Stories Are For Eternity

The effects of #metoo…

This is for the naysayers out there who feel it is not inappropriate to objectify female children, adolescents, and adults. If you’re a heterosexual male, it is never ever allowable to project your sexist ideas, fantasies, and/or desires upon a female of any age unless you’re in a relationship with an adult female and she consents. If she says “no,” you stop. “No” does not mean “go.”

Most of you know my love of words. I know the power of words, both positive and negative. Words may be profoundly beautiful and words may tear a person to shreds. I’m talking about the superficial quality of words, what they are on the surface. When other variables are added, such as tone, intent, circumstance, words take on layers of other meaning.

Am I really a member of the #metoo movement? Absolutely. Do I believe everything that is said? Until proven otherwise, yes. I’m also a victim. Not to minimize my own experiences, but mine do not extend to the horrors of many that have been publicized. I will present facts and you may draw your own conclusions.

Back to words. This post will focus on the word “violate.” To paraphrase, violate at its basest level means disrespect or irreverence. Irreverence may often be used in conjunction with rules, laws, sacred things and ideas. Most of us feel we know the meaning of the word respect. As it applies to individuals and groups, I find the true concept of respect has been lost.

The word violate makes my stomach churn. As a mature adult, I’ve developed a secure sense of my personal space. My reasons are my own, but they’re legit. As a young person, I was raised to be very modest. My rate of growth and development were in those upper percentiles. So let’s say I looked older than I was.

How old am I in this picture? Take some guesses. My poor posture is evident. I had yet to embrace the power of my height and budding bosom. Probably the true measure of gauging my age is to look closely at my face. It’s not surprising that I’m laughing. I was still in single digits and a little over two months shy of my 10th birthday. Sixth grade loomed on the horizon.

Throughout adolescence I learned boys were mainly interested in one thing and it wasn’t my intellect. Let’s face it, youth is that period of time where the main prerequisite for a date was if the person was cute. Cute is a relative term. Many boys were fascinated by girls who were endowed with lovely mammary development.

Once I realized what they were after…knowledge is power. Never, ever, would they get what they really wanted but a girl may pick and choose what’s allowable. It resulted in some disgruntled fellas but I’ve always been the captain of my own ship.

As far as #metoo is concerned, I’m going to give you a few examples of things that took place before I reached the age of 30. I worked in banking for several years, a job I detested. At one point I worked in a lovely old “”skyscraper” type of building in the downtown area of a mid-sized city. There were loads of law offices throughout the building in addition to several departments of the bank.

In the lobby by the bank of elevators was a small coffee shop, basically a closet that dispensed an amazing array of food. One could expect to stand in line. The bank had a dress code, hilarious because we received poverty wages. I was usually attired in a dress, stockings, and heels. Heels made me 5’11.” A particular attorney, a smarmy ambulance-chaser, used to worm his way into line just ahead of me.

I knew what he was up to. He was on the short side and, if he backed against me “by accident,” his head came into contact with my ample bosom. I let him get away with it twice. The second time when he said he was very sorry, I looked knowingly at him and said he wasn’t the least bit sorry. Third time is a charm, right?

It was for me. After he violated my personal space, I leaned very close to him. In a quiet voice, I said the following, “three strikes and you’re out. I warned you. If this happens again, I will tear the bad toupee off of your head.” His head turned slightly and he mumbled, “I believe you would.” Never happened again.

I was not always as emboldened when my space, and person, was violated. Prior to the previous episode, I was taking a summer course in college to make up some transfer credits. A bunch of us went out to a bar after our final exam. I’d noticed a local tv personality sidle in and take a place at the bar. It was my turn to buy a pitcher. I ambled up to the bar and chose a spot several feet away from the tv guy.

I ordered a pitcher and felt an arm snake around my back, accompanied by, “I’d like to buy you a drink.” I turned my head slightly to see this buffoon leering at me. “No, thank you.” Then he told me not to be that way. By then I had my pitcher and I turned to return to the table. I looked at him,”I told you no, thank you. Remove your arm or I will dump this beer on you.” By this time one of the guys from our group had come up to the bar and asked if everything was alright. I looked at the tv creep and asked, “is it?” He made a big show of laughing and putting both his hands in the air. No harm, no foul was his way of thinking. Personally, I was nauseous.

Approaching my 30th year, a friend talked me into driving to Florida for a vacation. She’d gone to college there and knew of a nice “mom and pop” hotel on the beach. “Pop” remembered my friend and they were laughing about something as I walked up to them. She introduced us and “Pop” immediately rubbed my back as a way of greeting. I flinched and tensed. “A good rubdown would do you good.” Pop laughed.

I looked at my friend and she started stammering about our dinner plans. She’d read my expression. “Please remove your hand from my back,” I quietly said to Pop. He laughed and said a similar thing about my being too uptight. I told him I’d call the police. He told me he was a retired cop. The hotel had a nice little outdoor happy hour.

“In that case, I bet your customers would like to know what kind of guy owns this place. I will tell them all at happy hour.” That got him to take his hand off of me. I kept a wide berth the rest of the week. He repeatedly commented to my friend that I wasn’t very nice.

There you have it. This is the proverbial tip of the iceberg. If these incidents seem like no big deal, then you may need to rethink how you’d feel. I like guys just fine. But I also do not like others to assume they may touch me in a personal fashion without my permission. It’s not just a guy thing, either.

Respect is a concept that has little meaning now. Violation is all about disrespect and a lack of care and awareness. My apartment was broken into once by a pair of drunk, horny teenagers who wanted to “hook up,” a phrase lacking respect. It was a terrifying experience that left me feeling tremendously violated. They could have cared less that they’d committed a crime by breaking and entering a property that didn’t belong to them.

Violation is a powerful word. It is not a positive term because of what it represents. “It’s not fair, to deny me/of the cross that I bear that you gave to me/You oughta know.” These lyrics by Alanis Morissette hint at the permanent damage caused by any aspect of violation. Tracy Chatman’s song “Behind the Wall” gives a glimpse of domestic violence. “Last night I heard the screaming/Then a silence that chilled my soul/I prayed that I was dreaming…”. I know how that anxiety feels.

Lady Gaga nails it in her song “Til It Happens to You.” “You’ll be fine/Tell me what the hell do you know/Tell me how the hell could you know…”

I’m well aware that people lie. I’m willing to think for every one liar there are ten people telling the truth. I believe Anita Hill, Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford, E. Jean Carroll, and the victims mentioned in the Epstein Files. As the song says, “Til It Happens to You,” you just may not give it credence.

What’s it like?

Shown below is a snippet of an article that talks about what depression feels like. If you’ve never experienced a depressive state, the article attempts to explain how it affects an individual. Depression is not a blanket-type of mental illness. It manifests itself in many different forms, changing like the wind. Those of us who live with it just ask you to try to understand it’s an illness that isn’t cured by thinking happy thoughts.

The descriptions Lubow uses to characterize various aspects of the throes of depression are valid. They capture how it might feel. Naturally, experiences vary from person to person.

This winter has been one of the most difficult I’ve experienced. Diagnosed with severe clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder in 1982, I’ve spent much of a lifetime learning how to live with it. Through a ton of counseling and judicious use of meds over the past 4+ decades, I’ve achieved a status quo level of functioning. I still ride the sketchy roller coaster of life with mental health challenges. The peaks and valleys just aren’t as high and low as they once were.

I’ve been a voracious reader since I first learned to read. Though it’s difficult for me to focus on any tomes relating to the field of psychology, I try and try again. Theories and research are fine, but talking to those who experience it daily is more meaningful in my opinion.

Unfortunately, people don’t want to talk about it. It raises issues of disbelief and discomfort amongst those who’ve never experienced true depression and anxiety. I hope you never do. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that depression either doesn’t exist or is easily “cured.” For many it will remain a lifetime challenge. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger” we’re told. Maybe. What hasn’t killed me gave me PTSD. So there’s that. Plus I can’t even begin to fathom what my always-elevated levels of anxiety have done to my body, along with the decades of meds. As Maya Angelou said, “Still I rise.”

My conscious thought is to battle my mindset each and every day. There are days when I just can’t bear to be around others. It’s too much of an effort on those days to “be normal.” Daily tasks may be overwhelming. And yet, I retreat to music, to books, to words, in order to restore some solace to my turbulent thinking.

I don’t want anyone’s pity or sorrow. In the last five years, I’ve lost the two people who truly recognized and believed in what I dealt with each day. They saw it and saw the toll it took. I no longer have that level of support. It’s difficult. We want to talk about it but very few want to hear it and even fewer believe it.

I’m just asking you to try to understand. Even accomplished, affable, amusing individuals, such as I, carry this with us 24/7. Don’t diminish us or patronize us.

“Depression is utterly isolating. There is terrible shame about the actions depression dictates, such as not accomplishing anything or snapping at people.

“Everything seems meaningless, including previous accomplishments and what had given life meaning. Anything that had given the person a sense of value or self-esteem vanishes.” Cynthia Lubow, Marriage and Family Therapist

“Here comes the rain again, falling on my head like a memory…”. Eurythmics

My imagination creates special places in my head that are soothing.

Should it matter?

Yes, the activities ticked off the requisite boxes and yet the Alone Girl was left sadly wanting more. The Girl was aware that Junior Prom and Senior Ball events were akin to attaining the Holy Grail amongst the pretentious posse of her perceived peers. She was not a true fit in this group but was satisfied to be part of it. Those things mattered in those days. Or so she thought.

Tired of not being asked on dates and enduring plentiful jibes at the hands of the pretentious posse, the Girl dared to ask a boy to a Sadie Hawkins type dance that winter. She thought the boy was cute and, since that was what mattered, called him on the phone to ask him to the dance. He agreed readily which surprised the Alone Girl who sorely lacked self esteem.

The dance was a success, except that the boy refused to dance. There would be no dreamy slow dancing for the Girl that night. The would-be duo “dated” for a few months. The experience mainly consisted of attending a few movies, a few parties, but only when the boy was free to attend. He didn’t initiate activities nor was he willing to spend money.

They did attend the Prom…the gala marking a significant rite of passage amongst these high school students. They made an attractive couple. True to form, the boy wouldn’t dance and refused to pay for the requisite prom pictures. Had the Girl thought about it, she would have brought money to pay for them herself.

After the prom, the couple attended a party and didn’t pass the time together. The boy drank too much, the Girl had to walk him home, and then walked herself home. A few weeks after that, the boy moved on to date another girl.

The Alone Girl carried this rejection for many decades. There had been no explanation, just a “give me my ring back.” What she didn’t understand was this was not uncommon. Due to her complete lack of knowledge about teen relationships, she would label herself a failure and feel forever a barely accepted member of a stupidly snobbish group of girls she thought were friends.

Her Senior Ball experience would be even more bizarre. A tale for another day. But wasn’t the point that she was part of it? Looking back, the Girl chastised herself for believing in its importance. Due to the emotional trauma she’d suffered for much of her young life, she was desperate for acceptance. She was in the top classes, made decent grades, was adept at athletic pursuits, and, yet, was always on the outside looking in.

It’s difficult to believe in yourself when your foundation falls apart on a consistent basis. In the 1970s girls were still second-class citizens. There was no counseling offered for those trauma-affected kids because it was the “everything is fine” era. One didn’t speak of things going wrong at home.

The Alone Girl bought into the stereotypical expectations of her era. She was woefully unprepared to exist amongst her elitist circle of peers. She dared believe they were her friends. The years have revealed who the true friends always were and still are. As for that boy, he was cute looking. It didn’t extend beyond the facade. The Girl squandered far too much time thinking this was important to resolve. Another lesson learned the hard way.

Grateful for the experience? Yes and no. It was mostly another way to appear to be “normal.”

“I walk this empty street/On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams/Where the city sleeps/And I’m the only one, and I walk alone… “. True then and true now. Song by Green Day.

A Dedicated Space…

It’s been almost fifteen years that I vowed to have a nice area in my house to use for my creative pursuits. At that time, it was mainly for writing. Since discovering the joy of creating junk journals, the need for more space became pressing.

I write longhand and like to spread out my materials. When I make junk journals I like to have a variety of materials in front of me to use. I may think my writing and crafting plans through but much of it is done on the fly. The mere act of creation opens windows in our thinking and new ideas fly in.

Junk journals are an enigma in that there are no rules in the creation of them. There are many different styles that range from highly decorated to utilitarian. I enjoy blending and matching colors, providing some interactive and sensory components, repurposing materials, and leaving room for writing space. Writing is so good for us, even making lists or jotting down a favorite song lyric is cathartic.

But junk journals are so much more. For those who enjoy creating their own art: sketching, lettering, collaging, decoupaging, etc., a junk journal is a springboard to safekeeping your creations. They may remain private or you may share them as you wish.

I’m not an artist in the sense that I don’t paint or sketch. I am an artist who crafts with words. And so, the writing aspect of a journal appeals to me. Writing is good for the soul. This is supported by research. And there is no one around to tell you how to write in your junk journal. I’ve seen examples of writing that trails around a page, punctuated by drawings of flowers. It invites the reader to follow along.

Though I’m a traditional writer, meaning I prefer space and lines, there are plenty of opportunities to find that space in many journals. Those that I make are more geared to the writing aspect but there is no reason you can’t add other papers and writings to your journals.

It will take me some time to customize my new space. And then I can turn to all of the framed art I’ve been looking forward to putting on the walls. Images inspire me. I hope you’ll traipse along this path with me. At no time will I attempt to sell my journals. I will, however, endeavor to nudge you to try to make your own junk journal. If anyone told me several months ago that I would find joy in this activity, I would have laughed myself silly. But there we are. Stay tuned, if you wish. I’d love to have you tag along.

“In the journal, I am at ease.” Anais Nin

True obscenity…

Isn’t always a word or phrase. It may also be an act or series of acts. Coming from the Latin “obscenus,” meaning disgusting or indecent, its meaning applies to far more than language. This was a concept I hadn’t considered. As a result of teaching Tim O’Brien’s novel The Things They Carried a few dozen times, this concept grew to make perfect sense to me.

The title of my blog, “Stories Are For Eternity,” derives from the same book. A quote from the novel that has long stuck in my mind is the following, “If you don’t care for obscenity, you don’t care for the truth….” It’s a fragment from a larger quote but this shortened version will work for today.

Obscene language is language that offends us, threatens us, is repugnant to us. As years have gone by, that concept has changed. For example, when I was teaching I’d hear the “eff” word 3-5 times when walking to my classroom each morning before 7:30 a.m. As an English teacher, it was not the nicest way to start the day. Does the word offend me? Depends on its usage. In teenage lexicon it just sounds stupid, though kids think it cool. I digress.

Back to the quote equating obscenity with truth. I witnessed obscenity on January 6, 2020 through events on television. And what I witnessed yesterday was one of the most baseless and obscene acts ever. This statement comes from one who, through television at the time, witnessed JFK, RFK, MLK, John Lennon, and Anwar Sadat’s assassinations. Along with the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan, I watched three astronauts die in the Apollo 1 capsule, consumed by flame, witnessed the Kent State tragedy, as well as the My Lai Massacre…all before the age of 25. Events have become far more horrific as the years go by.

I’m not here to argue my beliefs and I’m certain some will disagree strongly with my thoughts. That’s ok. They’re my thoughts, my opinions, and I have the right to express them. My point, however, is that the events I’ve mentioned, and many I haven’t, are obscenity personified. They have shocked me, repulsed me, horrified me, traumatized me. Consider this…several individuals took the time to spread excrement throughout the Capitol Building on 1/6/20. Are the people who regularly walk about carrying bags of excrement or are willing to drop their drawers and poop on command? What kind of people think this way and why isn’t it disgusting to them to do such a thing?

I don’t have answers for those questions. However, I know what I saw yesterday through the images on television. What I saw was unnecessary, repugnant, and willful. Because I acknowledge the obscenity within human nature, I know I’ve experienced the truth.

N.B. This occurred in a city that experienced the killing of George Floyd just over five years ago. A perfect example of an obscene act, why didn’t they learn from it? I have no more words at the moment. Except make sure you stir up some good trouble.

Inner sanctum…

This is the time of year when I most turn my thoughts inward and into the past. My very early life was my happiest time and I choose to keep those memories alive.

I was an active little kid who enjoyed being outdoors, no matter the season. Both my brother and I were coordinated and could participate in most activities. Winter meant skating, skiing, snow forts, and snow in general. Living only 45 minutes from Stowe meant skiing on Sundays after early church. It was a family event. I give my parents credit for learning to ski as adults so they could take us skiing. We rooted for Stowe’s own Billy Kidd during the Olympics.

After we moved to the outskirts of Albany, from Burlington, one of my prized possessions meant nothing here. I was the proud owner of a Moriarty hat. They were made and sold in Stowe from 1956-2006. Their hallmark was a high peak and thickly knitted band around the head. They would later be known for their stripes. Mine was a solid maroon color, fit snugly, and was very warm.

Holiday season was wonderful in Vermont. There was usually a fire in the fireplace in the living room. It was warm and inviting. My favorite chair was adjacent to the fireplace and was perfect for practicing my ski jumping technique. Special treats were also present in the living room during this time.

We were healthy active kids who ate treats in moderation.

Another holiday focal point for me was the angel chime thingie. If you lit the small candles, the angels would turn due to the heat. Don’t ask me. I just enjoyed watching it turn.

No self-respecting Christmas tree in the 1960s was bereft of tinsel. Tinsel adorned every tree, many to the extreme. Our trees were no exception though we practiced a bit of restraint. Tinsel was messy stuff. I’ve never really liked it, truth be told.

One year I received a two-seater toboggan for Christmas. I felt very grown up though i might have been in 4th grade. My first time riding it down a huge hill at Albany Muny Golf Course made me so nervous that my older brother offered to accompany me for the ride. I laughed and giggled all the way down the hill, even becoming airborne from the bump halfway down. I felt brave at the bottom only to realize my brother had fallen off halfway up the hill. I’d done most of it myself! The toboggan was also helpful in warding off blows from the metal saucers that were often out of control. Those saucers were deadly. Since it was metal, if you touched its surface with any mucus membrane (lip, tongue) it became stuck. And I mean stuck. Being hit by one of the edges could knock a kid out.

Looks just like mine! I loved waxing it.

I could go on and on but I will stop here. My grandparents had a series of LP records entitled the Great Songs of Christmas. I’d play them in their basement while I was shooting pool. It was a great time to be alive.

One of our family record albums featured “The Whiffenpoof Song.” My grandmother Pringle was from New Haven and well versed in the Whiffenpoof tradition as it began at Yale. “From the tables down at Mory’s, to the place where Louis dwells/ to the dear old Temple Bar we love so well…”

Five boys from the Yale Glee Club would meet at Mory’s Temple Bar (where Louis tended the bar), to sing unrestricted from the conventions of the Glee Club. The group is comprised of 14 male students and has been in existence since 1909. During the school year they sing every Monday night at Mory’s.

Fraudulent, or just busy?

This past August I became interested in making junk journals. They appealed to me aesthetically, I liked the idea of repurposing materials, and it was a huge challenge for me as I’ve never been an artsy-craftsy individual.

That isn’t to say I’ve never created anything, it’s just come to me later in life. As an adult I learned to crochet in a very basic fashion. But I was able to make a large afghan that is still going strong despite being 35 years old. A little later, I was taught to do counted cross-stitch. A challenge for a lefty who is somewhat ambidextrous, I can stitch with either hand but learned that mixing hands in a project results in an uneven finish for the stitches thus affecting the overall aesthetic of the project. Yet, my home contains several of my framed cross-stitch projects.

I feel I’ve engaged in these activities mainly to prove I could do them. Much of my life was a creative wasteland. Most of my energy went toward my students and my teaching. It was decades before my true creativity emerged.

I write. I love to write. I must write. While it is very therapeutic for me to write, it is not what spurs me to write. If you’ve ever watched or read The Green Mile by Stephen King, the character of John Coffee has a unique ability. He is able to eradicate evil by inhaling it into his own body. He then releases it in a torrent which leaves him emotionally and physically spent, each episode weakening him further.

I write in torrents, or bursts. Why? I have no idea but I’ve written in this manner much of my life. Seldom do I outline my ideas or make lists. Things circulate through my mind for weeks before they erupt onto paper.

I’m a tactile writer. I write longhand. I need to feel the pen moving over the paper. It creates the accepting environment for the thoughts flowing out through the pen’s ink. I’m certain there is some psychological explanation for that, but who cares? As a science, psychological interpretation is largely subjective in my opinion.

So, why is the word ‘fraudulent’ in the title of this post? Though I create and encourage the use of journals, I’m not much of a journal writer. In truth, I suppose this blog serves that purpose for me. I do know it may be very helpful for individuals to learn to channel their self-expression onto paper.

The very process of writing is soothing. Pushing a writing instrument across the paper, creating images through words, is very satisfying. Being able to pair those words in a journal along with whatever other materials allow you to express yourself, may result in enrichment and satisfaction.

Each of us is unique. And isn’t that a grand concept? If one chooses to search for a creative outlet, one may be richly rewarded. It has worked that way for me. While it has taken decades, at least I’ve found a way to calm some of the turbulence in my soul.

Am I a fraud to make and promote the use of journals as a creative outlet when I do not maintain one myself? I think not. My writing takes other forms, but I am very much aware of the benefits of self-expression through writing and other creative pursuits.

My advice? Don’t be afraid to learn. I’ve spent much of my life in fear, fear of failure primary among those fears. It profoundly influenced my adult life, choices I made, and how I lived. I’ve managed to break free from much of this self-imposed mind control. It was used for survival. And I’m glad many of you will not be able to comprehend that previous statement. Consider yourselves lucky. For those of you who are able to embrace and feel my words, give your inner self a chance to breathe and live.

Though I am experiencing a creative writing standstill, I am actively finding other ways to channel the swirling thoughts and ideas contained within me. And, finally, I’m doing it for my benefit…for myself, for my satisfaction, for my own needs.

Along the way I’ve gained acceptance of “what was and will never be.” With that comes humility and grace. There is no shame in refocusing one’s efforts. It’s not a reinvention, it’s a discovery and an embrace of new facets of one’s being.

In the words of Rachel Platten, “I’ll play my fight song/And I really don’t care if nobody else believes/‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me.”

Reasons for thankfulness…

It’s difficult for me at times to drum up reasons to be thankful and/or grateful. Though my life hasn’t turned out the way I would have liked, who even knows if my anticipated path would have been good? Like many, I’ve been through the wringer. But, I’ve survived, and thrived and am thankful above all for that.

The old holiday traditions continue to change. This year, instead of preparing the epic meal, polishing silver, watching the parade, and football, I will visit with my mom in her memory care facility. She may or may not be in a good mood, she may or may not remember some things. She may or may not like me being there because it takes time away from her gentleman friend. So why am I grateful? Because she still remembers me and never fails to tell me how much she loves me.

I’m also thankful for friends who never hesitate to include me. I have invitations to join others for dinner. Though it would be good for me to be around others, I prefer to go home and decompress. As a highly sensitive individual, watching my mother’s decline is heart wrenching. It just knocks the stuffing out of me, no pun intended. She’s my last family member alive and I’m thankful that a part of her is still here.

Another reason to be grateful is for medical advances that are available. So even if I might think to rail about having macular edema in both eyes, I’m thankful there is treatment and that my health insurance pays for it. I don’t enjoy having injections in my eyes, but if it helps my vision I will keep doing it.

So even though all gray clouds may not have silver linings, I always think of the brilliant sunshine above all of the clouds. As long as I’m able to picture that, I’m able to put one foot in front of the other.

“All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all”. “In My Life”. Lennon/McCartney

The Winds of November…

Others used to tell me frequently that autumn was their favorite season. I’d smile and nod. Summer was my favorite and it was bittersweet for me when autumn came to visit. The start of a new school year rendered me zombie-esque until after Columbus Day. Lots of outdoor house chores to be done in addition to everything else. The only time I had to take a good look at the changing season was my early morning drive to school and the initial view through the expansive windows in my classroom.

But this fall, this fall…it was indescribably beautiful. And I reached an understanding of the widespread affinity with autumn. The months of September and October were divine this year. Temperatures averaged higher, the sun shone constantly, and it was glorious. I’m usually mourning the loss of ability to swim outdoors. Thankfully this year I was able to push that aside to focus on other benefits of the seasonal change.

November is a changeable time of year. It brings us Election Day, Veterans Day, and my personal favorite, Thanksgiving. My birthday is also in November, always around Election Day. The year I turned 18, my birthday was two days after Election Day and it was a Presidential Election year. Frustration.

No matter what, my memories flit back to my early childhood in Burlington. The weather turned cool and crisp. As a family we went apple picking and watched cider being made. My mother made homemade applesauce and apple crisp. We popped corn in a basket in the living room fireplace and washed it down with warm, mulled cider. Casseroles appeared in the dinner rotation. I love them to this day.

The westerlies begin to howl during November. They bring the storms and colder air in from Canada. It’s always a guess as to when snow will appear. As a kid, there was usually a fair amount of snow on the ground by Thanksgiving. Now, due to global warming, it’s not guaranteed. Honestly, as I age I’m pretty happy if the footing is good on Thanksgiving.

My main chore on Thanksgiving was to polish the silver for dinner. My paternal grandparents came to Vermont to spend the holiday with us. It was expected that we’d trot out the finery and help our mom to make sure things were practically perfect. Mom’s China and silver were used. The big silver water pitcher had to be polished and washed. Tablecloth and napkins were freed from their plastic wrapping from the dry cleaner’s.

Our dining room table was oval. The extra leaf needed to be added to the table. My dad and brother handled that task. Once the silver was polished, it was then my job to set the table. I made a game of it by doing it in assembly-line fashion, doing laps on the oval braided rug that our oval dining room table sat on.

Despite my dislike of polishing the silver, I rather enjoyed dressing up the table. I loved handling the treasured pieces that were used…the cranberry dish, the small tray that held the celery and olives, the water goblets. I retain ownership of some of these items. What I lack is a family to share it with.

My hope is to begin a tradition in the New Year that will include a return to cooking and hosting one small dinner party a month. My culinary skills are rusty but that can be fixed. I’d like to pull my personal treasures out of hiding and use them. At the very least, it will warm my heart to make them useful once more.

“O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being.” I enjoyed this poem so much, even though I’m not a huge Shelley fan, I vowed to name a horse West Wind if ever I owned a horse. What a stupid name. I’m more of a Keats or C.S. Lewis fan. Lewis told us, “You find the strength of a wind by trying to walk against it, not by lying down.”

Face the wind and don’t retreat. It may wash away troubles and bring fresh opportunities. We just don’t know.

Junk journal? What’s that?

Trying to teach myself new things. I’m learning that paper crafting is enjoyable and relaxing for me. What I will do with it in the long term remains to be seen. Right now I’m watching YouTube videos and learning different concepts and techniques. Those ideas wash through my head and acquire my influences. It’s a work in progress.

I suppose the truest form of a junk journal is the intent to create an original and handmade journal using mostly “throwaway” items. Think recyclables. Since there are no hard and fast rules to junk journaling, one is unlimited in scope. And they may be created to serve a variety of purposes: artistic, memoir, travel, tribute, etc.

Some people like to write in their journals, but, again, there are no hard and fast rules. There are journals featuring lined paper and there are journals that include small spaces for writing. Any spot is fair game for writing. And there are as many junk journal styles as there are individuals making them.

How did I become interested in this? I’ve never considered myself to be artistically inclined. As a left-handed individual, I’ve experienced loads of problems when wielding tools of any type. This includes scissors which can be an integral part of junk journaling. Today’s technology features scissors that may be used by all folks and are not defined by which hand is used to cut.

Most of my life was spent in avoidance of art activities due to my inability to use scissors effectively. I convinced myself that I had no artistic inclinations. Now, in my older and wiser stage of life, I know I was wrong. I was a coward and didn’t want to “fail.” At this stage of life, I’ve decided failing is no longer an excuse. It’s not a damn competition. It’s about enjoyment and enrichment.

What piqued my interest in this particular craft was the firm idea that there are no rules. One may junk journal as one wishes. That took away the concept of failure. I’ve long been a proponent of writing as a method to ease one’s internal pain. Or to express joy found in everyday things. Or to tell a story. Writing is soothing, though one may wade through some turbulent waters in order to arrive at the optimal cool pool of water. And that’s the point. Not all pleasures arrive without some work involved.

Why did I begin? Honestly, I was embroiled in a grief process. A few years ago, I lost someone very important to me. It was difficult for me to grieve his loss because I think I felt by grieving I was letting him go and he would truly be gone forever. Making his journal was transformative for me. I learned a great deal more about myself and about our relationship. And I did it my way, a far more meaningful process.

Sorry for the truly amateur video. Another subject where I need to learn a great deal. But you get the idea. Practicing my new hobby has temporarily put my fiction writing on hold. I’ve been rethinking my original plot lines and feeling stale. I may have to begin anew. I just don’t know. I will think about it as I continue to experiment with journal making.

“Our song” runs throughout the journal. I did a load of writing though it’s mostly hidden by pockets and tucks. Deeply personal.