My mother's things...

Recently, my 92 year old mother made the final move to go live with my sister, Patsy and her family. She has a lovely room there with a walk in closet, a private bath with one of those uberexpensive walk-in/close door/fill up tubs. She left behind the home she's lived in since 1970. It was the first house my parents ever owned that wasn't an apartment attached to their business.

The house had a real yard with a mammoth oak tree and enough space for my mom to have a garden. Which she did until she was 91. The house has two levels, the kitchen being in the basement level. My mom, at 92, just couldn't do the stairs anymore. Even getting in and out of the house was almost impossible for her. So, to my sister's she went.

Today, I went over there to get the things my mom wanted me to have - her microwave, a couple of chairs, her bed frame, some Christmas ornaments, a variety of cook books. I also got what was left of her blue and white Currier and Ives dish set. It's the set I remember us using at holidays when I was a really little kid. It's not a complete set anymore - age and careless children have seen to that - but it's wonderful to have it. I intend to use it too. Not just display it like some moldy memory.

I got her old desk too. I'm sitting at it right now. I love this desk. It's tan with some scroll work. Nothing really to look at. But the treasure lies inside. If you pull out the ledge above the top drawers on either side you'll see it. Years of kids scratching their names into the the wood. I'm there, all my sisters, most of the nieces and nephews. Pretty much anyone who's ever sat at this desk has etched their names into it. I love that. I also love that when I opened the middle drawer my mom had tucked away her pin cushion and sewing kit with the extra buttons. And it all smells like home.

It was a bit weird going over to my mother's now empty house and taking these things. It seemed too "final". But I know my mom is alive and doing well. She's safe now and better off where she is. And I get to enjoy her things while I still have her with me. How precious is that?

By the way, that house my parents bought in 1970? They paid cash and bought it outright. How much? They paid $14000. That's right...fourteen thousand. Hard to believe...

If it ain't one thing, it's another....

I used to watch Doogie Houser back in the day. I used to think that having a computer diary was the shit and I wanted one. Later, I watched Sex in the City and I used to think that sitting and writing interesting thoughts in clever ways was the shit. So, now I have this blog...




I'm sitting here thinking about what clever things I could write about. Trying to get inspired by life to put my unique spin on things. But all I can think of right now is that my toilet doesn't work. It seems mundane and stupid and not worth writing about but think about it...a toilet is a pretty necessary thing to have and one in working order is even better.

I live in a very old house but what it lacks in amenities it makes up for in location. It's drafty, the windows don't seal correctly, it rattles, the electric stuff is all screwed up. I can't have the refrigerator plugged in if I make toast or coffee. I can't run a fan and an air conditioner at the same time. So, it stands to reason that the plumbing in this place would also be as old as the hills. It started this morning because, of course, I was running late this morning so why wouldn't the john get all bunged up on a day when I had no time to adequately address the issue. I plunged and plunged and plunged and finally just closed the bathroom door and left for work. Out of sight, out of mind. I forgot about it. Bad idea. When I got home later the water had all gone down which gave me that fleeting hopeful feeling that the toilet fairies had come and all was well. So, with the gleam of hope in my eye I dared to flush it again. Bad idea. I watched as the water rose...and kept rising. I had a flashback to the movie Titanic - the scene where Jack is watching the water rise to his feet as he is shackled in the brig. I plunged furiously. My plunger in itself is a sight...it's sort of half a plunger really. Part of it is missing. Which may be why is didn't work. Turns out the friggan' toilet fairies had not come to my rescue and my toilet is still not working.

If I was Doogie Houser, it's at this point, that I would somehow equate this experience with some enlightening lesson learned. If I was Carrie Bradshaw, I would now show you how this whole experience is a metaphor for relationships between men and women. Since I'm neither, I'll have to get bundled up, go out in the cold, and drive to the nearest gas station so I can pee.