Stuff Left Beside The Road

Parking in Chicago following the February 2011 blizzard.

The inside of my vehicle is a disaster of major proportions. This is not in reference to some bizarre after market add-ons or manufacturer’s design whim. It is about my accumulated stuff. I often joke to wary-eyed friends, who have the misfortune to ride with me, that there is probably a family of Gypsies hidden away somewhere in the back to whom I offered a ride at some point in the past and they became lost in the mix.

Why the mess?

Remember, I am old, ugly, and live alone. Each day when I arrive home from wherever, I have several “bags” of whatever to carry up three floors to my condo. (It is a walkup building.)

I can only handle so much and in my waning years rue making the journey more than once. So, unless you are fortunate to have a spot in one of the many bags which make it upstairs, you wind up remaining in the vehicle.

Things begin to accumulate.

There are changes of clothes that we discarded over the past sailing seasons that never made it back into the closet of my home. There are coats abandoned after the surprise of a 70 degree day. There are books that were taken along in the hopes that there might be 30 or 40 minutes to read while waiting for my turn at whatever. And there is the influx of paper lovingly called the mail – most especially catalogs from Orvis and Land’s End. And yes, shoes. Often, a single shoe mysteriously separated from its mate by the circumstances of life.

The appearance of an odd shoe always brings to mind Louise Day.

To the residents of Tallapoosa County - that area of Central Alabama which is home to Alexander City and Dadeville and the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, Louise Day is a major celebrity. Mrs. Day is long gone from the scene, but is still remembered. She had a fifteen minute radio shoe, although it might have been longer, which aired each day in and around the noon hour. It was aptly called “Dayly (daily) Doings.”

The content of the program offered little insight on burning issues, unless there was a brush fire that had caught her eye on the drive to the radio station or a fire truck had forced her to pull aside. Her commentary was less biting. In her sincerity, however, there was a treasure trove. Her listeners were loyal and most generally amused by the “doing” that would occupy her interest on any given day.

One of the most amusing involved her finding a man’s dress shoe alongside Highway 280. It was not so dramatic as a pair of sneakers held together by their joined shoelaces and flung aloft over the power lines.

It was a single black shoe in relative good condition. It was obviously, to her, an unintended roadside deposit, since there was no mate about.

She was very worried that the shoe had fallen from an open window of a speeding car rushing to an important appointment - perhaps an interview, or a court appearance, or “heaven forbid, an important ceremony of life.” The physics of the situation escaped any logic. Perhaps the shoe had fallen out from an opened door when the car made a stop to check a noise from a tire. Did the owner of the shoe have a bad bunion and had removed it for some relief on a long trip? Was he headed to Florida for a wedding?

She reasoned that since it was a Florsheim brand, the owner might not have other pairs to rely upon as backup since that brand was “high end” for most pockets. If the owner was a country preacher she was certain the family budget was woefully strained. But, she reasoned that most country preachers were more Tom McAn than Florsheim.

The shoe had some wear, but still a lot of useful steps ahead.

Did a child toss the shoe from the car – bored from the trip and rummaging about unseen by the parents? Would they be able to question the child soon enough to discover along which mile the leather missile became airborne?

Her most reluctant scenario involved a shoe tossed out by an angry wife. No discussion centered on how the shoe was wrestled from the left foot by a woman sitting on the right – assuming that the husband (or lover) was seated in the passenger seat adjacent. In that day, there was never a mention of a same-sex coupling. That topic would be left for post- 2000 politics.

This was also a time before the cultural phenomena of “shoefiti” or shoe tossing. And poor Mrs. Day had no idea what a “crack house” was.

But what to do about the shoe?

Should the shoe be left undisturbed beside the road in the event the owner returned or should it be retrieved and a note left at the scene? Milo Ferguson’s prediction called for rain and you know what happens with leather and water.

People, you have to think these things through very carefully.

Mrs. Day opted to retrieve the shoe, but had the Secretary at the Flint Hill Methodist Church mimeograph some flyers which she left tacked to telephone posts and in the window of Gus Holly’s Standard Station. She reasoned that people who owned Florsheim shoes would stop there instead of the Save-a-Stop.

However, during the broadcast, she rethought that decision and would include the Save-a-Stop since they sold food items and people traveling sometimes opt to shop on the road instead of packing a cooler. Besides, some coolers leak. This would be very much the case if the owner had left on his journey at the last minute – not the leaking but the packing of the cooler. Perhaps the death of a relative would have prompted a coolerless venture.

So she planned to post one in the window there as well. I am sure you missed that segue in the broadcast. All in all, she printed 25 flyers.

FOUND, MAN’S BLACK FLORSHEIM SHOE, SIZE 11-D. CONTACT LOUISE DAY! Verify you are the owner by telling me the right or left. (Directions on how to contact the finder followed.)

I didn’t hear any follow-up broadcast related to a reunion of 11-D and the left foot to which it belonged. The next time I heard Mrs. Day, she was discussing a brilliant display of spirea vanhouttei that she had seen in Flora Robinson’s front yard. She reasoned that if Flora could ever conquer her crabgrass problem, she might win “Lawn of the Month” based upon the richness of her spirea and the large Japanese Magnolia which always caught her eye as she passed.

Chicago has had a brutal winter and I would love to see something blooming catch my eye, but that won’t happen for some time, despite Punxutawney Phil’s prediction. Then it will not be a glorious spirea but a crocus or a daffodil that had the courage to believe, much like the children watching Peter Pan. (Think Tinkerbell!)

Instead, to catch the eye we have a motley collection of chairs, boxes, and boards left beside the roadway to stake a claim on a shoveled parking space. This following the dumping of over 20 inches of snow during a recent blizzard.

Snow is a burden for man and beast here. The recent storm which had snow falling at multiple inches per hour and wind gusts of over 60 miles per hour forced 1,000 plus cars to be stuck on Lake Shore Drive. The accumulation also inundated on-street parking in every neighborhood in the city. Cars were burrowed much like a February groundhog.

People with shovels appeared to inaugurate Chicago’s most honorable time of the year.

It goes like this.

After a major snow, those who own a vehicle parked on the street take several hours and considerable energy to shovel it out so that it may be driven. Once a vehicle has been extricated, the person who removed the white stuff reserves the cleaned spot by placing some object to signify ownership of an otherwise public space. Cheap resin lawn chairs are the most popular, followed by plastic egg crates. TV trays are very popular. Telescoping tubular metal chairs are also a big hit. One guy, who obviously works in home repair, used a collection of empty white splackling buckets. I have seen several decent looking swivel desk chairs. I saw a set of upholstered dining chairs which gave me pause. I guess it is a matter of priorities and availability. I have seen two ironing boards – one standing upright and another inverted.

You can either have a place to park or you can have wrinkle-free pants, but not both.

Amazingly, a city known for its rough and tumble manners and aggressive drivers honors the “reserved parking” debris. Sadly, much of the debris remains unclaimed long after the snow has melted. Honor only goes so far.

As for a better option, I would think that a couple of stackable orange traffic cones would work and could be stored in the trunk of the vehicle – unless, of course, it is my trunk in which case you would have to remove the Gypsy family.

It has gotten me to thinking about the stuff left along the highway of life. Missed opportunities. Failed endeavors. Relationships.

And a black Florsheim shoe, man’s 11-D.

An Interesting Anniversary

November 14 marked the one-year anniversary of FOMS blogging by this elder ranter. I was amazed to realize that there were 50 entries in the span of the year, 51 total to date. Almost one entry per week.

This is number 52.

Why?

What has it all meant?

The blog began as a test for another project. Many of my friends are aware of my interests in social outreach in Eastern Europe - specifically, work with the Roma children in Romania. In discussing with those of like mind on how to get people excited with the programs in place, I was advised to write a blog about the work.

What is a blog? (While I had heard the term, I had no idea of its meaning.)

You know, a lot has changed in the language since Miss Eula’s typing class back in the dark ages. At that point, we had just moved beyond the stone tablet and chisel and adopted Smith-Corona into our language. This is years before Al Gore invented the internet.

The blog was explained and FOMS soon became a “test run” for the website that dealt with the work in Romania.

A year later and this blog has become a regular part of my life. I continue to test the concept. It is something I enjoy on most days. I say this because there has been some guilt when the muse is elusive. Especially so when one of your followers sends a message to “get off your duff and write!”

Guilt comes easy to me. It is a Baptist and a Mom thing!

There are many unfinished entries languishing on my hard drive. Some faltered because of waning interest. Others due to finding the right language to properly treat the theme. And yes, there was some indolence at play from time to time.

So what provides the fodder? What prompts the outpouring of verbiage?

Some days it is just waking up to life. Remember, I am old, ugly, and live alone!

Sometimes a look in the mirror can send you rushing to Microsoft Word.

Often it is the morning news.

There is the ongoing disappointment and frustration with our nation’s political life. As recently as yesterday when Senator Kyl announced his wish to delay consideration of the nuclear arms treaty with Russia is an apt example. Senator, are you just really dumb? Does your wish to see President Obama fail outweigh any sensibility?

Obviously so! (To both!)

The whole mid-term election process put me in a sorry state. But I did get laughs regularly from Sarah P - an accident waiting to happen. The girl just can’t help it! She really believes she is “presidential.” I imagine she sees Bristol teaching ballroom dancing in the East Room becoming a cottage industry, “gosh darn it.” And if Washington is hit by another major snowstorm, First Dude can just do the “Iditarod Thing” and fetch milk. An “unreal” show at 1600 PA.

There is always the chance that Oprah will donate something with her name attached in all caps. My prayers for her to discover anonymous altruism are ongoing.

And there is always my family to reflect upon.

Ah family! We’ve all got them!

Memories of my parents have been important to blogging. Anytime someone’s response to “where did I come from” is, “we found you in a hollow log,” you have lots of unaddressed angst upon which to ponder. And yes, I am still working through it.

There is the whole “being born in Mississippi thing” as well. You couple that with the discovery that your best childhood playmate, George, was paid by the hour to be there. Miss Scarlett, let’s just think about that tomorrow, ok?

Stuff in Alabama is always good for a musing. There is much to consider about life among the kudzu. You don’t grow up among circling buzzards without some foreboding.

Blogging as therapy? The jury is still out.

Chicago, especially the traffic, is always tugging to be talked about. So look out, it will happen again. Along with that will be city manners. On some days in the Windy City they are contradictory terms.

Sailing stories will invariably creep in. There is a lot of wisdom to be gained on a sailboat. Some from good company, a lot from dealing with nature. Mariners refer to a “safe harbor” for a reason.

But what has been the most satisfying about blogging?

The joy of writing about the Little Ones – my grandchildren.

I find myself living vicariously through them and yes; I am having the time of my life. My only worry is about living long enough to snatch the three from their parents and take them on a journey to foreign lands. Ten or so more years should do it. Back to rehab on Friday!

It is amazing how many axioms for living spill from such tiny people.

On Halloween, the oldest – the four-year old in Dallas – dressed as Superman for “trick or treating.” The costume was lined with “foam muscles” to give the look of the Man of Steel. When my grandson would try to relax in a chair, the foam would bunch up around his neck causing great discomfort – almost choking him.

“Granddaddy, you can’t sit down when you are Superman!”

Out of the mouths of babes!

Happy Anniversary to us all! Anyone up for “podcasting?”

An Old Box Of Accreted Stuff

I am sitting in the early morning quietness of the house in Alabama. There is only the sound of ceiling fans and some crickets – they are actively chattering. The rooster from the distant neighbor has yet to decide to announce the dawn. I should be asleep, but instead I am awake with the sounds of my thoughts. They are a bit louder than usual this morning.

I am considering a phrase from one of The Dream Songs of John Berryman: “sometimes in the dark of night I am forced to perform operations of great delicacy upon myself.” Ok, this blog may get a bit heavy – be forewarned!

I flew down to Alabama on Tuesday and arrived, as you may already know, without my luggage. It has since been reunited with me and that has eased some tensions with my person and the world outside. Visits to Alabama are always tense only because it brings together two worlds that sometimes feel to me like polar opposites. I want to belong to both and would like that to be a seamless merge. However, there are lifestyles and emotions which make the merge more difficult.

I read a column by Dick Cavett in the New York Times. I am not always a fan of Cavett. I find him to be very “full of himself.” However, I was drawn to the column today by the mention of Arthur Godfrey in the online pitch. Arthur is distinctly tied to my past and my life in Alabama since it was to see him that my father decided to broach the world of television one Monday of my childhood.

But I am not thinking about Arthur Godfrey but of a bit of wording Cavett used in his column. I was struck by the phrase, “an old box of accreted stuff.”

It is an apt description of my life: “an old box of accreted stuff.”

It is most appropriate in the concrete since my visits to Alabama often mean looking through photos and documents that are stowed in various drawers and closets of the house there. Just last night I was looking at photos that will remain forever a mystery since my only link to their identity was my parents – both now gone. Who are these people? What is my debt to them?

It is also appropriate in the abstract, since thoughts, memories, directions are shaped by the “stuff” of our past. Alabama often jars me; jostles my equilibrium.

This has been a weekend of reunions – you might even say it has been about being re-united with extremes.

The easiest was, of course, the visit from my son and his family. Remember this means time with the youngest of the “Little ones” – the granddaughter who is now two. I had not seen them since February.

When she was told she was going on a trip. She immediately thought she was going to Bethlehem since her concept of a journey involved a donkey and Mary and Joseph. Her book of The Christmas Story is one of her favorites, the other being Curious George. Talk about extremes.

Her father hastened to remind her that this journey was to see her Granddaddy, not the Baby Jesus. The only donkey that would be involved would be at the zoo on Friday. I know what you are thinking - do not even go there!

It has been fun to watch her become acquainted with the Alabama house; roaming through its spaces, beginning to form her own memories. I have even attempted to begin a toy chest for her.

The beginnings of her accreted stuff.

Even as I did I remembered the toy chest in the ill-used attic of my grandfather’s house in Mississippi. There was a drum and an old bugle. There was other stuff that has escaped my memory, but I recall the trek upstairs on each visit.

It is generational. My son discovered toys from his childhood tucked away in the back of the closet of the Alabama house and began sharing them with the little one.

I visited with my sister and her family. We recalled the past often. - remembered stories of our parents.

I lunched with friends from my college days on Friday. Most I had not seen in over 45 years. Time has been good for some; less so for others. I am probably in the “less so” group since I recently had a birthday that was so significant it frightened me. My looks in the mirror each morning reveal an old man.

The reunion was a congenial gathering: thirty or so people who had a shared admiration of a particular professor. One or two seemed ill at ease. The rest of us just laughed it off at the time. But this morning, their discomfort has become part of the “box of stuff.” It is an eye opener to discover that there are old acquaintances – yes, old girlfriends – who requested to be seated as far away as possible. And to think, I was looking forward to catching up on details of lives that had diverged. But instead, I encountered a wall of obvious awkwardness. I was not a cad in college, I promise.

I had thought of returning to a brunch today, but I remember the wisdom of my purple-haired mother. “Don’t impose yourself, it is bad manners.”

I have always regarded myself as inconspicuous on the horizon of life, even shy.

Of the thirty-six or so present, only one or two would be uncomfortable, but that is enough to make me think that my time would be best spent with my granddaughter.

Her box of accreted stuff is relatively empty.

Growing old is no fun! The body sometimes aches and the mind oftentimes does a lot of dissecting. However, if you think about it, the other alternative has far more serious ramifications.