WordSisters

Author: Ellen Shriner

  • Stuffed

    Unlike Elizabeth (I’ve Never Had Something Not Burn), I have lots of stuff—a houseful of it! More than I need. But I have trouble parting with it.

    I really like my stuff and so much of it has a story.

    I got the 1930’s wrought iron floor lamp from my parent’s basement. Now it’s painted blue, but before that it was red, and at one time it was black. I made the small nine-patch quilt because I loved the 1940’s retro print fabric. My bookcases are filled with books that mean a lot to me. I like the mission style desk I bought and refinished years ago.  I still like this stuff.  It makes me happy to have it around. I feel at home because it’s here. And that’s just my office. Lamp & quilt

    Lurking in my office closet are piles of old writing samples and presentation supplies related the freelance writing business . . . that I gave up a year ago. I also have paper, clay, jewelry, knitting and craft supplies that I rarely use.  But I might.

    Just a few of my bowls . . .
    Just a few of my bowls . . .

    Or what about all of the bowls I own? Bowls I made years ago when I had access to a pottery studio. Bowls I bought at art fairs. Bowls I picked up in antique stores. I could dirty bowls for several weeks before I’d run out of clean bowls.

    And mugs! That collection is even bigger. I could tell you where each one came from—Spain, the North shore, a friend, and on and on. I love them all, but really, how many mugs does a person need?!? Occasionally I give some away when the cupboard gets too full, but there’s still a box of mugs on a basement shelf (don’t tell my husband).

    These are just my favorites . . . I have more!
    These are just my favorites . . . I have more!

    The stuff I’m keeping is still good. I might need it someday.

    The classy interview suit I don’t wear—the pants are kinda tight and I’m not looking for a job right now. Will it be hopelessly out of style the next time I’m interviewing or have a funeral to go to?

    My box collection. I save shoes boxes and Amazon boxes so I can send cookies and presents to my family in Toledo.  Really, three or four would suffice, but I’m sure I have at least a dozen. My husband has learned to nest them so they take up less room and he weeds them out carefully so I won’t notice and squawk.

    Lately, I’ve realized that having a lot of stuff can be oppressive.

    I have to dust it, protect it from breaking, or store it.  Managing my stuff takes time and thought. Not just the housekeeping, but also the emotional upkeep of caring about my stuff—remembering the person who gave it to me and feeling torn when I want give it away. Deciding what to keep and what to give away is hard, so I don’t do it very often.

    Even divesting myself of all this stuff will be hard. 

    I’ve visited too many estate sales in which old hot water bottles, empty picture frames, spare light bulbs, rusty garden tools and other stuff nobody wants was lined up for sale next to kitschy-enough-to-be-cool Christmas decorations. But the sad useless stuff tainted my pleasure in getting a deal on some cookie sheets or a pie plate that my sons actually needed.

    Recently, my sister spent hours cleaning and pricing stuff for a garage sale. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but in the end, she didn’t sell that much, so a lot that stuff went to Goodwill anyhow.

    A good friend just pitched 19 years’ worth of teaching materials—all those lesson plans, readings, exercises, student samples—that treasure is irrelevant now that she’s retired. But I know she was sad to say goodbye to several decades of a profession she was passionate about.

    My husband and I talk about moving to a smaller house someday. If we do, we’ll have to shed a lot of our stuff. I wish I could give it directly to someone who needs it—somebody just starting out who wants a lamp . . . or some bowls. I’d like to give my still-good stuff in a more personal way than just having Goodwill or the Vietnam Vets collect it. I wish I could hand it to somebody who will actually like it and enjoy it the way I have.  I daydream about placing an ad that says, “Come get some great, well-loved stuff—FREE!”

    No doubt I’ll be sad when the time comes to move, because I’ll be shucking off an identity and lots of memories. But I hope my life will feel a lot lighter and simpler—more carefree.

  • Because You Need a Good Laugh

    The following list originally appeared in 1999 in the Washington Post as winners of a “Funniest Analogies Ever Written in a High School Essay Contest”

     My favorites are #2, 9, and 25.  What are yours?

    1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

    2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

    3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

    4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli, and he was room temperature Canadian beef.

    5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

    6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

    7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

    8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

    9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

    10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

    11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

    12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

    13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

    14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

    15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

    16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

    17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

    18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

    19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

    20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

    21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

    22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

    23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

    24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

    25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

  • Lifelong Friends

    After nearly five months of studying abroad in Spain, my youngest son returned, speaking Spanish like a pro, with his head full of the many sights he’d seen and the experiences he had. The culture shock of being back in the U.S. wasn’t what was hardest for Greg; rather, it was the realization that he will rarely see the many friends he made in the study abroad program—they live scattered all over the U.S.

    Greg and friends in Spain
    Greg and friends in Spain

    Together, they endured the stress of being lost and clueless in a foreign city. They had the pleasure of discovering Roman ruins, Moorish palaces, Mediterranean beaches, and amazing meals. They stayed in sketchy hostels and traveled hungover on smelly buses. They saw each other at their worst and liked each other anyhow.

    “Don’t worry. You’ll see them again,” my oldest son reassured him.  About a month ago, Mike had been in Los Angeles on business where he reunited with several friends he’d made when he studied in Italy three years ago. Over breakfast, Mike and his friends traded stories about the Real Jobs they’ve acquired and caught up on who’s seeing whom. But more importantly, they didn’t take themselves too seriously—they never have.

    Mike and friends in Italy
    Mike and friends in Italy

    “You’ll be surprised how easy it is to pick right up where you left off,” he said.

    I added, “There’s no reason you can’t be friends for life. The person you are in your 20’s is your essential self—you and your friends will still be those people 30 years from now.”

    I can speak from experience. Several weeks ago, I met up with three friends I’ve known since I was in my 20’s: Pam, Rich and Sue (husband and wife). Together, we experienced the culture shock of moving from decent-sized cities to a small college town on the prairie. We muddled through our first full-time teaching jobs in a dysfunctional English department. We entertained ourselves by creating musical alter egos—a girl band called Pam and the Pamettes who were managed by Señor Grif, a.k.a. Rich. We planned spicy Mexican potlucks to heat up the long Minnesota winters. We shared poetry, short stories, and complaints.

    More than 30 years later, we are the same in all of the important ways. Although I haven’t seen Rich and Sue in more than 10 years, the four of us were immediately at ease with each other. We’re still true-blue liberals, who love art, good books and good food.

    Pam, Rich and Sue
    Pam, Rich and Sue

    As the antidote to a sobering conversation about coping with aging parents, Rich pretended to be a character called the Know-It-All Guy whose job is giving extemporaneous lectures (i.e., making up stuff about silver mining or the habits of dolphins). We laughed till our stomachs hurt. Pam and Rich riffed about the K-I-A Guy for days while Sue rolled her eyes and I egged them on—exactly the kind of silly fun we’ve always had.

    I’m grateful to have these lifelong friends gracing my life.  With any luck, my sons will have lifelong friendships like these, too.