This Christmas season has sent me back, back in my mind to Christmases past, and then back in fact (to check the facts) to earlier posts in this blog and even to its predecessor, Sundays in Spain. It has been a year and a half since I last posted. Circumstances have changed. First I noticed that I was just too busy to post about my new life in Cincinnati. Then, my new life gradually became less new. For many months it seemed that the need to write was not high enough to take the time. I had also found a specific activity that occupied most of my Sunday afternoons, so the habitual occasion was disrupted. Posts were few and far between, and then they ceased altogether. Some of my family and friends asked about Sundays in Cincinnati, and then they stopped asking.
Today, after re-reading some of my thoughts from years past so as to ascertain dates, and after realizing that my mind was not going to get any better about remembering events, I thought I might reengage and write again, if only for myself. My original reasons for writing were to write "for the discipline of writing, to concentrate on something positive and/or thoughtful, and to keep friends and family up to date with what is happening in my outer and inner lives."
Obviously I have fallen down on the discipline. I wish I could say that I was writing in other venues, but other than a monthly essay for the Scandinavian Scribblers group, I have not done that consistently either. Keeping family up to date on my life is no longer a reason to write a blog--I am in daily touch with my close family by email, and in face-to-face contact with them in our monthly "Sisters Brunches." I have many Cincinnati friends whom I also see face-to-face monthly or weekly and by email and phone (a communication tool that was missing from my life for the dozen years I lived in Spain), so keeping these friends up to date on my life is not a reason to write. Indeed, I run the risk of too much revelation of personal matters if I write about some events and my thoughts about them. But it is becoming evident that--in spite of Facebook--I am falling behind in keeping in touch with friends afar, in Europe, especially, but also friends elsewhere in the U.S. This is a very good reason for writing again.
Sadly one of my faithful former readers is no longer living. Her sudden death has been a shock to me this year, and a very sobering experience. She was a writer friend, too, and I can't help but think that if I write now, I am also writing to her. Totally ridiculous, but you might want to take a look at the book Often I Am Happy (Tit er jeg glad) by Jens Christian Grøndahl, and you will perhaps see that I am not alone.
The other big reason to write again is "to concentrate on something positive and/or thoughtful." Now more than ever, I need to concentrate on something positive. The nightly news report is heartbreaking, and I have reached an age where loss is more prevalent than expanded possibilities. Still, there is continued life, and as a new friend reminds--and demonstrates--frequently, "Attitude is everything." Attitude and reflection, and then, writing. I will try.
Showing posts with label Practical matters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Practical matters. Show all posts
Sunday, December 23, 2018
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Meeting a Challenge
Last week once again I got tired of waiting for my hair to grow gray gracefully. It had been six months since I had last had it colored, and while it sometimes seemed as though the gray was coming in nicely and highlighting the remaining light brown, I wasn't really sure that an objective (or critical) observer would make that same judgment. So it was off to the local beauty school, my favorite place for a color after previously evaluating three other more upscale salons in the area. The prices are less at the beauty school, but part of the reason that I favor this place is that I have vocational school education in my professional background, and I like to support it and see how it works these days.
I walked in and went to the desk where an adult teacher or supervisor keeps the records, receives payment, and assigns the task to a student. I have been there at least five times since I moved to Cincinnati, but I have never had the same woman (the students are all women) twice. I did not have to wait long before Erica approached me and asked me to come to her station. I went and sat. She disappeared, as the student usually does, to the back room, where she or someone mixed the solution. She was a long time in coming back, so I took off my glasses and my earrings, glanced around at the few students on duty that morning, and then zoned out, closing my eyes and doing what I think many women do at the hairdresser's--enjoying the relaxation. Then she returned and started parting my hair section by section and applying the solution. It is a familiar procedure, so the only surprise was that she seemed to be parting it in smaller sections than usual. That may well have been necessary since it had been so many months since it was last attended to; I didn't let it bother me. Part of going to a salon where there are students in training is to be patient.
We chatted. Did you grow up in Cincinnati? she asked. No, but I grew up in Ohio. How long have you been a student here? I asked her, and when will you be finished? I'll probably be done a month from now, she answered. That figures, I said to myself; I never get the same person twice.
The supervisor came over and told Erica that she had assigned another customer to her, for a cut while my color was setting. OK, responded Erica, but then she looked over to see the customer and said, That woman won't let me do her hair. She doesn't like me.
What? Erica was black, and the next customer was white, but then, so am I. No reason was given for the customer's prejudice, and no discussion ensued, but the supervisor said she would assign the customer to someone else and walked away. Erica muttered quietly that she thought it wasn't right that the next customer was against her, and I murmured quietly from my reverie that there was no reason that the customer should be so negative. But I didn't want to start a discussion, so I just closed my eyes again and enjoyed that lovely feeling of someone working with your hair.
Finally Erica finished with the partitioning and application of color, set the timer, and allowed me to get out my iPad to play with while waiting a half hour for the color to set. It was only as I watched her clean up her station that I realized that Erica had only one hand.
Nor did she have a prosthesis. There was a stump where her second hand should have been; it came somewhere between her elbow and wrist--closer to her elbow. How could I possibly not have realized this as she parted my hair into sections and applied the liquid color? But I hadn't. Somehow she had managed to do that so similarly to the way it had always been done that I, with no central vision in one eye, and diminished vision in both, had not seen it. Or had not been paying attention.
Now, of course, I paid attention. When we walked over to the shampoo station, I wondered silently whether she would be able to soap my hair and massage my scalp. She did, and I didn't get any more wet around the neck than I normally do at this stage in the process. Then we walked back to the styling station and she asked if I wanted her to blow dry the hair. Yes, please, I said automatically, and did I notice correctly a slight hesitation on her part? Yes, I wondered, how could she hold the dryer and style the hair with a brush with only one hand? I do that poorly enough myself with two.
Truth be told, it wasn't the best blow dry that I ever had. The dried hair was wispy and not shaped as finely as I would have liked. But by that time my lunch date had come into the salon and made his presence known. Perhaps she hurried more than normal, or stopped before she normally would have, because she assumed I was in a hurry. I did not ask her to re-do or refine the styling. I simply thanked her, put on my earrings and glasses, tipped her as usual, wished her well, and walked out.
I thought about her for quite some time and admired her determination and skill, but I couldn't help wondering why she had chosen a vocation that not only glorifies normal attractiveness but also requires physical dexterity. And then I remembered. I, too, am persisting in my chosen profession. With diminished eyesight I am still reading, writing, keyboarding, and even editing code on a screen. Perhaps it is the challenge to remain normal.
I walked in and went to the desk where an adult teacher or supervisor keeps the records, receives payment, and assigns the task to a student. I have been there at least five times since I moved to Cincinnati, but I have never had the same woman (the students are all women) twice. I did not have to wait long before Erica approached me and asked me to come to her station. I went and sat. She disappeared, as the student usually does, to the back room, where she or someone mixed the solution. She was a long time in coming back, so I took off my glasses and my earrings, glanced around at the few students on duty that morning, and then zoned out, closing my eyes and doing what I think many women do at the hairdresser's--enjoying the relaxation. Then she returned and started parting my hair section by section and applying the solution. It is a familiar procedure, so the only surprise was that she seemed to be parting it in smaller sections than usual. That may well have been necessary since it had been so many months since it was last attended to; I didn't let it bother me. Part of going to a salon where there are students in training is to be patient.
We chatted. Did you grow up in Cincinnati? she asked. No, but I grew up in Ohio. How long have you been a student here? I asked her, and when will you be finished? I'll probably be done a month from now, she answered. That figures, I said to myself; I never get the same person twice.
The supervisor came over and told Erica that she had assigned another customer to her, for a cut while my color was setting. OK, responded Erica, but then she looked over to see the customer and said, That woman won't let me do her hair. She doesn't like me.
What? Erica was black, and the next customer was white, but then, so am I. No reason was given for the customer's prejudice, and no discussion ensued, but the supervisor said she would assign the customer to someone else and walked away. Erica muttered quietly that she thought it wasn't right that the next customer was against her, and I murmured quietly from my reverie that there was no reason that the customer should be so negative. But I didn't want to start a discussion, so I just closed my eyes again and enjoyed that lovely feeling of someone working with your hair.
Finally Erica finished with the partitioning and application of color, set the timer, and allowed me to get out my iPad to play with while waiting a half hour for the color to set. It was only as I watched her clean up her station that I realized that Erica had only one hand.
Nor did she have a prosthesis. There was a stump where her second hand should have been; it came somewhere between her elbow and wrist--closer to her elbow. How could I possibly not have realized this as she parted my hair into sections and applied the liquid color? But I hadn't. Somehow she had managed to do that so similarly to the way it had always been done that I, with no central vision in one eye, and diminished vision in both, had not seen it. Or had not been paying attention.
Now, of course, I paid attention. When we walked over to the shampoo station, I wondered silently whether she would be able to soap my hair and massage my scalp. She did, and I didn't get any more wet around the neck than I normally do at this stage in the process. Then we walked back to the styling station and she asked if I wanted her to blow dry the hair. Yes, please, I said automatically, and did I notice correctly a slight hesitation on her part? Yes, I wondered, how could she hold the dryer and style the hair with a brush with only one hand? I do that poorly enough myself with two.
Truth be told, it wasn't the best blow dry that I ever had. The dried hair was wispy and not shaped as finely as I would have liked. But by that time my lunch date had come into the salon and made his presence known. Perhaps she hurried more than normal, or stopped before she normally would have, because she assumed I was in a hurry. I did not ask her to re-do or refine the styling. I simply thanked her, put on my earrings and glasses, tipped her as usual, wished her well, and walked out.
I thought about her for quite some time and admired her determination and skill, but I couldn't help wondering why she had chosen a vocation that not only glorifies normal attractiveness but also requires physical dexterity. And then I remembered. I, too, am persisting in my chosen profession. With diminished eyesight I am still reading, writing, keyboarding, and even editing code on a screen. Perhaps it is the challenge to remain normal.
Monday, January 23, 2017
On the Line
Instead I chose to make one small, concrete effort on a single issue: feeding at-risk school children in Cincinnati. When schools close on Friday afternoon each week, a shocking proportion of students go home not knowing whether they will be able to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner during the weekend. Freestore Foodbank helps to reduce the number of students who may not eat, or eat nutritiously, on Saturday and Sunday.
I helped to assemble Power Packs. A Power Pack is a brown paper bag containing easy-to-prepare and shelf-stable food for one person for two days. The food in a Power Pack may include whole grain cereals, fruit and vegetable juices, sunflower seeds, health bars, complete pasta meals, and other healthy options. We had four assembly lines going on Saturday, and I was in station two of one of them. I received a bag in which my partner in station one had placed a cup of beef-a-roni and another cup of...I can't remember what microwaveable individual main dish. My job was to insert a bottle of some branded sports/health water that I had never seen before, and a tetra pack of cherry juice, balanced on its side. My partner on my right placed a cup of applesauce next to the juice, and some pudding. She then passed the bag down the line to three other people, who inserted more food items. I never had the time to find out what products they were putting in. At the end of the line, someone folded over the tops of the bags, someone else taped them shut, and another person packed six bags in a precise pattern into a cartoon and placed the cartons on a pallet.
In addition to the four assembly lines of packers, there were people uncrating products and moving them quickly from pallets to the assembly line, and removing the empty brown cartons, breaking them down, and dropping them into tall dumpsters. There were probably 50-60 volunteers there Saturday morning, some of whom were veterans, and others who were novices, like me. In two hours we filled more than 2000 Power Packs, moved them out to a loading dock, and replenished products in the assembly lines for the next group that was coming in. When we were told to wind up, I was just beginning to realize that I was tired of standing on my feet and moving in a limited, prescribed motion for two hours with no break. But it was a great feeling to know that some kids would eat better next weekend because of what we had done. I hope to come back for another shift next month.
The Freestore Foodbank's Power Packs are part of a larger national effort called Feeding America. Perhaps there is one near you.
Sunday, January 1, 2017
Planning for the New Year
This necessary exercise made me realize how much my life has changed in the past two years, since we moved from Spain. Petánque, Spanish classes, and the next tapas run no longer are the most important dates noted in my calendar. This week I wrote in dates for my monthly writing group and two reading groups, quarterly and monthly musical performance events, monthly "senior" luncheons, church committee and service dates, a few upcoming medical appointments, and a whole slew of courses and presentations for which I registered in the winter OLLI trimester. I also wrote in the dates for two trips that are already scheduled, and checked for the optimum dates for a third trip in the "definitely-going but not sure when" category.
Notably absent were two trips that I have been making yearly for a couple decades or more. These would be the semiannual conferences of the American Library Association. Although I am still working part-time and would still benefit from this regular immersion into education, networking, and entertainment, I have decided this year that my priorities are shifting and I would rather allot my money, time, and energy to newer areas of interest--one of which presents a conference opportunity at the exact same time as one of the ALA meetings. I still pencilled them in on the calendar, so I would be aware of when they were happening, but I'll be participating only from my desktop.
One reason for the difference was that I was less busy in Spain than I am here; I had fewer things to do and therefore it was easier to pick an event or a thought to write about Here I have far more that I do, and I am enjoying it, and therefore it is harder to pick one thing and concentrate on it. And of course, since I am doing more, there is less time to write. Another reason is that I no longer have the need to communicate with my family through the distance, because they are here. I don't imagine that my Spain friends make it a point to look at Sundays in Cincinnati for a post each week, while my family in Cincinnati did let me know if I failed to write in Sundays in Spain.
The compelling reason for posting less often in a blog, though, is undoubtedly that I am posting more often on Facebook. That is something that many of the Spain friends do see, as well as more-distant family and friends from Denmark, Argentina, and other parts of the U.S. Actually, I don't post on Facebook as often as I "share" a post, and even though I never share a post that I haven't read completely (going to the source link and waiting for it to load, then reading it, and then going back to Facebook) I have to say that the effort that goes into the Facebook post or share is less than what goes into a blog post.
But my FB posts and shares are almost always more substantive than what's in a 140-character tweet. I tweeted briefly, by the way, from December 2007 through some time in 2012, generating fewer tweets in five years than Donald Trump does in a month. And even a tweet is longer than a few words on a piece of paper stuck in a jar for a year.
So I know I'm not doing the jar thing in 2017. I do use, and keep, my yearly calendars as a sort of diary, but the entries there would be little more than the words-in-a-jar approach. And I have no intention of joining the president on Twitter, though I would do that it it would keep the mainstream media from using their airtime to tell me over and over again what he had posted. I would like to say that I will return to blog posting "religiously" every Sunday, but it is in fact my new-found "religion" that is one of the reasons I find it difficult to do that. So it is a toss-up as to whether the best chronicle of my year will be here or on Facebook. Facebook, of course, will remind me 365 days or fewer from now of what it thinks is significant of what I posted this year. But that's their evaluation. So I'm going to make greater efforts to return to a chronicle here.
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Time and Time Again
Then this past Sunday, after returning on Tuesday across only five, instead of the usual six, hours of time difference, we were in Cincinnati. We had not adjusted to the time difference yet and were still in the mode of waking at 1:30 or 2:30 AM, and struggling to stay awake until 8:30 at night. And then we had to deal with another changing of the clocks on Saturday night, just a week after we had already done it. We didn't have an efficient hotel staff to put a note in the elevator this time, but fortunately the mechanism inside the iPad adjusts itself automatically, so when I wok up in the middle of the night--2:30 AM--I didn't even have to remember that we had changed times. In fact, I didn't remember it until later, after I had slept a few more hours, and I went downstairs and turned on the CBS Sunday Morning program and realized that it was only 8:05 instead of the 9:05 that it said on my digital devices. I had to look at the analog clocks to remember that we had changed, and then I occupied myself with running around the house and setting them back. There are more than I would have guessed.
What I don't understand is why Europe and the Americas cannot agree on a common time to make this seasonal switch. For one week of the year, rail, bus, and airline timetables have to be adjusted to accommodate the first change, and then a week later, they have to be adjusted again when the second change comes. Broadcast schedules also have to be adjusted during that week--we had trouble getting the Danish morning news program that we often listen to in bed before 7:00 AM because we didn't know when it would be available. That's an inconvenience, but I worry more about the potential for miscommunication in serious international interconnections.Whatever automatic time settings are on the hotline between those with their fingers on the nuclear trigger--I hope someone has taken time change into consideration so warnings are adjusted and nothing goes off unintentionally!
But I didn't write about this last week, since time got away from me. By now I have adjusted to the five (or six) hour time difference between Europe and the Eastern U.S.--a late night on Tuesday this week helped that; or rather, it was the night after only two and a half hours of sleep on Tuesday night when I was finally able to sleep until a reasonable time on Thursday morning. And now I have other thoughts of "time and time again," for it is not the first time in my life that I have awoken on the morning after an election feeling worried and disappointed. I don't seem to have made much progress in my life in aligning my country's leadership with my own ethical and political values. But they don't seem to have made much headway in getting me to change mine, either.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
In with the New and (Soon) Out with the Old
Late Tuesday afternoon this week we needed to get out of the house and think about something other than hospitals and illness, so we hopped in the car and went off to a large appliance store to make one last check before (probably) deciding on the dishwasher and refrigerator that we had previously priced at two competing stores. Both of these important appliances, we were told when we purchased our house last February and had the inspection, were "nearing the end of their useful lives." I sent the dishwasher to hospice the first time I tried to use it, but we weren't ready then to make the major decisions about replacing everything in that room except, ironically, the kitchen sink. Now we are. We've done our homework and will be moving from black (old appliances) to white (the new ones), adding a number of new drawers and cabinets though possibly refurbishing some of the existing ones, and re-doing counter-tops and lighting. Most importantly, we have thought through the logistics and inconvenience of a total make-over, and we have decided to do the job in smaller stages. Hence the decision to replace the ailing dishwasher with the new one in the same place, but to relocate the new refrigerator (the original one having been placed inconveniently directly opposite the dishwasher in a galley arrangement!) to where it will be in the new room, further down the line of cabinets to a now-empty spot in the breakfast area. Voilà. I wouldn't even need to clean out the fridge before the new one arrived; I could make an easy transition and just call the gas company or ReStore to pick up the old one when I was ready.
Well, we found what we wanted Tuesday night at the newest store and amazingly, they said we could have both delivered on Thursday, December 31. Starting the new year with the first steps of the kitchen renovation, oh how nice! I suggested they put a bottle of champagne, or at least cava, in the fridge, but that didn't happen. In fact, they called Wednesday and said the dishwasher wasn't going to be available after all until next week, but that yes, the refrigerator would arrive between 1:45 and 4:45 Thursday afternoon, and yes, they would install it and hook it up to the water line.
This was to be our first experience in requiring a water line for a refrigerator. When we lived in Spain we had the basic small refrigerator/freezer, but we had friends who had an "American" refrigerator with ice and water dispenser on the outside of the door. They laughed about it, but it was already in the house they had bought. We laughed about it, too, and said we would never want that.
Then, when we came back to the U.S., we bought a house that already had an "American" refrigerator with ice and water dispenser on the outside of the door. It is astounding how quickly we got used to using the water dispenser. Johannes doesn't use ice, and I have learned not to use it often either, so we didn't appreciate the ice maker so much, though our cat Guapa learned to love the mysterious noises it made and I learned to turn it off from time to time to avoid polar inundations.
So, as it turned out, the new side-by-side "American" refrigerator we bought (it's a Samsung) also has a water and ice dispenser in the door of the freezer. And the delivery guys, who arrived an hour early on New Year's Eve, told us they were not allowed to connect it to the water line (perhaps since it was a relocated water line, not the same one they were taking a fridge from) but they told us hurriedly exactly what we needed to do to connect it. And then they disappeared to complete their appointed rounds before New Year's festivities started.
These are the times that it is useful to have an engineer husband. In due course he got it connected, and in due course it started to deliver water. Dutifully we followed the verbal instruction from the delivery people, who told us to throw away the first two gallons of water. And we were anxious to follow their instructions to also throw away the first tub of ice cubes, but we could not get any ice cubes to come out.
The project of figuring out the ice maker stretched into New Year's Day, when we made more attempts. We were hindered by the fact that I was unable to see the fine print in the black (there has to be some!) panel on the freezer door. Having purchased appliances in Europe, we are used to manuals that contain instructions in a dozen or so languages, and pictures, but this one appears only in English--not even Korean! And that is immaterial, as neither of us can see the fine print and small pictures in the manual, either.
Technology to the rescue: On January 2 we downloaded the manual on the iPad and spread out the pages to create larger type. Then we had to move page by page through a really poorly written book, doing everything that pertained to the ice maker. On the second or third pass through, I found something that said it would not operate if the water pressure were below 20psi. Engineer husband disappeared to the basement to open the water valve fully. Then we waited, because the manual said that you had to wait for 12 hours for ice. And I said, "It really is not a high priority if this doesn't work--we can call the distribution center tomorrow and tell them they have to send someone out to complete the installation that their guys finished in record time on New Year's Eve, and remember, we don't use ice anyway!"
And then, before we went to bed, suddenly Guapa jumped up and bolted for the kitchen. Then we, too, heard the familiar weird sounds of solid rumbling in the freezer. The next morning--after 12 hours--we tested, and sure enough, there was ice. Success!
But it is only now that I write this that I remember that we forgot to throw out the first bucket full of ice made by the ice maker. I'm going downstairs right now to pump it out and throw it away so I don't embarrass myself with unsavory ice cubes when our next guest who uses ice gets a drink of ice water. By the way, I haven't finished cleaning out the old refrigerator or freezer yet. After I use something from the old one, I put it in the new one. I figure that by the end of the week it will be easy to scan the items left and figure out which ones are worth moving and which should be consigned to the garbage disposal, trash, and recycle bins. Of course, we may be eating some interesting things next week.
Well, we found what we wanted Tuesday night at the newest store and amazingly, they said we could have both delivered on Thursday, December 31. Starting the new year with the first steps of the kitchen renovation, oh how nice! I suggested they put a bottle of champagne, or at least cava, in the fridge, but that didn't happen. In fact, they called Wednesday and said the dishwasher wasn't going to be available after all until next week, but that yes, the refrigerator would arrive between 1:45 and 4:45 Thursday afternoon, and yes, they would install it and hook it up to the water line.
This was to be our first experience in requiring a water line for a refrigerator. When we lived in Spain we had the basic small refrigerator/freezer, but we had friends who had an "American" refrigerator with ice and water dispenser on the outside of the door. They laughed about it, but it was already in the house they had bought. We laughed about it, too, and said we would never want that.
Then, when we came back to the U.S., we bought a house that already had an "American" refrigerator with ice and water dispenser on the outside of the door. It is astounding how quickly we got used to using the water dispenser. Johannes doesn't use ice, and I have learned not to use it often either, so we didn't appreciate the ice maker so much, though our cat Guapa learned to love the mysterious noises it made and I learned to turn it off from time to time to avoid polar inundations.
 |
| The new refrigerator and the almost-empty old one |
So, as it turned out, the new side-by-side "American" refrigerator we bought (it's a Samsung) also has a water and ice dispenser in the door of the freezer. And the delivery guys, who arrived an hour early on New Year's Eve, told us they were not allowed to connect it to the water line (perhaps since it was a relocated water line, not the same one they were taking a fridge from) but they told us hurriedly exactly what we needed to do to connect it. And then they disappeared to complete their appointed rounds before New Year's festivities started.
These are the times that it is useful to have an engineer husband. In due course he got it connected, and in due course it started to deliver water. Dutifully we followed the verbal instruction from the delivery people, who told us to throw away the first two gallons of water. And we were anxious to follow their instructions to also throw away the first tub of ice cubes, but we could not get any ice cubes to come out.
The project of figuring out the ice maker stretched into New Year's Day, when we made more attempts. We were hindered by the fact that I was unable to see the fine print in the black (there has to be some!) panel on the freezer door. Having purchased appliances in Europe, we are used to manuals that contain instructions in a dozen or so languages, and pictures, but this one appears only in English--not even Korean! And that is immaterial, as neither of us can see the fine print and small pictures in the manual, either.
Technology to the rescue: On January 2 we downloaded the manual on the iPad and spread out the pages to create larger type. Then we had to move page by page through a really poorly written book, doing everything that pertained to the ice maker. On the second or third pass through, I found something that said it would not operate if the water pressure were below 20psi. Engineer husband disappeared to the basement to open the water valve fully. Then we waited, because the manual said that you had to wait for 12 hours for ice. And I said, "It really is not a high priority if this doesn't work--we can call the distribution center tomorrow and tell them they have to send someone out to complete the installation that their guys finished in record time on New Year's Eve, and remember, we don't use ice anyway!"
 |
| Guapa playing in front of the new refrigerator |
But it is only now that I write this that I remember that we forgot to throw out the first bucket full of ice made by the ice maker. I'm going downstairs right now to pump it out and throw it away so I don't embarrass myself with unsavory ice cubes when our next guest who uses ice gets a drink of ice water. By the way, I haven't finished cleaning out the old refrigerator or freezer yet. After I use something from the old one, I put it in the new one. I figure that by the end of the week it will be easy to scan the items left and figure out which ones are worth moving and which should be consigned to the garbage disposal, trash, and recycle bins. Of course, we may be eating some interesting things next week.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Immigration Crises and Family Values
In between the gross excesses of the U.S. political campaigns blared daily on the evening news programs you might find a few minutes, or occasionally a longer, thoughtful story, on the unending immigration crisis. I mean the immigration crisis playing itself out in Europe, though I can think of no reason why it should end there. Earlier we saw huge boatloads of refugees from war, crossing treacherous waters and arriving on land, and the ensuing chaos as the people tried to move farther along in their journey but were stopped by bureaucracies and fear. Many of these first arrivals were men who had left early and were trying to find a new home for their families. Now the families have joined the journey, and we tend to see unending lines, comparatively orderly, of men, women, and children walking hundreds of miles in long queues, still on their way north, still trying to find countries that will take them in, if only for the length of time it takes to pass through to a place that will accept them legally.
Here in the U.S. we tend to focus on our own immigration crisis. I have been dipping into an extraordinary book about the toll that illegal status places on children in families in the U.S. The author, Joanna Dreby, speaks about families in New Jersey and in Ohio. Everyday Illegal: When Policies Undermine Immigrant Families is an academic book; her research is thorough, but imparted in plain English. What makes this academic title also a book for general audiences, however, is her recounting of her own story and that of her two children, who somehow entered into the uncertainty of a family living with illegality through some mishandling of paperwork discovered in a divorce transaction. There are hundreds of gotchas that affect thousands of children, and this book shows in painful detail how families can be torn apart in our own immigration crisis.
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Even though I haven't read it all, I need to take this book back to the library soon. I've already renewed it once and I just don't think it's right to keep it longer. But it's worth mentioning that getting the book represents a minor everyday miracle of the library system in Ohio. This title was not available through the Cincinnati and Hamilton County Public Library system, but it came to my local public library from Capitol University, via OhioLINK, the consortium that links many libraries of different types in the state. I worked for multitype library lending and cooperation many years ago (in Massachusetts) and Ohio was a best practices model then. It is nice to see that the system still works. And it's always nice to see my tax dollars going for something good.
Here in the U.S. we tend to focus on our own immigration crisis. I have been dipping into an extraordinary book about the toll that illegal status places on children in families in the U.S. The author, Joanna Dreby, speaks about families in New Jersey and in Ohio. Everyday Illegal: When Policies Undermine Immigrant Families is an academic book; her research is thorough, but imparted in plain English. What makes this academic title also a book for general audiences, however, is her recounting of her own story and that of her two children, who somehow entered into the uncertainty of a family living with illegality through some mishandling of paperwork discovered in a divorce transaction. There are hundreds of gotchas that affect thousands of children, and this book shows in painful detail how families can be torn apart in our own immigration crisis.
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Even though I haven't read it all, I need to take this book back to the library soon. I've already renewed it once and I just don't think it's right to keep it longer. But it's worth mentioning that getting the book represents a minor everyday miracle of the library system in Ohio. This title was not available through the Cincinnati and Hamilton County Public Library system, but it came to my local public library from Capitol University, via OhioLINK, the consortium that links many libraries of different types in the state. I worked for multitype library lending and cooperation many years ago (in Massachusetts) and Ohio was a best practices model then. It is nice to see that the system still works. And it's always nice to see my tax dollars going for something good.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Back to Sundays in Cincinnati
It has been a very, very long time since I updated Sundays in Cincinnati. That's mostly because it's been a very, very long time since I spent a Sunday in Cincinnati. On the rare occasion when I was here, I was returning from elsewhere. Here's a round-up.
On August 9 I was in Chicago, relaxing after a drive across Indiana the previous day, and preparing to board a plane Sunday evening for a 14-hour flight to Dubai, United Arab Emirates. We made use of the time by finding a shopping center with a Barnes & Noble, where I bought three books, which I stored in the back of the car that we were leaving at a hotel near the airport while we were away.
The next Sunday was not in Dubai. We had spent three interesting days there ("that's more than enough," the Emirates airline agent had said to us when we checked in, but we found plenty to do). On Sunday, August 16 we were in Cape Town, South Africa and it was the inauguration ceremony for the World Library and Information Congress, sponsored by IFLA. The ceremony was a glorious colorful extravaganza with music and dance, celebrating Africa's story-telling tradition. It was only the beginning of a very exciting time at the conference itself and at several places--and with several people--in Cape Town and environs.
The following Sunday, August 23, we were back in Dubai, breaking up our return trip (9 hours from Cape Town, 14 to Chicago) by a single day at The Dubai Mall. Yes, we spent the entire day there, or at least that portion of it that was left after arriving very early in the morning Sunday and leaving very early in the morning Monday.
By Sunday, August 30 we were back in Ohio. But we were only returning to Cincinnati from farther north, Sidney, Ohio, where we had spent an enjoyable and emotional weekend while attending my 50th high school reunion. It was a treat to see and exchange conversation with so many classmates from 50 and more years ago.
Last Sunday, September 6, I was in Cincinnati--at least my body was. I managed to get to church and to Ikea to buy curtains and rods (we had had six new windows installed during the week and determined that we did not want to put the same old window treatments up over them). But I was a little "out of it," as I had also had periodontal surgery on Friday, aided by a good dose of sedatives and painkillers, thank you very much.
Today, September 13, I am also in Cincinnati. All day. And I have been here all week! The season has changed--I put on fall clothes last night to attend a Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati dinner, but I was back to late summer attire for church this morning. But fall activities have started, and the social calendar is already full. Scribblers group starts tomorrow, with the Readers group and Cincinnati's OLLI lifelong learning courses the following week. We are still in the middle of house renovations (replacing a wood-burning fireplace with gas), and that is a bigger project than first anticipated, as we have had a whole corner of the living room wall and flooring knocked out and now they are in the process of being replaced. We will reach a pausing point by the end of Wednesday, when the contractor goes on his late-summer vacation. That will give us time to finalize arrangements for house guests who will be with us next weekend--including Sunday--taking a spring vacation from Argentina.
I may post more detail about some of my recent adventures in the coming days--I have several jottings--if there is time. At any rate, I am delighted that we are coming to a stable period where our activities are mostly contained within the boundaries of one state.
On August 9 I was in Chicago, relaxing after a drive across Indiana the previous day, and preparing to board a plane Sunday evening for a 14-hour flight to Dubai, United Arab Emirates. We made use of the time by finding a shopping center with a Barnes & Noble, where I bought three books, which I stored in the back of the car that we were leaving at a hotel near the airport while we were away.
The next Sunday was not in Dubai. We had spent three interesting days there ("that's more than enough," the Emirates airline agent had said to us when we checked in, but we found plenty to do). On Sunday, August 16 we were in Cape Town, South Africa and it was the inauguration ceremony for the World Library and Information Congress, sponsored by IFLA. The ceremony was a glorious colorful extravaganza with music and dance, celebrating Africa's story-telling tradition. It was only the beginning of a very exciting time at the conference itself and at several places--and with several people--in Cape Town and environs.
The following Sunday, August 23, we were back in Dubai, breaking up our return trip (9 hours from Cape Town, 14 to Chicago) by a single day at The Dubai Mall. Yes, we spent the entire day there, or at least that portion of it that was left after arriving very early in the morning Sunday and leaving very early in the morning Monday.
By Sunday, August 30 we were back in Ohio. But we were only returning to Cincinnati from farther north, Sidney, Ohio, where we had spent an enjoyable and emotional weekend while attending my 50th high school reunion. It was a treat to see and exchange conversation with so many classmates from 50 and more years ago.
Last Sunday, September 6, I was in Cincinnati--at least my body was. I managed to get to church and to Ikea to buy curtains and rods (we had had six new windows installed during the week and determined that we did not want to put the same old window treatments up over them). But I was a little "out of it," as I had also had periodontal surgery on Friday, aided by a good dose of sedatives and painkillers, thank you very much.
Today, September 13, I am also in Cincinnati. All day. And I have been here all week! The season has changed--I put on fall clothes last night to attend a Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati dinner, but I was back to late summer attire for church this morning. But fall activities have started, and the social calendar is already full. Scribblers group starts tomorrow, with the Readers group and Cincinnati's OLLI lifelong learning courses the following week. We are still in the middle of house renovations (replacing a wood-burning fireplace with gas), and that is a bigger project than first anticipated, as we have had a whole corner of the living room wall and flooring knocked out and now they are in the process of being replaced. We will reach a pausing point by the end of Wednesday, when the contractor goes on his late-summer vacation. That will give us time to finalize arrangements for house guests who will be with us next weekend--including Sunday--taking a spring vacation from Argentina.
I may post more detail about some of my recent adventures in the coming days--I have several jottings--if there is time. At any rate, I am delighted that we are coming to a stable period where our activities are mostly contained within the boundaries of one state.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Two-Car Family
Nothing makes me feel more American than the fact that we have once again become a two-car family. Two cars for two people. During most--but not all--of our working life in New England, we had two cars and set off for work in different directions and on different schedules. But when we moved from New England, with one of us retired and one working at home, we downsized to one car.
It's hard to believe that we existed for a good five years with no car at all. That was in Spain, when we lived in an apartment on the main street of Roquetas de Mar, with a bus stop outside the door and within four or five blocks of the sea-side promenade. We walked; we biked; we took the bus to the nearby city of Almería; we depended only occasionally on the kindness of friends to drive us to an event; and we occasionally rented a car when we wanted to go farther afield. We were in much better shape physically than we are now.
Five years later, but still in Spain, we were in the process of moving farther to the east and northward up the Mediterranean coat to the Torrevieja area in Alicante province. It was a minimum three-hour car trip (without stops) between the two areas, and it took us almost a year to explore the new area, decide on a new house, sell our apartment, and get settled. Even before we chose the exact house we eventually moved into, we knew we were going to need a car, because everything was so much more spread out in the Torrevieja environs than it was in Roquetas. We bought a "new" used car from Goldcar, the company we had used for renting umpteen cars to go back and forth. It was a silver-gray Ford Fusion, German-made but American-branded, the first American car I had personally ever owned. Throughout our life in the U.S., we had been regulars with Volvos and Toyotas after my husband gave up on the blue Camaro convertible my father had encouraged him to purchase in 1967 "because he knew Susanne would like it."
The house that we moved into in Algorfa, near Torrevieja, was within a five-minute drive of everything you would ever need on a daily basis, and a good deal more. It was within walking distance of nothing, however, unless you counted the Sunday outdoor market (but you would die of gas fumes walking along the road to the market because of the hundreds of cars that came from longer distances). And so when our good bikes were stolen we did not replace them, and we got used to driving the short distances to shopping and entertainment together, or occasionally as a single, but only a couple times did we ever have a conflict when one of us wanted to be in one place at the same time that the other wanted to be in a different place. It worked for our semi-retired, active, but joint life in Spain.
We bought a car here even before we moved back permanently to the U.S., because we knew we were going to move, and we knew we would need one. The used Avalon sat in a rented storage area for the last six months we were in Spain. Now we are permanently and fully back home in the U.S., in a condo where I, at least, can actually walk to drugstores, the hairdresser, restaurants, a liquor store, and various other establishments (but not a good supermarket), and where there is a a bus stop outside the door that takes you into the city. Our activities have changed, though. We still go to a number of social events together, shopping, and medical appointments. But we have added adult-ed classes, a book group, and meetings with other painters and writers. During the spring session of the OLLI adult-ed classes, I gave up two desired classes because we could not coordinate the drive schedule. And if I go off for a lengthy book group and luncheon meeting with the car, Johannes feels cooped up not being able to drive ten minutes to Lowe's or the frame store or somewhere else to work on a project.
Johannes has always said that his next car would be an electric car, so off we went a month ago to look at a used all-electric car. We test-drove it and agreed to think it over. But we failed to pass by a Toyota dealer on the right side of the street on the way home without stopping to look, so several hours later we found ourselves the new owners of a used Prius, which is partially electric.
The Prius is now sharing space with the Avalon in what used to be a comfortably open double garage with one car and a lot of side space. Now it is cramped and we have to be careful how much we are carrying when we get into or out of the car--either one of them. The Avalon has become somewhat neglected, since the Prius gets twice the miles-per-gallon that the Avalon gets and suits almost all our driving needs. Only twice, I believe, have both cars been out of the garage at the same time. I don't think we are driving any more--in fact, maybe less, since we no longer have to make some contorted trips to accommodate two passengers in two different places. The OLLI schedule will come out in a couple weeks, and I am happy that I can choose what I want without worrying about whether Johannes will choose a course at the same time at another location.
I do, however, have to worry about which car my sun-glasses and a/c sweater are in, where the library books and reusable grocery bags are, and whether I have the right keys for the right car at the right time. And then there is the matter of the garage door opener, of which we inherited only one when we bought the house. I am sure we can buy a second, but then we would have to program it!
There is always a price to pay.
It's hard to believe that we existed for a good five years with no car at all. That was in Spain, when we lived in an apartment on the main street of Roquetas de Mar, with a bus stop outside the door and within four or five blocks of the sea-side promenade. We walked; we biked; we took the bus to the nearby city of Almería; we depended only occasionally on the kindness of friends to drive us to an event; and we occasionally rented a car when we wanted to go farther afield. We were in much better shape physically than we are now.
Five years later, but still in Spain, we were in the process of moving farther to the east and northward up the Mediterranean coat to the Torrevieja area in Alicante province. It was a minimum three-hour car trip (without stops) between the two areas, and it took us almost a year to explore the new area, decide on a new house, sell our apartment, and get settled. Even before we chose the exact house we eventually moved into, we knew we were going to need a car, because everything was so much more spread out in the Torrevieja environs than it was in Roquetas. We bought a "new" used car from Goldcar, the company we had used for renting umpteen cars to go back and forth. It was a silver-gray Ford Fusion, German-made but American-branded, the first American car I had personally ever owned. Throughout our life in the U.S., we had been regulars with Volvos and Toyotas after my husband gave up on the blue Camaro convertible my father had encouraged him to purchase in 1967 "because he knew Susanne would like it."
The house that we moved into in Algorfa, near Torrevieja, was within a five-minute drive of everything you would ever need on a daily basis, and a good deal more. It was within walking distance of nothing, however, unless you counted the Sunday outdoor market (but you would die of gas fumes walking along the road to the market because of the hundreds of cars that came from longer distances). And so when our good bikes were stolen we did not replace them, and we got used to driving the short distances to shopping and entertainment together, or occasionally as a single, but only a couple times did we ever have a conflict when one of us wanted to be in one place at the same time that the other wanted to be in a different place. It worked for our semi-retired, active, but joint life in Spain.
We bought a car here even before we moved back permanently to the U.S., because we knew we were going to move, and we knew we would need one. The used Avalon sat in a rented storage area for the last six months we were in Spain. Now we are permanently and fully back home in the U.S., in a condo where I, at least, can actually walk to drugstores, the hairdresser, restaurants, a liquor store, and various other establishments (but not a good supermarket), and where there is a a bus stop outside the door that takes you into the city. Our activities have changed, though. We still go to a number of social events together, shopping, and medical appointments. But we have added adult-ed classes, a book group, and meetings with other painters and writers. During the spring session of the OLLI adult-ed classes, I gave up two desired classes because we could not coordinate the drive schedule. And if I go off for a lengthy book group and luncheon meeting with the car, Johannes feels cooped up not being able to drive ten minutes to Lowe's or the frame store or somewhere else to work on a project.
Johannes has always said that his next car would be an electric car, so off we went a month ago to look at a used all-electric car. We test-drove it and agreed to think it over. But we failed to pass by a Toyota dealer on the right side of the street on the way home without stopping to look, so several hours later we found ourselves the new owners of a used Prius, which is partially electric.
The Prius is now sharing space with the Avalon in what used to be a comfortably open double garage with one car and a lot of side space. Now it is cramped and we have to be careful how much we are carrying when we get into or out of the car--either one of them. The Avalon has become somewhat neglected, since the Prius gets twice the miles-per-gallon that the Avalon gets and suits almost all our driving needs. Only twice, I believe, have both cars been out of the garage at the same time. I don't think we are driving any more--in fact, maybe less, since we no longer have to make some contorted trips to accommodate two passengers in two different places. The OLLI schedule will come out in a couple weeks, and I am happy that I can choose what I want without worrying about whether Johannes will choose a course at the same time at another location.
I do, however, have to worry about which car my sun-glasses and a/c sweater are in, where the library books and reusable grocery bags are, and whether I have the right keys for the right car at the right time. And then there is the matter of the garage door opener, of which we inherited only one when we bought the house. I am sure we can buy a second, but then we would have to program it!
There is always a price to pay.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
From My Bedroom Window
This morning I was remembering how I used to wake up in the bedroom in our house in Spain, where the window was on the right (and so was I) and where, if I had been able to look out the full-height glass doors to the French balcony, I would have seen tall yucca trees instead of the broadleaved trees we have now. Of course, I never saw those trees when I woke up because in Spain windows are covered for the night with rolling metal awnings to keep out noise, temperature, intruders and, alas, any morning view. We will be going back to that house in three weeks to close its sale to new buyers, and fortunately we have decided not to stay in the house for the few days we are there. A few months ago the yuccas were cut down on the advice of the real estate agent, who had listened to potential buyers note that the house seemed dark with their foliage. I was devastated, because the yuccas had shielded us from the view of the neighbors across the street and passers0by along the street during the day when the awnings were open, to the extent that I felt perfectly comfortable changing my clothes without covering the window. No one will be able to do that now, with the trees gone, but the new owners won't know that you once could. I think they are going to be an awful lot hotter during the summer months with the sun boring in than we were, too, but that's not my fault.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Sharing Shopping
This week I did something that I have wanted to do for more than twenty years: I shared a purchase at Costco with my sister.
I first visited Costco back when we lived in Connecticut, so by my calculation, that must have been in the early 1990s. It was a huge, barn-like store there, in Danbury, I believe (we lived in Woodbury), befitting its description in the history section of the current Costco website as "a warehouse store." Back then Costco only allowed small businesses to become members, and I was running my own small business as an information professional. So I was able to purchase a membership--I think it cost $40--and go shopping for all sorts of products useful for some businesses: food, cleaning supplies, office products like file folders and--this shows how long ago it was--fax paper, and computer supplies like floppy disks and software packages.
Although I was running a business, I was a sole proprietor and sole employee, so I wasn't too interested in--or trustful of--the software sold at Costco. I was interested in the food. And in that category, everything was in quantity. In gross quantities, actually. No way could I ever made use of the savings by buying chicken breasts in quantity or the huge slabs of beef or pork for roasts--even then our two-person household ate comparatively small amounts of meat over the course of a year. We had no place in our two-bedroom condo to store the 30 rolls of toilet paper and paper towels that you had to practically crawl onto the shelves to pull down anyway. Most importantly, I did not have anyone to go shopping and to share the big packages with. All my family lived 1000 miles to the west; since I worked from home I didn't have work colleagues that I saw every day; my professional association colleagues were all in southern Fairfield County, more than an hour south of where we lived; and we had just recently moved to Connecticut, so I didn't know many people anyway. So the things that I bought at Costco were few and far between. I don't remember deciding to stop going there, but I don't remember renewing my membership, either.
Now we are in Cincinnati, within short driving distances of three sisters. The Costco store is closer to my house than to the houses of any of my sisters, but I had not yet darkened its doors--except to buy a membership for the next closest-to-Costco sister last Christmas. You no longer have to be a business to be a member of Costco; indeed, now there is a bewildering slate of membership options available for the general public, and it really makes no sense for a very small sole proprietorship to purchase a business membership. For one reason or another my sister had not used her gift card yet, so we celebrated May Day by making a joint excursion to activate her membership,
Much has changed in the last two decades. In this Costco, anyway, there is not even a pretense of a B2B focus. It's all about consumer items, and the inside of Costco now looks like any of the other big box behemoths in suburban commercial areas. Pallet stacking has given way to standing freezer and refrigerator cases and regular big bins. Food--much of it prepared meals--takes up the most space, but there are whole sections demonstrating that Costco wants to be your pharmacy, your travel agent, your home renovation provider, and your auto membership club, too.
My sister, who does major-league cooking for various church groups, and I had a great time making our way through the aisles, accepting food samples and scouting out items that we both would like and might be able to split to "have on hand" for those times when we don't feel like really cooking. I was ecstatic to find fresh panko-breaded tilapia filets that need baking only for 18-20 minutes--they sounded like a possibility for one of the sandwiches in a Danish smørrebrød dinner for twelve that I am preparing for in June. This sister was not interested in fish, but we did fall for a package of 20 spinach-potato patties, frozen, that only needed heating in the oven.
Having made our first surveillance trip, we made our few purchases and drove back to our house. I got half the spinach-potato patties, individually wrapped, and stuffed them and a hand-written copy of the oven instructions in a freezer bag. For dinner that night Johannes and I enjoyed the baked tilapia (it is going to be perfect for that Danish stjerneskyd sandwich) with a potato patty and more vegetables. It was a treat. But the best treat is that I now live close enough to my sisters to be able to share the booty from occasional shopping trips to the warehouse stores.
I first visited Costco back when we lived in Connecticut, so by my calculation, that must have been in the early 1990s. It was a huge, barn-like store there, in Danbury, I believe (we lived in Woodbury), befitting its description in the history section of the current Costco website as "a warehouse store." Back then Costco only allowed small businesses to become members, and I was running my own small business as an information professional. So I was able to purchase a membership--I think it cost $40--and go shopping for all sorts of products useful for some businesses: food, cleaning supplies, office products like file folders and--this shows how long ago it was--fax paper, and computer supplies like floppy disks and software packages.
Although I was running a business, I was a sole proprietor and sole employee, so I wasn't too interested in--or trustful of--the software sold at Costco. I was interested in the food. And in that category, everything was in quantity. In gross quantities, actually. No way could I ever made use of the savings by buying chicken breasts in quantity or the huge slabs of beef or pork for roasts--even then our two-person household ate comparatively small amounts of meat over the course of a year. We had no place in our two-bedroom condo to store the 30 rolls of toilet paper and paper towels that you had to practically crawl onto the shelves to pull down anyway. Most importantly, I did not have anyone to go shopping and to share the big packages with. All my family lived 1000 miles to the west; since I worked from home I didn't have work colleagues that I saw every day; my professional association colleagues were all in southern Fairfield County, more than an hour south of where we lived; and we had just recently moved to Connecticut, so I didn't know many people anyway. So the things that I bought at Costco were few and far between. I don't remember deciding to stop going there, but I don't remember renewing my membership, either.
Now we are in Cincinnati, within short driving distances of three sisters. The Costco store is closer to my house than to the houses of any of my sisters, but I had not yet darkened its doors--except to buy a membership for the next closest-to-Costco sister last Christmas. You no longer have to be a business to be a member of Costco; indeed, now there is a bewildering slate of membership options available for the general public, and it really makes no sense for a very small sole proprietorship to purchase a business membership. For one reason or another my sister had not used her gift card yet, so we celebrated May Day by making a joint excursion to activate her membership,
Much has changed in the last two decades. In this Costco, anyway, there is not even a pretense of a B2B focus. It's all about consumer items, and the inside of Costco now looks like any of the other big box behemoths in suburban commercial areas. Pallet stacking has given way to standing freezer and refrigerator cases and regular big bins. Food--much of it prepared meals--takes up the most space, but there are whole sections demonstrating that Costco wants to be your pharmacy, your travel agent, your home renovation provider, and your auto membership club, too.
My sister, who does major-league cooking for various church groups, and I had a great time making our way through the aisles, accepting food samples and scouting out items that we both would like and might be able to split to "have on hand" for those times when we don't feel like really cooking. I was ecstatic to find fresh panko-breaded tilapia filets that need baking only for 18-20 minutes--they sounded like a possibility for one of the sandwiches in a Danish smørrebrød dinner for twelve that I am preparing for in June. This sister was not interested in fish, but we did fall for a package of 20 spinach-potato patties, frozen, that only needed heating in the oven.
Having made our first surveillance trip, we made our few purchases and drove back to our house. I got half the spinach-potato patties, individually wrapped, and stuffed them and a hand-written copy of the oven instructions in a freezer bag. For dinner that night Johannes and I enjoyed the baked tilapia (it is going to be perfect for that Danish stjerneskyd sandwich) with a potato patty and more vegetables. It was a treat. But the best treat is that I now live close enough to my sisters to be able to share the booty from occasional shopping trips to the warehouse stores.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Beginning Anew
It's been a week filled with comings and goings: a visit to the eye doctor, a late afternoon at the movies for Woman in Gold, meeting with out-of-town cousins for a supper visit, a day out for the symphony and lunch, and a Sisters' gathering for brunch, not to mention overdue trips to the grocery store, library, bank, and Ikea food shop. The weather has been changeable, too; some days sun, alternating with cold and rain showers, but there was only one day of really unpleasant rain, and thankfully I could stay home for that. The other times that I was out and about driving to the various appointments and errands, I relished the view of spring flowers and the greening of lawns and foliage. The daffodils are gone now, replaced by tulips and multitudes of flowering trees in white and pink. The lawns have turned from blah to light yellow-green and now to a rich, deep green, and the trees separating our neighborhood from the little commercial area to the south have sprouted blades so the view is no longer as stark as it was during the winter. Soon we won't be able to tell that there is anything but forest between us and the main road. I walked that area on Saturday during a quick trip to Walgreen's for the batteries I needed to get my mouse working again, and the weather was clear and fresh and sunny on the way out, though a few raindrops moved in by the time I had made my purchase. Today we drove west to our favorite superstore to get groceries and curtains for my office, deliberately taking the slower town road instead of the interstate so we could view the gardens along the way.
This afternoon we installed the curtains that I desperately need to shield my desk and computer from too much sun coming in through the venetian blinds on my south-facing window. Then I got energetic enough to put together a new floor lamp that I hope is going to encourage me to sit in an easy chair in my office to read, rather than relegating all my pleasure reading to the bedroom. I have been mindful since we moved in of the opportunity to reshape old habits, and I am attempting to define certain areas for certain types of reading. My reading is dependent on good light, and I now have several places in the house with good light, so I am reconsidering what I read where, both to foster the reading and to manage the clutter. I just might be able to keep the newspaper in the kitchen, I think, or failing that, on the dining room table, instead of spread over the living room couch or my bedside stand. I'm trying hard not to bring magazines and recipes and cookbooks into my office at all, as they will only get lost there. And I'm trying to keep work-related paper only in the office, not just to reduce chances of losing them throughout the house, but to reduce the encroachment of work into other aspects of my life. I am not forbidding myself the pleasure of reading in bed entirely, though--that would be a real hardship and counter productive for the imagination. But I am trying to limit the objects on my night table to one book and one tablet at a time. That is going to take some discipline. But new environments can help to form new habits.
This afternoon we installed the curtains that I desperately need to shield my desk and computer from too much sun coming in through the venetian blinds on my south-facing window. Then I got energetic enough to put together a new floor lamp that I hope is going to encourage me to sit in an easy chair in my office to read, rather than relegating all my pleasure reading to the bedroom. I have been mindful since we moved in of the opportunity to reshape old habits, and I am attempting to define certain areas for certain types of reading. My reading is dependent on good light, and I now have several places in the house with good light, so I am reconsidering what I read where, both to foster the reading and to manage the clutter. I just might be able to keep the newspaper in the kitchen, I think, or failing that, on the dining room table, instead of spread over the living room couch or my bedside stand. I'm trying hard not to bring magazines and recipes and cookbooks into my office at all, as they will only get lost there. And I'm trying to keep work-related paper only in the office, not just to reduce chances of losing them throughout the house, but to reduce the encroachment of work into other aspects of my life. I am not forbidding myself the pleasure of reading in bed entirely, though--that would be a real hardship and counter productive for the imagination. But I am trying to limit the objects on my night table to one book and one tablet at a time. That is going to take some discipline. But new environments can help to form new habits.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Taxing Times
This weekend I spent as I have done in the corresponding weekend for the past twelve years in Spain: I worked online to file my U.S. income taxes. No matter when we start to gather and sort through the papers and files--and we started several weeks ago this year--it seems as though they never get finished until the last weekend before the filing deadline.
Online filing in Spain was not an alternative--it was the only way to get taxes in on time. Now I can't think of any other way to file my taxes, so when I saw in the Ohio instructions that as first-year residents we were not allowed to use the Ohio tax filing website to submit our forms, I was flummoxed.
I solved the issue by using the same TaxFreeUSA software that I had been using for years to file the federal return. That service apparently is permitted to file online for first-year residents, as I have just received an email saying that our Ohio return, filed online this afternoon, has been accepted. It wasn't easy wrangling the software, though. Because we have only lived in Ohio since July, we had to file as partial year residents. No problem, except that we also had to enter the other state that we had lived in for the first half of the year. That's the other state, not the other country. España does not appear in the list of states.
We got through that hassle only with the assistance of an email to the Help desk, but we did get through it. I don't really understand the flow of the Ohio forms, so I relied on the software for guidance through the laborious data manipulations. In addition to the problem of partial year residence, there are the issues of business and retirement income sources. I hope the software is right, because when all the additions and subtractions and divisions had been done, we owed surprisingly little tax for our first six months here, and I felt that Ohio had welcomed us with open arms. I imagine I will have a different feeling next year.
Federal and state out of the way, I turned my attention to a new tax jurisdiction for me: my local municipal taxes. This turned out to be the surprise of a lifetime. I had already visited the tax office in late summer and paid in advance the amount that the official there estimated might be a logical amount that I would owe for the year. Well, paying was a lot easier than figuring out the forms! Again, the problem was in the partial year resident calculation formulas. After two attempts in two days, I gave up, and I'll drop in at the tax office some time between tomorrow and Wednesday to get the form filled out correctly, and also pay the first installment of estimated taxes for the business for next year.
I can now look back fondly to the time when I only had to fill out one income tax form--the federal. Now I have three! But except for some tips on new items for record-keeping, I will put the forms out of my mind for another 50 weeks, when the whole process should be easier, although probably more expensive.
Online filing in Spain was not an alternative--it was the only way to get taxes in on time. Now I can't think of any other way to file my taxes, so when I saw in the Ohio instructions that as first-year residents we were not allowed to use the Ohio tax filing website to submit our forms, I was flummoxed.
I solved the issue by using the same TaxFreeUSA software that I had been using for years to file the federal return. That service apparently is permitted to file online for first-year residents, as I have just received an email saying that our Ohio return, filed online this afternoon, has been accepted. It wasn't easy wrangling the software, though. Because we have only lived in Ohio since July, we had to file as partial year residents. No problem, except that we also had to enter the other state that we had lived in for the first half of the year. That's the other state, not the other country. España does not appear in the list of states.
We got through that hassle only with the assistance of an email to the Help desk, but we did get through it. I don't really understand the flow of the Ohio forms, so I relied on the software for guidance through the laborious data manipulations. In addition to the problem of partial year residence, there are the issues of business and retirement income sources. I hope the software is right, because when all the additions and subtractions and divisions had been done, we owed surprisingly little tax for our first six months here, and I felt that Ohio had welcomed us with open arms. I imagine I will have a different feeling next year.
Federal and state out of the way, I turned my attention to a new tax jurisdiction for me: my local municipal taxes. This turned out to be the surprise of a lifetime. I had already visited the tax office in late summer and paid in advance the amount that the official there estimated might be a logical amount that I would owe for the year. Well, paying was a lot easier than figuring out the forms! Again, the problem was in the partial year resident calculation formulas. After two attempts in two days, I gave up, and I'll drop in at the tax office some time between tomorrow and Wednesday to get the form filled out correctly, and also pay the first installment of estimated taxes for the business for next year.
I can now look back fondly to the time when I only had to fill out one income tax form--the federal. Now I have three! But except for some tips on new items for record-keeping, I will put the forms out of my mind for another 50 weeks, when the whole process should be easier, although probably more expensive.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Spring Changes
When I lived in Spain I wrote regularly around this time of the year about how spring had appeared and then disappeared again within the course of a few days or a week. This week I experienced the same thing in Cincinnati.
I knew I was being foolish last weekend, but on the basis of three days of feeling much too warm in my winter clothing in 70s-type weather, and because I had a large box clearly labelled "Spring Clothes" in my closet, I unpacked the box and found several items that I could be using right then. The trouble was, in order to find proper places for the spring clothing in my closet, I had to put away some of the winter clothes. No problem, I thought. I started by piling up the really warm long black socks and tights that had kept me comfortable for the past several weeks. Then I added the ultra warm sweaters and indoor jackets that I have accumulated over the years from Spain, Argentina, and Scandinavia. I hated to pack these away, because they are long-time favorites, but they not only looked but felt far too smothering in the sudden spring warmth. Then I got really foolish and added my array of turtlenecks and the warmer neck scarves to the put-away piles. I did not pack them up into the box that had recently held spring clothes and that was destined for the storage room in the basement. I'm not that dumb. I packed them into the large drawer under my bed, the one that can be rolled out only if I also move the night table away from the bed to give roll-out space.
Well, so far this week I've moved the night table twice to accommodate a sudden dip back to 39 degrees F. Now in my closet hangs an eclectic collection of short-sleeved shirts and even sleeveless sweaters, and the absolute warmest thing I own, a long sweater-jacket that I bought in the airport at Reykjavik, Iceland many years ago. I have my fleece-lined pants and fleece tops back as wear-around-the-house garb, and I'm facing the question each day of what can I put on that doesn't look wintry but still keeps me warm?
For the last several days we have had sun for a large part of each day and I have been too warm in my south-facing windowed office during the afternoon; but I had to step briskly because of the cold when I walked outside yesterday afternoon--which was the point of the exercise break anyway. I revel daily in the satisfaction of living in a location where I can "walk around the block" and actually accomplish some shopping, too. Yesterday I stopped at CVS for some toiletries and a neighborhood liquor store for a bottle of white vermouth that we like as a marinade for our fruit salad at lunchtime. And then as I rounded the last corner I noticed that the Mexican restaurant that we have yet to try advertises itself as not only a restaurant, but a bar, too, so theoretically we could eat out and enjoy a drink and not have to worry about driving home. Something to look forward to as the evenings stay light longer in the weeks to come.
Then this morning the ultimate sign of spring arrived. As we clicked in to the morning news from Denmark via the Internet, we received the welcome greeting that last night Europe had undergone its seasonal time change, which never occurs at exactly the same time as in the Americas. A joy to be officially in "summer time," and a settled feeling for me, knowing that once again we have "the proper" six hours difference between my friends in Denmark and Spain and my life here. The two periods of the year when we are out of sync with only a five-hour difference disorient me beyond all proportion, but six hours seems balanced and normal to me. With the time right, I know that regardless of what the weather is, we have changed seasons.
I knew I was being foolish last weekend, but on the basis of three days of feeling much too warm in my winter clothing in 70s-type weather, and because I had a large box clearly labelled "Spring Clothes" in my closet, I unpacked the box and found several items that I could be using right then. The trouble was, in order to find proper places for the spring clothing in my closet, I had to put away some of the winter clothes. No problem, I thought. I started by piling up the really warm long black socks and tights that had kept me comfortable for the past several weeks. Then I added the ultra warm sweaters and indoor jackets that I have accumulated over the years from Spain, Argentina, and Scandinavia. I hated to pack these away, because they are long-time favorites, but they not only looked but felt far too smothering in the sudden spring warmth. Then I got really foolish and added my array of turtlenecks and the warmer neck scarves to the put-away piles. I did not pack them up into the box that had recently held spring clothes and that was destined for the storage room in the basement. I'm not that dumb. I packed them into the large drawer under my bed, the one that can be rolled out only if I also move the night table away from the bed to give roll-out space.
Well, so far this week I've moved the night table twice to accommodate a sudden dip back to 39 degrees F. Now in my closet hangs an eclectic collection of short-sleeved shirts and even sleeveless sweaters, and the absolute warmest thing I own, a long sweater-jacket that I bought in the airport at Reykjavik, Iceland many years ago. I have my fleece-lined pants and fleece tops back as wear-around-the-house garb, and I'm facing the question each day of what can I put on that doesn't look wintry but still keeps me warm?
For the last several days we have had sun for a large part of each day and I have been too warm in my south-facing windowed office during the afternoon; but I had to step briskly because of the cold when I walked outside yesterday afternoon--which was the point of the exercise break anyway. I revel daily in the satisfaction of living in a location where I can "walk around the block" and actually accomplish some shopping, too. Yesterday I stopped at CVS for some toiletries and a neighborhood liquor store for a bottle of white vermouth that we like as a marinade for our fruit salad at lunchtime. And then as I rounded the last corner I noticed that the Mexican restaurant that we have yet to try advertises itself as not only a restaurant, but a bar, too, so theoretically we could eat out and enjoy a drink and not have to worry about driving home. Something to look forward to as the evenings stay light longer in the weeks to come.
Then this morning the ultimate sign of spring arrived. As we clicked in to the morning news from Denmark via the Internet, we received the welcome greeting that last night Europe had undergone its seasonal time change, which never occurs at exactly the same time as in the Americas. A joy to be officially in "summer time," and a settled feeling for me, knowing that once again we have "the proper" six hours difference between my friends in Denmark and Spain and my life here. The two periods of the year when we are out of sync with only a five-hour difference disorient me beyond all proportion, but six hours seems balanced and normal to me. With the time right, I know that regardless of what the weather is, we have changed seasons.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Hanging On
We had been coming through a very busy time. Just as we finished the major part of our move, we were hit by a series of social events--good things all, but in the sort of squeezed sequence that makes you wish you had a bit more control over the timing of so much goodness. But that's life, and we were hanging on and enjoying it.
We spent an interesting evening sampling an Indian dinner, won at a church benefit auction months ago. We entertained non-family visitors for the first time in our new house--the Scandinavian Scribblers from whom we receive stimulation to write and enjoyment from sharing experiences. We made it to the local cinema--on Senior Discount Day, no less--to see The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. We met a new group of people at the Torch Club of Cincinnati and heard an excellent overview of recent genetics research. We attended a Danish Dinner with talks about Piet Hein and Jørn Utzon, and samples of æbleskiver and homemade pumpernickel bread. I lead a book discussion on A Man Called Ove, by Fredrik Backman, at my new reading group, and I molded my mind to applying a developing knowledge of XML protocols to a web publication. We attended an evening lecture on current Alzheimer's disease research being conducted in Cincinnati and Lexington, Kentucky and I was contemplating whether I should offer myself as a subject for (I hope) a control group.
And then in the space of just one hour after a pleasant but uneventful lunch of green salad, mixed fruit, and working on the Word Game puzzle from the daily newspaper, it went from every-day routine to crisis. An emergency trip to the hospital, which we had remarked casually only days before was just 15 minutes away, never dreaming that we would need it so soon. A harrowing time as I saw my husband become faint, weaken, go into shock, and lose consciousness from acute internal bleeding. He revived slowly after IV fluids started dripping into his arm, but not before I realized with a conscious certainty that I had not experienced in awhile that I really was not ready quite yet to go into that next phase of my life alone.
He hung on through the night and through the corrective procedure the next morning, and then he hung on well enough through the day so that he was released from the hospital by supper time. And we are hanging on during this weekend, following doctors' instructions meticulously. And in all the days ahead I will try to hang on mindfully to that conscious awareness that I experienced during those few interminable hours of crisis, for the perspective it can provide when I am faced with irritations that should be small.
We spent an interesting evening sampling an Indian dinner, won at a church benefit auction months ago. We entertained non-family visitors for the first time in our new house--the Scandinavian Scribblers from whom we receive stimulation to write and enjoyment from sharing experiences. We made it to the local cinema--on Senior Discount Day, no less--to see The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. We met a new group of people at the Torch Club of Cincinnati and heard an excellent overview of recent genetics research. We attended a Danish Dinner with talks about Piet Hein and Jørn Utzon, and samples of æbleskiver and homemade pumpernickel bread. I lead a book discussion on A Man Called Ove, by Fredrik Backman, at my new reading group, and I molded my mind to applying a developing knowledge of XML protocols to a web publication. We attended an evening lecture on current Alzheimer's disease research being conducted in Cincinnati and Lexington, Kentucky and I was contemplating whether I should offer myself as a subject for (I hope) a control group.
And then in the space of just one hour after a pleasant but uneventful lunch of green salad, mixed fruit, and working on the Word Game puzzle from the daily newspaper, it went from every-day routine to crisis. An emergency trip to the hospital, which we had remarked casually only days before was just 15 minutes away, never dreaming that we would need it so soon. A harrowing time as I saw my husband become faint, weaken, go into shock, and lose consciousness from acute internal bleeding. He revived slowly after IV fluids started dripping into his arm, but not before I realized with a conscious certainty that I had not experienced in awhile that I really was not ready quite yet to go into that next phase of my life alone.
He hung on through the night and through the corrective procedure the next morning, and then he hung on well enough through the day so that he was released from the hospital by supper time. And we are hanging on during this weekend, following doctors' instructions meticulously. And in all the days ahead I will try to hang on mindfully to that conscious awareness that I experienced during those few interminable hours of crisis, for the perspective it can provide when I am faced with irritations that should be small.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Settling In
It's not quite four weeks since we moved furniture into our new house. and although we are not completely settled in, we are functional. Just yesterday we moved the last of the boxes that had been standing in that open area in the kitchen that I want to use for additional cabinets in the near future. These were the ones that got packed up the very last day (February 27) that we brought things over from the apartment: laundry supplies, because we continued to use the washer and dryer there throughout February, the few items that had languished in the dishwasher waiting for any additional ones that turned up in cleaning out, and the miscellaneous forgotten or odd-shaped things that were just the last to be transported.
We have assembled shelves and more shelves for the books, papers, and work area in my office, shelves with doors for the extra china and cutlery and serving dishes in the dining room, organizers for the clothes closets, new shelves for the pantry that had been turned into a wine cellar and then a laundry area by previous owners and now is returning to its original purpose, and a whole range of sturdy shelves in the windowless basement "study" that is going to serve us as a grand walk-in storage room to hold the still-unpacked boxes and out-of-season and seldom-used but essential items. Yes, we do intend to get it completely unpacked "soon," but at least for now it is organized.
We have also dealt with the aches and pains of adjusting to the mechanics of a new-to-you house. The first little problem was a leak on the basement concrete floor in the laundry/utility area, just beside the water heater. We have experienced a burst water heater once before in our lives, and we though we did not think this was an emergency yet, we didn't want it to become one. So we contacted the home warranty company--home warranty being a new type of insurance that we had never had previously in any of our houses. They told us the name of their authorized service partner to contact, and we did. Due to the unusually cold weather and the unprecedented number of calls, the authorized service partner never got back to us, so a week later, when the trickle of water was getting stronger, we contacted the warranty company again and got referred to another company. That service provider came the next day and fixed the water heater, without having to replace the whole thing, so we were lucky.
We didn't think we would be so lucky with the furnace. We had noticed that the gas-powered heater was surprisingly quiet at the beginning, and soon we noticed that--again with the unusually cold weather we were having (below zero Fahrenheit)--it was awfully cold in the house. When we lived in Spain I complained regularly about how cold it was in the house, but those houses were built without central heating. We were supposed to have central heat in this house! When we realized that the thermostat regularly indicated that the temperature was ten or more degrees below what we had set the thermostat for, we contacted the warranty company again.
The first diagnosis was the timer. Then the blower. Then a circuit board. Finally we had practically a new furnace and we spent a night in toasty warm, without having to turn on the small space heater that we had invested in during the cool days. And then we woke up the next morning to 55 degrees. Our frustrated call to the heating contractor went unanswered, but we left messages. Twice. A call came through that he was on his way, but two hours later he was still on his way. True, there was the unprecedented snow and bad road conditions that morning... When he did get here later in the morning last Thursday, the problem this time was a sensor. Now we have a really almost new heater, and now, several days later, the heat in our house has stabilized and we feel we have achieved some control over the thermostat. And the weather this week is supposed to warm up to human temperatures again.
This evening we have rearranged the living and dining room slightly in preparation for entertaining a dozen or so of our fellow "scribblers" from the Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati tomorrow. Our hosting this event is something we have long awaited and we are happy to have it now occurring in our new home. And we are especially happy that we can do it in a warm house.
We have assembled shelves and more shelves for the books, papers, and work area in my office, shelves with doors for the extra china and cutlery and serving dishes in the dining room, organizers for the clothes closets, new shelves for the pantry that had been turned into a wine cellar and then a laundry area by previous owners and now is returning to its original purpose, and a whole range of sturdy shelves in the windowless basement "study" that is going to serve us as a grand walk-in storage room to hold the still-unpacked boxes and out-of-season and seldom-used but essential items. Yes, we do intend to get it completely unpacked "soon," but at least for now it is organized.
We have also dealt with the aches and pains of adjusting to the mechanics of a new-to-you house. The first little problem was a leak on the basement concrete floor in the laundry/utility area, just beside the water heater. We have experienced a burst water heater once before in our lives, and we though we did not think this was an emergency yet, we didn't want it to become one. So we contacted the home warranty company--home warranty being a new type of insurance that we had never had previously in any of our houses. They told us the name of their authorized service partner to contact, and we did. Due to the unusually cold weather and the unprecedented number of calls, the authorized service partner never got back to us, so a week later, when the trickle of water was getting stronger, we contacted the warranty company again and got referred to another company. That service provider came the next day and fixed the water heater, without having to replace the whole thing, so we were lucky.
We didn't think we would be so lucky with the furnace. We had noticed that the gas-powered heater was surprisingly quiet at the beginning, and soon we noticed that--again with the unusually cold weather we were having (below zero Fahrenheit)--it was awfully cold in the house. When we lived in Spain I complained regularly about how cold it was in the house, but those houses were built without central heating. We were supposed to have central heat in this house! When we realized that the thermostat regularly indicated that the temperature was ten or more degrees below what we had set the thermostat for, we contacted the warranty company again.
The first diagnosis was the timer. Then the blower. Then a circuit board. Finally we had practically a new furnace and we spent a night in toasty warm, without having to turn on the small space heater that we had invested in during the cool days. And then we woke up the next morning to 55 degrees. Our frustrated call to the heating contractor went unanswered, but we left messages. Twice. A call came through that he was on his way, but two hours later he was still on his way. True, there was the unprecedented snow and bad road conditions that morning... When he did get here later in the morning last Thursday, the problem this time was a sensor. Now we have a really almost new heater, and now, several days later, the heat in our house has stabilized and we feel we have achieved some control over the thermostat. And the weather this week is supposed to warm up to human temperatures again.
This evening we have rearranged the living and dining room slightly in preparation for entertaining a dozen or so of our fellow "scribblers" from the Scandinavian Society of Cincinnati tomorrow. Our hosting this event is something we have long awaited and we are happy to have it now occurring in our new home. And we are especially happy that we can do it in a warm house.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Becoming Home
We arrived back in the U.S. just ten days ago, after two weeks in Spain packing up what I had thought would be relatively few belongings, getting that house ready to put on the market, doing lots of paperwork for our leave-taking from that country, and making a quick stopover in Denmark on the way back to celebrate Johannes' 75th birthday with good friends and family. Our final trip from Europe to the U.S. consisted of a flight from Copenhagen to Oslo, a long wait there, another flight from Oslo to JFK, an overnight and transfer there to LaGuardia, a flight to Atlanta and then on to Indianapolis, and then a rental car from Indianapolis for the two-hour drive to Cincinnati. Such are the connections that one lives with when reserving late and traveling in December.
We walked, on December 12, into a house nicely decorated for the fall, with autumn-weight clothing hanging in the closets, and a stack of mail higher than seemed possible--I thought everything went by email these days, but I am wrong. During the past week I have gotten through the mail, replenished the refrigerator and freezer, done three big loads of wash, put away the fall decorations and linens in the kitchen and dining room and replaced them with Christmas designs--most of which were newly purchased, because the ones I had sorted and sent home from Spain were not expected to arrive very soon.
Then, on Tuesday, we heard that our boxes had arrived. Twenty-one of them (the remaining two arrived the following day). The plan was to let them stay in my sister's garage until we were ready to unpack them--which would not be in the final week before Christmas. We did that, retrieving only two boxes: the one that I had designated to open early because it contained winter clothing, and the one that looked like it but did not contain the winter clothing.
This morning I packed away my fall clothes and replaced them with the winter clothing from the box. I also found a couple small treasures that I had stuck in between layers of soft material, candle holders that will add to the few Christmas decorations we have assembled. Then we went out to buy a few gifts and enjoy the winter solstice sun. I already have picked up much of the food I need to prepare the Christmas Eve dinner I am making for my family on Wednesday, but when I check the recipes again--the ones I picked out from a Danish magazine while flying across the Atlantic--I will undoubtedly have to make a couple more trips to the store.
I look forward to being able to make Christmas dinner for my family in my home for the first time in decades; I can't remember exactly the last time that all my sisters were together for the holiday, but it was in Florida when my parents were still alive. So this will be a unique occasion. Even next year will be different, because then, in all likelihood, we will be celebrating not in our temporary apartment, but in the condo that we entered into a contract to purchase on Tuesday this week. I'm not saying much about that yet, for fear something may go wrong, but if all goes as planned, we will have a very busy couple of months in the new year.
The twenty-one boxes in my sister's garage will stay there until they are moved to the new condo. But this is becoming home and we are home for the holidays. I hope all my readers are home for the holidays as well, whether physically or in mind and spirit.
We walked, on December 12, into a house nicely decorated for the fall, with autumn-weight clothing hanging in the closets, and a stack of mail higher than seemed possible--I thought everything went by email these days, but I am wrong. During the past week I have gotten through the mail, replenished the refrigerator and freezer, done three big loads of wash, put away the fall decorations and linens in the kitchen and dining room and replaced them with Christmas designs--most of which were newly purchased, because the ones I had sorted and sent home from Spain were not expected to arrive very soon.
Then, on Tuesday, we heard that our boxes had arrived. Twenty-one of them (the remaining two arrived the following day). The plan was to let them stay in my sister's garage until we were ready to unpack them--which would not be in the final week before Christmas. We did that, retrieving only two boxes: the one that I had designated to open early because it contained winter clothing, and the one that looked like it but did not contain the winter clothing.
 |
| This pre-lit Christmas tree seems to be a little defective, and Guapa says it is not her fault! |
I look forward to being able to make Christmas dinner for my family in my home for the first time in decades; I can't remember exactly the last time that all my sisters were together for the holiday, but it was in Florida when my parents were still alive. So this will be a unique occasion. Even next year will be different, because then, in all likelihood, we will be celebrating not in our temporary apartment, but in the condo that we entered into a contract to purchase on Tuesday this week. I'm not saying much about that yet, for fear something may go wrong, but if all goes as planned, we will have a very busy couple of months in the new year.
The twenty-one boxes in my sister's garage will stay there until they are moved to the new condo. But this is becoming home and we are home for the holidays. I hope all my readers are home for the holidays as well, whether physically or in mind and spirit.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Living in Two Worlds / Viviendo en Dos Mundos
That is what I wrote about for my last OLLI Spanish class of the fall season:
Estoy viviendo en dos mundos. Una
parte está en EE.UU. , donde assisto a
las últimas clases de OLLI, buscamos una casa para comprar, trabajo con mi empresa
en Connecticut, y visito a mi familia alrededor en Cincinnati. Otra parte planea
nuestro viaje a España el domingo que viene, arreglando citas con amigos
americanos allí para el Día de Dar Gracias, reuniones con el club de lectores, juegos
de petanca con los daneses, visitas a mis amigos y a mi profesora de español, y
las tareas de preparar a vender la casa. Es dificil vivir en dos lugares cuando
ambos son tan atractivos.
I am living in two worlds. One part of me is in the United States, where I am attending the final OLLI classes, we are looking for a house to buy, I work with my job in Connecticut, and visit my family around Cincinnati. The other part is planning our trip to Spain this coming Sunday, arranging appointments with American friends there for Thanksgiving, meetings with my book group, petanca games with the Danes, visits to friends and my Spanish teacher, and the tasks involved in getting the house ready to sell. It is difficult to live in two places when both are so attractive.
Now as I write this on Saturday, "this coming Sunday" is tomorrow and the balance has shifted to the other side. We have done our final purchases of gifts and supplies to take with us, I have done the final laundry--not that we are taking many clothes--we have kitty-proofed the house and talked with my sister who will become Guapa's best friend for the next four weeks, I have done a good job of using up those items in the freezer and refrigerator that I do not want to face again when I come back, I have finished reading the book for book club next week and arranged for its return to the library, and we have picked up the rental car that we will use to drive to the airport and drop there tomorrow morning. All that remains is packing the suitcases and making sure I have everything I need for the trip. It should be simple, since we have a full house over there and are taking little, and I have been collecting things and making notes for a couple weeks. But it's the part of the job that I always hate. So I had better get to it.
If time and mind permit in the next few weeks, I will be posting my thoughts at my original blog, Sundays in Spain.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
That Time Again
Readers of my previous blog Sundays in Spain know about my obsession with the biannual changing of the clocks. I am not so much opposed to the changing of time once in the spring and again in the fall as I am frustrated by the inability of Europe and the United States to do it at the same time each year. They both do it at 2:00 AM on a Sunday morning; it's just that the particular Sunday they choose to do it is not the same Sunday.
This year Europe changed from what I know of as "summer time" to "winter time" a week before the U.S. changed from Daylight Savings Time to Standard Time. I got my first inkling about ten days ago, when I registered in advance for a webinar that was being hosted in London this past week. The registration website had a button that I could click to find out the timing of the webinar in my local time zone. I know that there are normally five hours' difference between the U.K. and U.S. Eastern time but that the U.K. does not change to summer time (I guess Greenwich Mean Time is Greenwich Mean Time, is GMT, is GMT forever.) The website showed four hours' difference between webinar origin time and my point of reception. Oh dear! I should check that, I said to myself, but there is time to do it closer to the webinar date. I wrote it down on my calendar for the earliest possible start time.
Then later I got emails from friends in Spain and Denmark commenting on the impending dark evenings because the clocks were changing, and I knew I should be changing my mental calculation of the normal six hours' difference between Europe and here to the odd five hours' difference. I tried to explain this week to a group of people (those in my Spanish class, as it happens) that I get a little unsettled every year when this happens because it upsets the normal symmetry of my life: it is so much easier to calculate the time difference when one slides the hour hand on a primitive non-digital clock face straight across from 9:00 to 3:00, for example, or 12:00 to 6:00, or 1:00 to 7:00 than it is to move at the oblique angle that represents five hours' difference. Not to mention the change to my very deeply internalized body clock that I think adjusted to U.S. Eastern time when I was born in Ohio and, in spite of many layered adjustments through the years, still reacts to Eastern time as "real time." I don't think I was very successful at conveying this illogical but very deep-seated feeling to the other students, except for one fellow student who I believe is from Germany, who told me after the class that she understood perfectly, and shared my frustration that both continents do not change at the same time.
Happily for me, North American clocks changed from Daylight Savings to Standard time early this morning--one of us was awake to watch the time jump from 1:59 to 1:00 on the iPad. For the first time in ten years--maybe twelve--I experienced the change from EDT to EST in person. My internal clock is once again based in the right zone, and in symmetry.
This year Europe changed from what I know of as "summer time" to "winter time" a week before the U.S. changed from Daylight Savings Time to Standard Time. I got my first inkling about ten days ago, when I registered in advance for a webinar that was being hosted in London this past week. The registration website had a button that I could click to find out the timing of the webinar in my local time zone. I know that there are normally five hours' difference between the U.K. and U.S. Eastern time but that the U.K. does not change to summer time (I guess Greenwich Mean Time is Greenwich Mean Time, is GMT, is GMT forever.) The website showed four hours' difference between webinar origin time and my point of reception. Oh dear! I should check that, I said to myself, but there is time to do it closer to the webinar date. I wrote it down on my calendar for the earliest possible start time.
Then later I got emails from friends in Spain and Denmark commenting on the impending dark evenings because the clocks were changing, and I knew I should be changing my mental calculation of the normal six hours' difference between Europe and here to the odd five hours' difference. I tried to explain this week to a group of people (those in my Spanish class, as it happens) that I get a little unsettled every year when this happens because it upsets the normal symmetry of my life: it is so much easier to calculate the time difference when one slides the hour hand on a primitive non-digital clock face straight across from 9:00 to 3:00, for example, or 12:00 to 6:00, or 1:00 to 7:00 than it is to move at the oblique angle that represents five hours' difference. Not to mention the change to my very deeply internalized body clock that I think adjusted to U.S. Eastern time when I was born in Ohio and, in spite of many layered adjustments through the years, still reacts to Eastern time as "real time." I don't think I was very successful at conveying this illogical but very deep-seated feeling to the other students, except for one fellow student who I believe is from Germany, who told me after the class that she understood perfectly, and shared my frustration that both continents do not change at the same time.
Happily for me, North American clocks changed from Daylight Savings to Standard time early this morning--one of us was awake to watch the time jump from 1:59 to 1:00 on the iPad. For the first time in ten years--maybe twelve--I experienced the change from EDT to EST in person. My internal clock is once again based in the right zone, and in symmetry.
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