Old things

I have always been reluctant (a euphemism for unwilling) to throw away old things.  I'm not a hoarder, I do force myself to ditch most junk.  But I have a lot of "stuff" from my ancient past taking up space on bookshelves and in closets.  Not junk, STUFF.

I have begun to imagine my daughter and son-in-law cleaning out our house, getting it ready to sell, after we pass.  From where I'm sitting I can see a bookshelf with photos of all the cats we have had, a battered copy of The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet, Mistress Masham's Repose, and all my high school yearbooks.  I see my 1950's St. Joseph Missal sitting between two of my mother's old bibles.  I'm not a practicing Catholic, you know what I mean?  It's nostalgia. I also have more photo albums than I care to admit.  Oh gee, there's a Fuzzy Wuzzy kitty bank our grandchildren gave us sitting on the third shelf down.  I wonder if I still have that  pink piggy bank that granddaughter E painted for me 18 years ago?  

This is just one bookshelf, mind you.  Yesterday I was texting with friends about Captain Kangaroo, and I asked them if they remembered a book he read on his show, Millions of Cats. They didn't.  I had a copy and ran to get it so I could show them the great cover art.  Then I remembered I passed that book on to a great niece just last year.  I was annoyed with myself, until I realized nobody really wanted to see the cover art.  And if they did, I could google the book title to get the cover art.  

I really have to start thinking about old things in a different way.  And I need to let my daughter know I'm fine with her throwing away all my stuff when I'm gone.  I am just sorry I couldn't seem to do it myself.  

Yep, the third book down is a reissue of
the 1950's era Baltimore Catechism

I'm thankful for history books

I refuse to admit to depression in the face of this wild U.S. roller coaster ride. That's what he wants. My fear, of course, is that the roller coaster hasn't been maintained properly and a crash is imminent. 

I've been amusing myself reading a history of 14th century Europe. It was a time of petty tyrants, violence, and chaos. The book is "A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century" by Barbara W. Tuchman. Fabulous read, albeit a bit slow. I spend a lot of time pulling out my phone to google things like the Beghards, or Charles V. It's quite the learning experience. Why I need to learn anything more is not really clear to me; however, it's fun. (That's the depression I'm pretending not to have speaking. Ignore her).

It's hard to describe why I find this book so comforting. I guess I am reminded that history is cyclical, and time marches on. Things change.  

My foray into the 14th Century has been so encouraging, that I just ordered a used hardcopy of "Europe: A History" by Norman Davies. That one goes all the way back to the cave men. I can't wait. I just wish it was available as an ebook. It's 1200 pages, and going to be physically uncomfortable to read.  

How do you manage reading actual books that are so darn heavy? 

Chewing on a memory

My husband bought a loaf of sourdough bread at the farmer's market. This morning I was lazy, and I didn't want to make breakfast. I wanted to grab something. I grabbed a piece of now almost stale sourdough. So good! As often happens, I chewed on more than just the bread.  

This "madeleine moment" reminded of the book Heidi, which made a strong impression on me as a child.  In this case, I remembered Heidi and her grandfather ate bread and cheese for breakfast. I may have cheese later. For now I'm just eating the plain bread, allowing my mind to wander.  

I may read that book again. There was a strong class consciousness throughout, and it may have been my introduction to class and inequality.  At least to an inequality that was clearly defined. Feelings, fears, and suspicions were justified. I have never been the same.   

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