Confessions of a Sentimental Packrat
My mission for this summer is to clean out our attic. I am a sentimental packrat (translation: I save everything) so this is an extremely difficult task.
Compounding this problem is the fact that we have lived for almost 20 years in a house with a huge, walk-in attic. If you haven't moved in 20 years, you have no real reason to force you to clean out. It is so easy to box stuff up and place it on the shelves in the attic while telling yourself, I will go through this stuff later. This attitude results in boxes full of family pictures; our daughters' school work & art projects; clothes we no longer wear but don't want to give away because we "may wear them again someday" or even worse, "they may come back in style someday;" bedspreads and curtains from room changes that we "may use again someday;" baby clothes and other paraphernalia that we will pass down to our grandchildren, etc.
I come by my packrat tendencies naturally because my mother was a sentimental packrat too. When she and my father finally downsized to a garden home, I became the recipient of boxes and boxes of their stuff, too. "Give it to Dana--as the oldest child, she remembers this stuff and will want to keep it." Then my great aunt and my mother-in-law passed away and our family gave us their stuff too. Remember, we had all that room in our attic.
You see where this is going. Eventually even the largest attic fills up. The more boxes you add, the larger the excuse not to go through them. There are so many boxes now that I had no idea where to start, but finally I realized that I could procrastinate no longer, the attic was about to explode. The time to purge is now.
So far, I have spent two whole days going through hundreds of old letters and cards that I had stuffed in various shoe boxes over the years. My father loved to grab a yellow legal pad and dash off a quick letter to me. He's been gone over 10 years now, and reading letters in his distinctive handwriting is almost like speaking to him again. I can hear his voice through his letters and it fills my heart even as it aches.
The first one I found, in a yellowed envelope with a 10-cent stamp postmarked August 20, 1974, sent to me shortly after I began my freshman year at the University of Alabama, says in part:
Dear Dana,
I have been thinking about you every few minutes all day. With you not here it seems like something is missing all the time. I wonder if I will always feel this way. Let us know everything that happens--when your new roommate gets there, when you get an extra lock on your door, about your classes and your books. Be careful, sweet thing. I love you too much not to worry.
Love,
Daddy
I can tell you one thing, Daddy. With you not here it seems like something is missing all the time too. And I know I will always feel this way.
All of a sudden I'm proud to be a sentimental packrat. Who knows what treasures I may uncover next?
Friday, May 30, 2014
Friday, May 23, 2014
Happy 27th Anniversary
I know--27 isn't a milestone year, one that ends in 0 like 10 or 20, but ever since we reached our 25th anniversary it seems like we should celebrate every anniversary like it was a milestone.
Two years ago we celebrated our 25th in a big way. On our actual anniversary date Dwight had two dozen roses delivered to me at my office. He also ordered a beautiful chocolate cake from Edgar's decorated with "Happy 25th Anniversary" in yellow icing, since he knows I have a huge sweet tooth and love chocolate (he does too). We invited a group of our closest buddies to meet us for drinks at Dwight's favorite watering hole, Pablo's, only to discover they were closed for renovations that night. Quick change of venue to Yankee Pizzeria and the celebration continued.
Then two weeks later we gave each other our real anniversary present--a trip to Las Vegas. As hard as it may be to believe, neither of us had ever been to there, so we walked around like the rest of the tourists, gawking at the spectacle that is Vegas. We knew we were in a whole 'nother world when we stepped off the plane at the Vegas airport and saw a terminal full of slot machines. And in the elevator in our hotel, The Tropicana, I pushed "M" for "Main Floor" and got the Mezzanine. No "G" for "Ground Floor"? Finally someone told us "C" for "Casino" would get us to the main floor. Nope, Toto, we weren't in Kansas anymore.
A trip to Las Vegas is a little like a trip around the world. New York New York Casino was across the street, complete with a Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, and a huge roller coaster swooping in and out of the building; the MGM Grand was next door, with their huge golden lion at the entrance. We rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower at the Paris Casino, oohed and aahed over the Grecian statues in Caesar's Palace, and spent one evening at Fremont Street, the original Vegas, where we saw a 61-pound lump of gold, the largest nugget ever found, at The Golden Nugget.We ate, drank (a lot), played slots, saw shows, watched the ever-changing fountains at The Bellagio, and generally had a great time. Where else can you have your picture made with a beautiful Vegas showgirl on one street corner and then pose with Iron Man, Elvis, Elmo or Barney the dinosaur on the same block? There is a metaphor for the marriage experience in there somewhere, I just know it.
Last year and this year, our anniversary went back to normal: anniversary cards and a nice dinner out. But it's important to celebrate the fact that we have made it through another year. We have been together through numerous jobs, three different houses, several different vehicles and umpteen lost/broken/upgraded cell phones; we have fought and made up, and raised two beautiful daughters; we are still relatively healthy, relatively sane, and we still love each other.
Twenty-five-plus years and counting. Not too bad.
I know--27 isn't a milestone year, one that ends in 0 like 10 or 20, but ever since we reached our 25th anniversary it seems like we should celebrate every anniversary like it was a milestone.
Two years ago we celebrated our 25th in a big way. On our actual anniversary date Dwight had two dozen roses delivered to me at my office. He also ordered a beautiful chocolate cake from Edgar's decorated with "Happy 25th Anniversary" in yellow icing, since he knows I have a huge sweet tooth and love chocolate (he does too). We invited a group of our closest buddies to meet us for drinks at Dwight's favorite watering hole, Pablo's, only to discover they were closed for renovations that night. Quick change of venue to Yankee Pizzeria and the celebration continued.
Then two weeks later we gave each other our real anniversary present--a trip to Las Vegas. As hard as it may be to believe, neither of us had ever been to there, so we walked around like the rest of the tourists, gawking at the spectacle that is Vegas. We knew we were in a whole 'nother world when we stepped off the plane at the Vegas airport and saw a terminal full of slot machines. And in the elevator in our hotel, The Tropicana, I pushed "M" for "Main Floor" and got the Mezzanine. No "G" for "Ground Floor"? Finally someone told us "C" for "Casino" would get us to the main floor. Nope, Toto, we weren't in Kansas anymore.
A trip to Las Vegas is a little like a trip around the world. New York New York Casino was across the street, complete with a Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, and a huge roller coaster swooping in and out of the building; the MGM Grand was next door, with their huge golden lion at the entrance. We rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower at the Paris Casino, oohed and aahed over the Grecian statues in Caesar's Palace, and spent one evening at Fremont Street, the original Vegas, where we saw a 61-pound lump of gold, the largest nugget ever found, at The Golden Nugget.We ate, drank (a lot), played slots, saw shows, watched the ever-changing fountains at The Bellagio, and generally had a great time. Where else can you have your picture made with a beautiful Vegas showgirl on one street corner and then pose with Iron Man, Elvis, Elmo or Barney the dinosaur on the same block? There is a metaphor for the marriage experience in there somewhere, I just know it.
Last year and this year, our anniversary went back to normal: anniversary cards and a nice dinner out. But it's important to celebrate the fact that we have made it through another year. We have been together through numerous jobs, three different houses, several different vehicles and umpteen lost/broken/upgraded cell phones; we have fought and made up, and raised two beautiful daughters; we are still relatively healthy, relatively sane, and we still love each other.
Twenty-five-plus years and counting. Not too bad.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Coppertone Memories
Most of my favorite childhood memories are centered around trips with my family. We didn’t take big, expensive vacations—we didn’t need to. Getting away from the daily routine of school and work, seeing new places, eating out and just being together was all we needed.
I was born in Birmingham and grew up in Homewood, but then my family moved to Huntsville when I was 10, right in the middle of the Space Race. Redstone Arsenal was actively building and testing rockets at the time, and I remember coming home from school each afternoon and hearing the sounds of sonic booms from my back yard. Since Huntsville was fairly close to the Tennessee state line, Rock City Gardens in Chattanooga was a favorite quick trip. To pass the time in the car, my younger brother and sister and I would count the bright red “See Rock City” signs painted on barns along the way. Once we arrived, we loved to wriggle through Fat Man’s Squeeze, bounce on the Swinging Bridge, and when we reached the top of the mountain, we would put a quarter in the slot of the mounted binoculars to try to “See Seven States.” (We never could.)
Each summer we would load up our car and head to Pensacola Beach for a few days, usually staying in one of those little motels where the door to each room was painted a different color. My aunt & uncle lived there so we also got to play with our cousins on this trip. My dad & I would look for shells, and the younger kids would try to build the world’s most amazing sand castle. My mother, slathered with Coppertone, would work on her suntan, since those were the days before we knew the sun was harmful. To this day I can’t open a bottle of Coppertone and smell that distinctive scent without thinking of my mother.
My husband & I have two daughters now and our youngest, Christina, has moved to Pensacola. Last weekend, we picked up our oldest daughter Rachel and drove to Pensacola so the four of us could spend Mother’s Day weekend together. We walked along the beach, visited with my cousins, played putt-putt (a beach tradition), ate amazing Shrimp & Grits a Ya Ya at The Fish House and tremendous steaks and hamburgers at the famous McGuire’s. It was a really nice weekend.
I was reminded again that it doesn’t matter whether you take an exotic trip to a far-away destination or a low-key vacation at the lake—what really matters is spending time together as a family. Enjoy!
Most of my favorite childhood memories are centered around trips with my family. We didn’t take big, expensive vacations—we didn’t need to. Getting away from the daily routine of school and work, seeing new places, eating out and just being together was all we needed.
I was born in Birmingham and grew up in Homewood, but then my family moved to Huntsville when I was 10, right in the middle of the Space Race. Redstone Arsenal was actively building and testing rockets at the time, and I remember coming home from school each afternoon and hearing the sounds of sonic booms from my back yard. Since Huntsville was fairly close to the Tennessee state line, Rock City Gardens in Chattanooga was a favorite quick trip. To pass the time in the car, my younger brother and sister and I would count the bright red “See Rock City” signs painted on barns along the way. Once we arrived, we loved to wriggle through Fat Man’s Squeeze, bounce on the Swinging Bridge, and when we reached the top of the mountain, we would put a quarter in the slot of the mounted binoculars to try to “See Seven States.” (We never could.)
Each summer we would load up our car and head to Pensacola Beach for a few days, usually staying in one of those little motels where the door to each room was painted a different color. My aunt & uncle lived there so we also got to play with our cousins on this trip. My dad & I would look for shells, and the younger kids would try to build the world’s most amazing sand castle. My mother, slathered with Coppertone, would work on her suntan, since those were the days before we knew the sun was harmful. To this day I can’t open a bottle of Coppertone and smell that distinctive scent without thinking of my mother.
My husband & I have two daughters now and our youngest, Christina, has moved to Pensacola. Last weekend, we picked up our oldest daughter Rachel and drove to Pensacola so the four of us could spend Mother’s Day weekend together. We walked along the beach, visited with my cousins, played putt-putt (a beach tradition), ate amazing Shrimp & Grits a Ya Ya at The Fish House and tremendous steaks and hamburgers at the famous McGuire’s. It was a really nice weekend.
I was reminded again that it doesn’t matter whether you take an exotic trip to a far-away destination or a low-key vacation at the lake—what really matters is spending time together as a family. Enjoy!
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Men and Boxes
Last night I had dinner with a dear friend and fellow writer. The first hour or so we discussed the ins and outs of the writing world in Birmingham, which I found extremely helpful since I have been out of the loop for the last several years working as a secretary/legal assistant while we were sending our daughters through college.
Our conversation eventually drifted away from work and settled on our families. We are both married, have grown daughters, and are trying to care for elderly parents who live several hours away. We are the classic “sandwich generation,” sharing the trials and tribulations of juggling so many balls at once. It seems our minds are going a hundred miles a minute: for work, we are making calls to schedule an interview for our next story assignment, working to finish our current assignment or complete edits/revisions, and jotting down ideas to pitch to different editors; but since we also work at home, we are tossing the next load of clothes into the wash and trying to figure out what to make for dinner. Then, we get calls from our daughters—“My car is making this funny noise-what should I do?” and our mothers—“I’m not sure this new medicine is working properly,” etc.
Most nights I can’t wait for my husband to come home from work to talk about all these matters. I usually have at least five or six things I want to take care of, and I will rattle them off in rapid succession; at the end Dwight will stare at me with a blank expression on his face. My friend said her husband reacts much the same way. We want feedback and they are silent, which can be really frustrating.
“It’s because men can only open one box at a time,” she said. What?
Her newly married daughter attended a pre-marriage counseling session at a nearby church, and the counselor said that the brain is filled with a number of “boxes” where we compartmentalize issues. Women will open numerous boxes at a time and go back and forth, addressing many different concerns at once. Men, however, do not function that way. “A man will open one box, complete the task, put that box back, and then take another box out. They never have more than one box open at a time,” she explained. “They also have a box labeled Nothing, so when you ask them what they are thinking about and they say nothing, they are absolutely telling the truth.” We both laughed.
At last--an explanation of one of the mysteries of the male species! Although it really didn't solve anything, at least I understand it a little better. Who knew?
Last night I had dinner with a dear friend and fellow writer. The first hour or so we discussed the ins and outs of the writing world in Birmingham, which I found extremely helpful since I have been out of the loop for the last several years working as a secretary/legal assistant while we were sending our daughters through college.
Our conversation eventually drifted away from work and settled on our families. We are both married, have grown daughters, and are trying to care for elderly parents who live several hours away. We are the classic “sandwich generation,” sharing the trials and tribulations of juggling so many balls at once. It seems our minds are going a hundred miles a minute: for work, we are making calls to schedule an interview for our next story assignment, working to finish our current assignment or complete edits/revisions, and jotting down ideas to pitch to different editors; but since we also work at home, we are tossing the next load of clothes into the wash and trying to figure out what to make for dinner. Then, we get calls from our daughters—“My car is making this funny noise-what should I do?” and our mothers—“I’m not sure this new medicine is working properly,” etc.
Most nights I can’t wait for my husband to come home from work to talk about all these matters. I usually have at least five or six things I want to take care of, and I will rattle them off in rapid succession; at the end Dwight will stare at me with a blank expression on his face. My friend said her husband reacts much the same way. We want feedback and they are silent, which can be really frustrating.
“It’s because men can only open one box at a time,” she said. What?
Her newly married daughter attended a pre-marriage counseling session at a nearby church, and the counselor said that the brain is filled with a number of “boxes” where we compartmentalize issues. Women will open numerous boxes at a time and go back and forth, addressing many different concerns at once. Men, however, do not function that way. “A man will open one box, complete the task, put that box back, and then take another box out. They never have more than one box open at a time,” she explained. “They also have a box labeled Nothing, so when you ask them what they are thinking about and they say nothing, they are absolutely telling the truth.” We both laughed.
At last--an explanation of one of the mysteries of the male species! Although it really didn't solve anything, at least I understand it a little better. Who knew?
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