out on that awful chair. OMG.. that chair is so ugly it's hilarious."
Somehow tying the past of that chair- the once vibrant harvest gold floral pattern for the woman of the house, to greet her guests for a night of bridge-- to it's present day position of beer pong chair.. is just. Perfect.
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