One last yard sale and $42 in an old purse

 

Yard sale, two four-letter words spelled 'never-again.'

A couple of months ago our family ventured into the upper wastelands of our abode to organize, dispose of and prepare for sale, the detritus of our attic. It became an exercise in the futility of setting a price on that which is deemed worthless to one, and a prize at a quarter, to someone else. It also became an act of historic proportions to get my kids to go through the substance of their youth. I didn't threaten to fill a dumpster with what was left from their childhoods, I just said I'd keep all the money. They showed up.

Thirty years ago, after my last yard sale, I swore I'd never again put forth so much effort for so little monetary return. But the kids wanted to make a few bucks and I wanted out from under all our stuff.
After the cleaning and sneezing, ticketing and sorting, after calling the neighbors to warn of (I hoped) lots of traffic, after borrowing tables, making signs, hanging signs, posting on Craig's list and telling every single friend and family member not to come (I was selling some of their old gifts) we were ready for our own personal black Friday on Saturday.

We hauled our stuff to the end of our 1,000-foot driveway in the woods at 6 a.m., set up by 7 a.m., and hoped for the best. My oldest daughter was unable to be there because of a previous commitment, so we had to track her sales along with ours.

The first to show up - a swarm of mosquitoes. I made a mad dash back to the house for repellent. And then the dealers came. I used to sell antiques and imagined some of my items showing up on Antiques Roadshow, but I figured if a stranger made a financial windfall because I was uninformed, good for them.

The first customer was a classic I had been warned about by friends. For her $5 item she handed over a $100 dollar bill. Shop early with big bills and yard-salers usually let the items go for free, so as not to deplete their shoebox full of change. I was prepared. The only items I planned on giving away free would be the leftovers donated the following Monday.

During the course of the day folks came and went (even connected with some old antique-buddies) and negotiations for lower prices continued. One middle-aged father showed up with his young daughter, she was about 10. The little girl shopped and the father sat down and played one of the two guitars we had for sale. It was nice. He was friendly. They left with a tiny purple stapler and a small, well-used purse which had belonged to the daughter who was unable to help that day.

Within minutes the father and daughter returned, the little girl had found $42 in my daughter's purse. We were astounded, not only by the find, but because they actually returned with the money. I gave the little girl a $10 reward and after they left I felt guilty that I didn't let her keep the entire amount. I quickly checked the rest of the purses and found a nice pair of earrings. The balance of the found-money went toward our dinner of pizzas and salad that night.

Regarding the effort put forth, my kids did okay. As for me, I used my windfall to buy a new laptop, on which I am typing these very words. But I still wish I had given the little girl all the money she had found. Enough said.

They ran, we sat in the shade (original title)

They ran a race, we sat in the shade

My husband and I traveled the Rt 8 northwest-passage, to the seven mile long Litchfield Hills Road Race. We weren’t running, but we were going to to sit in the shade, eat cheese burgers, fries, and watch 2000 runners dash around town in 85 degree heat. Our youngest and her husband were participants.

Litchfield is a, “you-can’t-get-there-from-here,” town, an enclave of the rich, famous and influential, with a welcoming atmosphere somewhere between Meryl Streep and Agway.

The town center is quaint. We joined the throngs on the beautiful green and pitched ourselves right at the start line. The cannon went off, the race started, we suffered in the shade while enjoying the beautiful afternoon. While the race progressed, the most physically taxing thing this inferior did was stand in the sun for fifteen minutes while anticipating when my daughter and son-in-law would cross the finish line. I cheered and snapped pictures as they finished the race. It was hot, I was sunburned and exhausted. Watching other people deplete their energy by maxing out their physical prowess makes me feel like a failure; I napped in the car on the way home.

That afternoon reminded me of when I lived in an apartment on the Post Road near the starting line of the East Lyme marathon in the early 80’s. All our friends and family gathered at our tiny apartment prior to the start of the race. They had to arrive early in the morning because the roads were closed. We’d stand on the lawn and cheer the start. Then we’d have a huge brunch and bulk up on bacon, sausage, home-fries and eggs. Add to that, half the sweets from Flanders Bakery and you can imagine how difficult it was to waddle over to the finish line at East Lyme High School as the runners came in.

We made a celebration of the event for several years until we moved.

The first time I made it over to the high school to watch the runners finish I was inspired, not to run of course, that idea is laughable, but to commit to something which stretches my physical boundaries. (More than thirty years later I’m still looking for that commitment.)

The top runners with the best times were elite athletes to be respected because of what they put their bodies and minds through on a daily basis, as dedication to sport. But it was the other runners, the ones with actual running times which did not matter as much as just finishing the race did, which I was in awe of. The pudgier runners, older runners, weekend runners who looked like they rode a desk all week long, those were the ones I cheered, clapped and cried for.  How do runners do it, how do they find the strength and tenacity to run so far and not give up? I would have dropped out or dropped dead. I can drive 26 miles, (not on a bike but in a car), as long I take a snack and stop to stretch my legs at the mall.

The Litchfield Hills Road race isn’t as long as East Lyme used to be. It isn’t as huge as the New York Marathon or as famous as Boston’s, but considering the number of runners from around the world, and the up and down aspects of the course, plus the heat, it might as well have been. My daughter and son-law-finished the race; their times were respectable. Will they run again next year? They say yes. Will I watch, eat burgers and take pictures, absolutely. But next year I’ll wear a hat. Standing in the sun for a quarter of an hour is tough, but I did it. Enough said.

            Carolynn’s latest exercise plan is to watch TV sitting up instead of lying down.

Quiche or gas, what makes you real (original title)

What makes you real ?
 

On the way to Wal-Mart last Sunday, the gas-light came on in my car so I pulled into the local gas station where the price of 87-octane is only slightly lower than the cost of a pint of AB - negative.

Even though I was driving, my husband offered to pump.

Years ago I remember the book, “Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche” and its feminist counterpart, “Real Women Don’t Pump Gas. I’ve never been one of those women who go all female at a gas station; it’s my car, I can fill the tank. But if my husband offers to pump, in the rain, or snow or gloom of night, I let him feel needed. Even though the weather was beautiful that day I figured I’m driving, he can pump if he wants to.

As we pulled up to one of the wallet-drainers I realized that all the other pumps were occupied by motorcycles with drivers filling tanks the size of my purse. It wasn’t a mean looking cadre of Marlon Brando type wild ones; they looked like a bunch of young guys out for some wind in their hair on a beautiful spring afternoon.

Before my husband opened his door I said “I’ll pump,” and I jumped out.

As I was standing there draining my bank account, the engines on the fancy two wheelers revved and the pack of young men pulled away. When I got back in the car I figured I should explain to my husband why, at that moment, pumping my own gas was so important.

I didn’t want a group of strangers see my husband pump gas for me. I did not want to be considered by anyone, even people I would never see again, as one of those women who won’t ‘fill-er-up’ on my own. For folks who need assistance, that’s one thing, but as long as I’m capable, I’ll do it, especially if someone else is watching. This was of course assuming someone actually noticed the gray haired matron hopping out of her car so energetically, to expertly operate the gas pump.

My husband and I laughed about my need to prove independence amidst a group of men young enough to be my grandsons. That’s when I thought about a few women I know who, though physically capable, refuse to pump gas. Their marriages ended in divorce. I wondered if there was some sort of correlation between female dependence, a couple’s perception of self-reliance, and how long a marriage lasts.

I didn’t marry until I was past thirty, so even though I’ve been married more than half my life, I’m used to not being helpless. My husband cooks, because he likes to and I cook when I have to. I don’t carry in all the groceries but I am the one who puts them away. I don’t always clean the snow off my car but when I do I clean off my husband’s pick-up too. I don’t mow the lawn, I weed, I don’t plow, I vacuum. I know how to check the oil in my car and fill the window washer reservoir with fluid. I’ve never had to, but I can change a tire, because I can read (I know where the manual is), and if the battery dies I know how to dial AAA.  So, as long as I’m wearing my glasses and have a cell phone, regarding my vehicle, I’m pretty self-sufficient.

I’m a real woman who pumps gas and after thirty-four years of marriage, I’ve never seen my husband eat quiche. What’s that make him? Enough said.

A grandmother's Mother's Day (oridinal title)

A grandma celebrates Mother's Day

Published May 08. 2014 4:00AM   Updated May 08. 2014 11:18AM

 

They were right, all those mothers of children, who have children, when they said, being a grandmother is different. That's why this Mother's Day has taken on a deeper and more expanded meaning. I am a grandmother.
Since the first time I held our new little grand-girl in my arms a connection sparked which simply seared my soul. At first I found it hard to explain why the depth of feeling was so immeasurable. She was just a baby, someone else's baby at that, with a wobbly head and an early personality consisting only of the basics: eat, sleep and poop. But my feelings were different, very different. That her mother was my baby may have stretched the bond, but it is no less strong, and is in fact unbreakable.
I thought this special connection was because I don't have to deal with the day to day new-mom-dilemma of feeding schedules, diapers and sleeplessness; I can simply love her and hand her back. But it's more than that.
As a young mother I got caught up in the enormity of the task which required that I raise my children to be loving and capable human beings and good citizens of the world. My interactions with my daughters always seemed to have a learning agenda or one of consequences and boundaries. Sometimes it was all love, and silliness, and fun, and sometimes there were moments, many times actually, which grayed my hair and overfilled my cup. I can honestly say that on the face of this earth, there are no two children who were more wanted. But what I felt for them is not the same as what I feel for my granddaughter. One love is not greater than the other, they are just profoundly different.
I take care of my granddaughter one day a week. I would love to spend more time with her but I work a full time job. And maybe that's it; my time with her is want-to, not have-to time. Just past three months old, when she looks into my eyes, I know, she - sees - me. When she smiles in response to my smile, or my voice, there is no greater pleasure. I am a voracious word-saver of all things emotional and yet I do not remember acknowledging the eye to eye, heart to heart, connection when my kids were little. Bench marks, like the first solid food, words, haircuts and steps were written in their books. I'm thinking that because I am older, and wiser, and see our relationship as shorter, than what fits in a whole lifetime, maybe that's why my moments with her are so deeply felt.
She is an angel, this little one who has stolen my heart. She is the new baby fragrance of hope. On a planet so crowded with calamity and fear, to see this little one approach it with such curiosity gives me faith that our world will be a better place because she is in it. New babies do that, they give us another chance to get it right.
Her parents are good people, who come from a long line of good people. The tasks of life ahead for her will be great and yet, those eyes looking toward the future and that tiny little heart will, with each wink and beat, change the world. After all, at not yet four months old and she has already changed ours.
As mothers, my daughter and I can share the sentiments of her first Mother's Day; I get to chant the grandmother's mantra, "paybacks." And, about those paybacks, enough said.

CAROLYNN CHANGES DIAPERS ON WEDNESDAYS; YOU CAN REACH HER AT CP.ENOUGHSAID@AOL.COM.

Men and their machines (original title)

Mowing the lawn

Published 04/03/2014 12:00 AM

Updated 03/31/2014 04:59 PM

What is it with men and their tractors?
My husband has a familiar yellow-seated green tractor he bought well over 20 years ago. That tractor has mowed, cut, mulched and plowed so many times, it's like another member of the family. He brings it inside when it gets really cold - we have a walk-out basement.
Years ago when my husband started fertilizing our front lawn, we had the greenest, lushest and fastest growing turf on the street. It looked like the Augusta National Fairway at the Masters. I was convinced the man was out of his mind. He had to mow twice as often. You are making more work for yourself, I told him.
The kids were little, so each time he mowed I had to make sure they stayed out of daddy's way while he drove that tractor around the yard, hour after hour. One time I decided I'd drive it; I figured that getting checked out on it was a good thing in case there was an emergency. Like if the car broke down and I had to drive to the mailbox.
I got on the tractor, fired it up and began to NASCAR around the front lawn. Enveloped in a cacophony of engine noise and machine vibration I found doing lawn-ovals comforting. No one could come near me and as long as I concentrated on where I was going, to the exclusion of all others, like a husband and two daughters waving their arms and shouting, no one could get my attention. I suddenly realized why he wanted to cut the lawn so often; it was his 'loud' quiet time.
Not long after we got the tractor it became my husband's bright idea to pull down a dead branch from a very tall tree in the front yard. It was too high to chain saw, so he threw a rope over the branch and tied it to the back of the tractor. The branch almost snapped off but the leverage was all wrong so he had to drive the tractor to set up a different angle. Our safety measures ... the kids were inside the house standing at the storm door and watching. I got to walk behind the tractor and hold up the rope so it wouldn't tangle as he drove to the other side of a large spruce which was in the way. As my husband drove, with me carrying the limp rope behind, I fell; the rope wrapped around my thigh. With me out of sight behind the Rockefeller Plaza size spruce, he was driving up hill, towing me by my thigh. When the girls saw me being dragged they started to laugh. I got mad. Suppose the rope had wrapped around my neck; my husband wouldn't have had to listen to me recall how stupid we were, even now, 20 years later.
Last fall my husband decided it was time to have the green machine taken in for repair. It was spitting and sputtering like an old man with a pack-a-day habit.
After a week in the shop, the lawn took over. After two weeks my husband became morose, thinking it might be time to replace his beloved little workhorse. But alas, his tractor came home again. One month, and over a grand later, the green machine was purring like a kitten and running like a Deere. It got me to thinking: I've been around longer than that tractor. If I got a month off, and my husband spent a thousand dollars on me, maybe I'd do the same. Enough said.

CAROLYNN DOES NOT RUN LIKE A DEERE, SHE WALKS A LOT AND FAST. YOU CAN REACH HER AT CP.ENOUGHSAID@AOL.COM.

Hardy nutmeggers on slippery slopes (original title)

Hardy Nutmeggers on slippery slopes

Published 03/13/2014 12:00 AM

Updated 03/10/2014 04:48 PM

New Englanders are hardy folk, even southern Nutmeggers here in Connecticut. We pride ourselves in being able to weather whatever Mother Nature throws at us. To paraphrase the familiar motto, neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, can prevent us from the swift completion of our deed, we can always make it to the mall.
I don't know about the "gloom of night" thing - my husband and I doze during final Jeopardy - but from Gloria to Sandy my daughters and I could make it to a store during a deluge for a Snicker's and box of Q-Tips, if need be.
Because the recent weather went from a simple New England winter to that Arctic Vortex thing, my daughter's four walls became a bit confining; new babies have a tendency to stifle outside risk when the wind chill reaches minus-too-damn-cold. So she and I decided to attempt a special kind of foolishness, shopping with a one month old. Actually the shopping wasn't the foolish part, getting to the mall was. But it was a perfect day to stroller a four-week-old up and down the indoor Main Street of the Crystal Mall.
I should have known that making it to the end of our 1,000-foot ice glazed driveway would be a challenge. I should have known that attempting to drive up the incline at the end, in anything other than a Snow Cat, like the one driven by Scatman Crothers in The Shining, might leave us spinning our Goodyears.
We packed my daughter's car. The stroller, which transforms from a baby transporter to a mid-size SUV, filled the trunk. Inside with us, and baby in a car seat, were so many diaper bags and colorful totes filled with baby accoutrements, it looked like a Vera Bradley Trunk Show.
My daughter decided to drive; I sat in back with the baby. I should have told her to build forward momentum at the up-hill end of the driveway and under no circumstances brake, unless of course there was traffic, which was unlikely because we live on a dead end country road. I should have told her that if, because of deer, turkeys or the neighbor's dog, she had to brake, we'd never make the climb. She would have politely told me there was no steering wheel or pedals for a driver in the backseat.
The Zamboni smooth driveway was clear, no traffic on the road, and yet just before we reached asphalt, my ever cautious daughter decided to slow down. Our forward momentum became a perfect slow motion slide backwards. Never in danger, the snow banks acted like bumpers at a bowling alley for preschoolers. We came to a halt half-way down the hill in fits of laughter. As the self-described more accomplished winter driver, I took over the wheel. Within 30 seconds we were against a snowbank going nowhere. I tried several times to back us down and my daughter even offered to push. I figured that was not a good idea for a lactating new mother.
I called my husband who was on his way home. My other son-in-law was with him. The young guy pushed and rocked until the car straightened out. The old guy sat in his truck to keep warm. Once my son-in-law got behind the wheel and achieved forward momentum, the car made it to the top. I stood on the road to stop traffic. There was no traffic. I was useless.
We got to the mall, walked off a little winter and drove back in a downpour. The ride down the slippery slope to home was uneventful. Enough said.
EMAIL CAROLYNN PIANTA AT CPIANTA@COMCAST.NET.

Facebook, the great connector (original title)

Reunited after 40 years: Facebook, the great connector

Published 02/27/2014 12:00 AM

Updated 02/25/2014 01:05 PM

When my kids were in college they talked about a new social network called Facebook. They were enamored by it. To me it seemed kind of intrusive and a bit hedonistic. I thought Facebook would be a lot like an early marriage-infatuation, passion and maybe even a little obsession. And that eventually it would go the way of Myspace and recalling what's-his-name on the marriage license. But it didn't wither, it didn't die, it didn't dissolve into an online memory, it got bigger. It got so big, that the private little college system of communication expanded exponentially.

I don't think that in the beginning the kids ever thought that 10 years later they'd be Facebooking their parents and liking it. I certainly know my kids didn't think that.

My husband hates Facebook. Like other folks strapped to landlines and envelopes he thinks Facebook is like a 12-year-old jimmying the lock on his big sister's diary: What's in there is stupid, of no interest and who cares anyway? I have friends who think that going on Facebook is akin to listening at their kid's bedroom door for conversations about everything they are trying to hide from their parents.
"It's their world and I want no part of it," they say. I understand that because I used to think that way but not anymore.

A few years back, one daughter was mortified because I considered joining Facebook and the other daughter thought the whole idea was great, so I did what I had to do and signed up. I felt like a senior citizen sitting in the front row of a Pink concert. I was intimidated by the youthful process, didn't understand what was going on and felt totally out of place. I dropped out and went back to my homepage where I was comfortable looking up my daily horoscope. Fast-forward a couple of years, I got a new laptop, made the papers and gained enough courage and a little information and went back on Facebook, this time with the blessing of both my kids. Our Facebook worlds have mingled somewhat but I'm still so clueless that I'm very careful when making comments, liking and friending.

Early last year I did a search for a friend I knew 40 years ago. She was an amazing singer and I was a songwriter. We were sister-close and lost touch when I opened a small manufacturing company and she moved back to the Midwest. Her name is not unusual so searches prior to Facebook were fruitless. My friend is a few years older than me so I thought even though there's no way both of us would have the nerve to join a social network started by toddlers and run by teenagers, I'd give it a try. It took a year until I saw her name pop up in my Facebook inbox.

We messaged each other a few times but catching up became an on-the-fly sort of thing. So I called.
We talked as if there had been no 40 years between us. It was wonderful.

The Facebook connection taught me that even though we may travel different paths, the one we once shared is sustainable. Though my friend and I have lived very different lives we share a time when youth and all its promises of dreams fulfilled was real. She may never win a Grammy and I may never win a Pulitzer but years ago when we talked about such things nothing was beyond our grasp. Though now the probability wanes, the possibility does not. I found a long-ago friend. I never thought the possibility of that would happen and because of Facebook it did. Enough said.