Cleaned to Death

Photo by Alexander Isreb on Pexels

It’s new! It’s popular! It’s from Sweden!

 

Nope, not IKEA, not this time.

 

It’s the latest craze, “Swedish Death Cleaning.” Does sound somewhat morbid, but have you ever watched an Ingmar Bergman movie? So much brooding! The Swedes are NOT the jolliest of souls (I know, there’s ABBA, but they are the exception to the rule. Stick with me). It stands to reason that this method would be both a practical pursuit, and a nifty way of keeping the Grim Reaper top of mind. 

 

Basically, you go through your worldly goods and sort/donate/pitch ruthlessly. When you’re done, you are left with an extremely pared-down existence, so that some distant day, when you shuffle off this mortal coil, your offspring will have almost nothing to deal with, as far as your belongings go. 

 

How I wish it had been a thing back when my mom was alive! Joanie would rather have died than cleaned, ever, but she was programmed to do whatever Oprah suggested. Maybe she would have been inspired to purge those decades of Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal, those 47 decorative pillows, that rusty sconce! 

 

Instead, my sister Carolyn (while Mom was moving from Atlanta after Dad died), had to surreptitiously cart TONS of useless stuff to the dumpster. Mom moved up to Philly in 1994, and was here for the last 12 years of her life, which was ample time to amass just about the same volume of flotsam and jetsam as had been tossed down in Georgia. When Joanie passed away in 2006, we had to get rid of another dumpster-full of her possessions. It was hellacious, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

 

Looking around, we are ripe for a good clear-out, and what better time than the dead (haha) of winter to accomplish this chore? I truly don’t want my kids having to dispatch the contents of our house someday after we’re gone—it’d be much too much for the poor darlings, who will already be struggling with their bottomless grief!! 

So out it will all go! We can manage just fine with bare-bones living: bookshelves with no books, closets and dresser drawers without clothes, no photos, no artwork, no pesky mementos. After our joint funeral (what, you think I’m going to croak without dragging Steve with me?), it’ll take the children about 10 minutes, tops, to get our abode all ready to sell. They can then return to THEIR chock-full dwellings, which in turn they will have to empty out well before THEIR expected demise. It’s a macabre type of “paying it forward”!

 

I do need to approach this methodically, though. After all, what’s taken us decades to accumulate, ain’t gonna disappear overnight.  As I mentally prepare to discard every single material thing I’ve ever held dear, just to spare my spoiled progeny from lifting a finger, what I really need are lots of sturdy containers to temporarily store everything, before Death Cleaning Day.

 

I think IKEA has just what I’m looking for. 

Mwah!

  

Sher and Yaj at their wedding. Aren't they adorable?

 

 

We humans put an awful lot of stock in kisses, don’t we? Letters are sealed with lipsticky kisses, there’s the legendary Kissing Bandit, there’s KISS (the legendary band), and of course the delectable Hershey’s kisses. And we’re not alone. Certain species of birds are known to give each other a fond peck from time to time. Even among the plants: there’s an amazing natural phenomenon called inosculation, from the Latin osculare (kiss), when two trees, a weaker and a stronger, “embrace”, and remain connected, to save the weaker one’s life. It’s really a lovely sight.

 

 

I love this!!

 

I’ve never (that I can recall) been kissed under the mistletoe. But I have been kissed at sunrise, in the moonlight, on the beach…most of these smooches, I hasten to add, courtesy of Steve. Indeed, I still remember our very first embrace, in my parents’ driveway after an early date (The Way We Were, that sentimental Streisand-Redford classic; we were quite logically swept away by the passionate onscreen romance of Katie and Hubbell.) 

And the celebrant’s “you may kiss the bride” is a beautiful culmination of most wedding ceremonies. Hooray for kisses, right? 

 

But I’ve come to have mixed emotions about them. For one thing, I firmly believe that adult family members should always ASK kiddos for a kiss/hug (as opposed to demanding one). My late, rather unlamented Pop Cunningham was one to tickle (and tickle, and tickle) my sisters and me, ignoring our breathless entreaties to stop. As a small child, I was often commanded to bestow a kiss on the wrinkled and overly powdered visage of my Nana’s spinster school teacher friend Retta O’Brien, and I dreaded it (I’m guessing Retta didn’t much like it either). 

 

However, I am a fan of the very stylish European “air kiss,” that delicate, two-sided gesture, where each person puckers up in the recipient’s general direction. The air kiss says, “Bonjour! Here we are, acknowledging each other’s presence with the added benefit of zero lip contact!” But I’m somewhat hesitant to try air kissing here in the USA, because it seems a little snobby. 

 

So on I go, hugging rather too generously, kissing only a bit more sparingly. Inevitably, my greeting partner is doing the opposite, and there we are, one of us extending their hand for a friendly shake, while the other is simultaneously planting a big wet smack on an unsuspecting cheek. An awkward silence always follows, and then upon parting the roles are usually reversed, with the kisser now a determined shaker, and the shaker now an abashed kisser. Can’t we all just escape from this Hell???

 

I have a modest proposal.

 

Let’s agree to reserve the kiss for certain special times, places and people. We do NOT have to pucker up for every random person in our lives. This way, the kiss can remain the sign of genuine affection it was always meant to be. 

 

But if I suddenly kiss you out of the blue, beware. I am either Judas, or a Corleone. 

Aging in Place

Look at that confident smile! 

Steve is almost eight years my senior, so living with him is like getting a daily sneak preview of my mid-70s. He still hikes and bikes, drives long distances at night, in the rain, without eyeglasses, and has no issue climbing ladders to reach platters in the kitchen, or clean out the gutters outdoors. Whew!! I guess I don’t have anything to worry about!!

Except.

 

My hiking is slow and infrequent.

My biking is nonexistent.

Dark, rainy roadways? I have a tough enough time driving with spectacles on, in bright midday sunshine.

I’ve never met a ladder that didn’t utterly terrify me.

 

So I may have a few things to worry about after all.

 

We don’t discuss our final living arrangements often (by that I mean LIVING arrangements. I think we’re cool on the burial/cremation front). When we do, we contemplate buying a small house at the Delaware shore, or an apartment in the city—but then we look at the sky-high price tags on even teensy places, and realize we’d only be able to afford one if we cut out all of our budget luxuries (food, heat, electricity). And those 55+ retirement communities are not, we think, for us. We much prefer a wider range of ages in our neighbors (though I guess it would be fun to be the youngsters on the block).

 

At least for the foreseeable future, we’ll probably stick it out here. We are blessed indeed to have Sher, Yaj and the boys with us--they are hugely helpful in a million ways--and so far the house itself is still quite manageable. But there will come a day when the steep flights of stairs become problematic…oh, wait. They already are, at least for me, as I creak slowly and arthritically up and down. Hubby is creak-free, relatively speaking (he can also still kneel in church without agony. Show off.) 

 

I’ve been daydreaming about a few home improvements that would make aging in place much easier. How about a device that gives you a wee little electric shock every time you enter a room, immediately reminding you what you are in there for? Or a talking refrigerator that gives you a constantly updated inventory of its contents: “Hey, hey! We already HAVE enough yogurt!! Do NOT buy five more tubs!” Then there could be his-and-hers remotes for the TV. Every time Stevo flipped to SportsCenter, I could counter with a flip over to something else (anything else). It would be a fun and competitive game to liven up our evenings! 

 

Self-mopping floors, perma-dusted furniture, trash cans that wheel themselves to the curb--I have a million ideas! 

 

For now, though, we’ll have to make do with our imperfect “retirement home.” And as I carry another laundry basket slowly and carefully upstairs, I’ll remember that at least I’m not scrubbing the clothes on a washboard in a little house on the prairie, and I’ll say a prayer of thanks.

 

A sitting, not a kneeling down, prayer. 

It's us! (someday soon)

Patience is a Virtue (That I Do Not Possess)

Photo by Jared Rice on Unsplash

I have never (ever) thought of myself as a patient person, and I assumed my husband was a kindred spirit. In some aspects of life, his fuse is quite short. But when it comes to life’s most important waiting, Stevo is a pro. He is willing to drive his loved ones anywhere, at anytime, even at midnight, or when there is bumper-to-bumper traffic. When I was working at church, he was my Right Hand Guy, ever-patiently loading and unloading, setting up, cleaning up—whatever needed to be done.   

So perhaps it shouldn’t be a shock to learn that Steve has no issue with the inordinate amount of waiting around involved in film work. When he returns home after a day-long shoot, I get so agitated hearing about the incessant delays and retakes on set that I need to walk out of the room to compose myself. OMG! I cannot fathom having the patience to make it to Take #20 of that beer commercial, or to stay calm and collected as filming stretches hours past the projected end point.   

No, hubby sees the cup as half-full (of coffee), and the plate as super-full (of the ridiculous breakfast/lunch spreads put out for cast and crew.) Indeed, it has been his habit to post pictures of the studio table piled high with donuts, bagels and hoagies, as if he’s at the buffet on a fun cruise, rather than fueling to endure the malfunctioning cameras, the endlessly re-adjusted lighting, the actors’ flubbed lines. I would require oysters, caviar and champagne to soothe my soul in those situations (and even then!)   

I understand that tedium and perfectionism are the nature of making movies and TV. For example, David Lynch’s Eraserhead took almost six years to make. Animated features are even worse. Toy Story required 27 animators, five years and a staggering 25,000 story boards. My son-in-law has an animation studio in NYC, and I have no clue how Gil keeps his cool. I know I’d be slapping everything together in a couple of hours, muttering, “that’s good enough!”   

I always thought that Patience would kick in at some point in my life. I’m still waiting (impatiently). If I had to suffer through my children learning to tie their shoes (I was tempted to buy them Velcro sneakers for college, just to avoid this ordeal), why couldn’t I do so while serenely humming Mister Rogers’ classic “Let’s Think of Something to Do While We’re Waiting?” Why did I always have Khachaturian’s frantic “Sabre Dance” pounding in my brain instead? Surely the mellowing of age would help? Nope! At this rate I will go to my grave thinking, “Oh good grief! Let’s get this funeral OVER with!”  

Steve has taught me much over the 46 years of our marriage, and I’m still learning from The Master. But I fear he’s met his match in this department. So, no thank you, Greta Gerwig! Much as I’d love to star in the Barbie sequel, you’re just too darned slow!

Training to Be Brave

My train of thought! (photo by Aris on Unsplash)

When Steve and I were touring throughout the Northeast doing children’s theatre in 1979, Steve drove nearly every day—especially in the snow and ice. I was never an enthusiastic driver, so I was happy to let him take us everywhere in our trusty little Chevette. After the tour, we settled in Philly. Sadly, my fear of driving in bad weather had morphed into terror of driving in any weather. Steve remained the chauffeur, even for a one-mile drive to Acme. I was disappointed in myself, but not disappointed enough to hit the highway on my own. 

Then, during a performance, I fell onstage, breaking my wrist. My arm in a cast, suddenly I was even more dependent on Steve than before. My friend Lisa was living in New Orleans. She had invited me down to visit, and I really wanted to go. But how? Flights were beyond our budget, and of course driving was out of the question. I’d always enjoyed train travel, and the Southern Crescent ran between the cities; still, I couldn’t imagine getting to Louisiana by myself.

 

Steve was encouraging, though, and deep down I knew it would be good for me. So, filled with trepidation, off I went. After boarding, I managed to hoist my suitcase onto the rack overhead.  Little victory! When it was time for lunch, I made my way to the dining car, and was even able to cut my food without help. The miles flew by, as the scenery changed from urban to rural and headed deeper and deeper South. I figured out how to read a book comfortably enough, and enjoyed looking out the train window. Several passengers spoke pleasantly to me, and they offered assistance. I found myself thanking them, but telling them that I was fine. And, surprisingly, I was.

 

Finally, the train arrived in New Orleans, 30 hours after departure. During that week with Lisa, I did a lot of sightseeing, listened to great jazz and zydeco, and ate amazing Creole and Cajun food. Every day, I felt more capable and independent. 

 

The long ride home gave me lots of time to think, and I came to a decision. I was fed up with letting my fears about driving dictate my life. If I could make this journey with only one usable arm, I could drive again--just as soon as the cast came off. 

 

Sure enough, a few weeks later I was back behind the wheel, on surface streets at first, but then tackling the challenging Lincoln Drive and Schuylkill Expressway. Steve had never once complained about being my eternally designated driver, but I know he was glad and relieved to see me on the road again.

 

It took 60 hours, and over 2000 miles, to shift my thinking. Whatever that ticket cost, it has paid for itself many times over. I got off that train a much braver person, and, 44 years later, I’m still in the driver’s seat of my car—and my life.