Christmas holiday is approaching too quickly. So much is keeping me busy, yet so little has any connection to Christmas. That can be a good thing - I'll be spending the holiday with my Sam, so I'm not putting up a tree or going to great lengths for Christmas decorations...lack of money this year doesn't allow for that any way. The weather forecasts that I've heard so far tell of a brown Christmas...that's ok, too, but not for the kids. I heard on the radio some days ago, perhaps it was Dick Gordon's 'The Story' on NPR, about Santa Claus experiences. It brought to mind on year when I played Santa in the Cherrypoint Mall, Sturgeon Bay Wisconsin.
I was unemployed and the season was looking dreary with a tight job market and no positive responses to my resumes. One of the volunteers from my previous job was the manager of the local mall. Bob called me and asked if I would want the paid job of his mall Santa. I don't remember if it was for one week or two, but it was a job and I was thinking of the fun that could evolve. The current Santa had been showing up under the influence of alcohol or wasn't dependable - I don't really remember. When I appeared for my first stint and donned the flimsy, velour suit, it was evident that I didn't need extra padding. As I pulled the beard and moustache over my face I had second thoughts. All the disinfectant spray in the world never removed the sense of disgusting residue from the netted backing of the beard around my mouth.
I took my place on Santa's 'throne' and waited for the first child who still believed in what Santa represented, or even Santa himself. I had rehearsed in my head how to answer children without really promising what they requested. Having worked with families who often existed day to day, I was not working under the assumption that their Christmas dinner, decorations, or gifts would be plentiful. Also, that people who didn't lack money would be taking their kids to a 'real' Santa at one of the upscaled northern Door County businesses that catered to tourists.
An adult woman approached with three children. The youngest was a typical visit, the oldest talked with me and asked for some help for his younger brother, the middle child. Looking for help from the adult, I found that she was the foster mom to the three. She told me they were here visiting me/Santa to see if I could talk ith the youngster, 6 or 7 years old, and encourage him to positive behavior. The boy came and sat on my lap. I asked what had been happening and his older brother said that the boy on my lap had killed a pet while chasing it with a shovel. He then chased the youngest child with a shovel, trying ti hit him. Quite a request for Santa. I talked quietly with him and later talked with an acquaintance at the area Social Services. They were aware of the circumstances.
'Are you a lady?' asked a little girl. She nodded yes when I confirmed her suspicions and asked if she was ok with that. Perhaps that was some of the Christmas magic. A few children later, a girl, about nine years of age said she and her family had just moved. Having learned never to assume anything and keeping the conversation open, I learned that they were living out of boxes in someone's basement. She was worried that Santa wouldn't find her.
I tried to play a little safe even in the decorations and tree area, having been told by several that they couldn't afford a tree that year. On boy, there with his grandmother, asked Santa to keep his Daddy safe. He was in the Iraq war. His mommy, he said, was in the hospital with cancer. 'Santa, could you pray for them?' I told him we could pray right then, which we did.
At one point during my Santa stint I was feeling particularly low....the number of Santas in tv shows who were degenerates, drunks, lonely old men who looked older than they actually were, taking jobs as department store Santas to be able to buy one more bottle of gin! Wow, except for the gender and alcohol, I felt like something from an old movie! There was humor in the time that the mall janitor left early, locking my purse, car and house keys and street clothes in the closet where I changed. I called a friend who picked me up and drove me home...then waited while Santa climbed through a side window to get into the house. Fortunately, no one saw me; or, if they did, it remained their story to tell!
As to feeling depressed or too much like an out of work failure, my friend Randy Warner, brought me to grateful tears as he encouraged me that I was in a perfect place over the Christmas season - kids, people, of all ages came to share their hurts and secrets with Santa. And adults as well as children did come and talk; there is something so safe and emotionally freeing in talking to Santa - whoever is inside the red and white costume. Randy reminded me that as people let go of their hurts to Santa, I could take all of it and offer prayers, then and there, either with them or quietly, privately, and lift them all, and their very specific needs, in prayer. Who else would be given such gifts over such a precious season!? Hugs to you, Randy Warner!
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
PORCH LIFE
a few steps removed
Normally, when a newspaper reports a shooting, I read the article and can only imagine what the victim’s family is experiencing. The closest I had been to a violent death was in the mid-60s, the murder/suicide by an uncle by marriage and his two young children.
My experience on Wednesday, September 26 and on the following days determined that my observations would never again be far removed. Gunshots fired at 6:30 initiated the progression of a very long week at the corner of Fourth and Bates. From the continuous activity at the De’Koda Mar’ta Galtney memorial, to attending De’Koda’s wake and funeral service, I was more emotionally involved than I could ever have imagined. Through those several days I was blessed to briefly talk with, and exchange hugs with De’Koda’s mom, sisters, and others who lost, in De’Koda’s passing, a brother, nephew, friend, son, father. In this point of reference, the only thing that matters is that a loved one passed from this life; only that hearts are breaking and people are hurting.
Over the week and a half, I observed and heard a gamut of emotions. Some neighbors contributed food and kind words to the mourners. What disturbed me was the extreme other end of the gamut - the anger. Not anger focused on losing someone, or toward the murderer, but the anger that lashed out wildly and the more pent up anger that whined as if trying to escape from a tiny hole. - anger that came from a few people keeping vigil at the memorial and from a few people who live in the many blocks in this lower Dayton’s Bluff area. Anger, a normal emotion and feeling we sometimes encounter as we work through grief and other difficult situations. How long and how tightly we carry it , though, can destroy us and others. Words spoken in anger can cause damage long after being spoken. Words meant to intimidate or carry threats can create distrust in friends and acquaintances. What is the source of this anger? Where might it take root?
Inner anger and grief nagged me for days before I could finally identify the reasons behind my own emotions. Yes, I grieved for De’Koda’s family and friends. My heart cried every night for the young men and women across the street from my porch. I grieved for the god-uncle who came early Sunday to find the memorial in ashes. Alone on the porch, late into the night and into early mornings, I prayed silently and I sang praise songs aloud. At other times, friends came silently onto the porch just to be with me. It helped to talk through what I was seeing and feeling. But it didn’t take away the ache or the anger. I felt so useless in what I could do. Even now, tears flow.
Much of this culminated on Sunday evening as Chanelle and her and De’Koda’s precious baby. Charitie, visited on my porch with two friends and me. Seeing Chanelle and then my friend hold little Charitee solidified the concept of ‘community’ and its sometimes delicate balance.
I know a few other people may find offense with my approach or framing of these past days. Some may revert to social judgments, condemnations and stereotypes of fatherless children, lives of crime, and related spiels. This isn’t the place. This is the time and place when we ask, ‘What does a community response to such a tragedy look like?’ and ‘Who is the community?’ I hope that this could be the start of a dialogue that builds stronger relationships within a community - within a city.
(note to self: expand on this)
sage holben/originally written for Dayton's Bluff Forum, 11/2011
a few steps removed
Normally, when a newspaper reports a shooting, I read the article and can only imagine what the victim’s family is experiencing. The closest I had been to a violent death was in the mid-60s, the murder/suicide by an uncle by marriage and his two young children.
My experience on Wednesday, September 26 and on the following days determined that my observations would never again be far removed. Gunshots fired at 6:30 initiated the progression of a very long week at the corner of Fourth and Bates. From the continuous activity at the De’Koda Mar’ta Galtney memorial, to attending De’Koda’s wake and funeral service, I was more emotionally involved than I could ever have imagined. Through those several days I was blessed to briefly talk with, and exchange hugs with De’Koda’s mom, sisters, and others who lost, in De’Koda’s passing, a brother, nephew, friend, son, father. In this point of reference, the only thing that matters is that a loved one passed from this life; only that hearts are breaking and people are hurting.
Over the week and a half, I observed and heard a gamut of emotions. Some neighbors contributed food and kind words to the mourners. What disturbed me was the extreme other end of the gamut - the anger. Not anger focused on losing someone, or toward the murderer, but the anger that lashed out wildly and the more pent up anger that whined as if trying to escape from a tiny hole. - anger that came from a few people keeping vigil at the memorial and from a few people who live in the many blocks in this lower Dayton’s Bluff area. Anger, a normal emotion and feeling we sometimes encounter as we work through grief and other difficult situations. How long and how tightly we carry it , though, can destroy us and others. Words spoken in anger can cause damage long after being spoken. Words meant to intimidate or carry threats can create distrust in friends and acquaintances. What is the source of this anger? Where might it take root?
Inner anger and grief nagged me for days before I could finally identify the reasons behind my own emotions. Yes, I grieved for De’Koda’s family and friends. My heart cried every night for the young men and women across the street from my porch. I grieved for the god-uncle who came early Sunday to find the memorial in ashes. Alone on the porch, late into the night and into early mornings, I prayed silently and I sang praise songs aloud. At other times, friends came silently onto the porch just to be with me. It helped to talk through what I was seeing and feeling. But it didn’t take away the ache or the anger. I felt so useless in what I could do. Even now, tears flow.
Much of this culminated on Sunday evening as Chanelle and her and De’Koda’s precious baby. Charitie, visited on my porch with two friends and me. Seeing Chanelle and then my friend hold little Charitee solidified the concept of ‘community’ and its sometimes delicate balance.
I know a few other people may find offense with my approach or framing of these past days. Some may revert to social judgments, condemnations and stereotypes of fatherless children, lives of crime, and related spiels. This isn’t the place. This is the time and place when we ask, ‘What does a community response to such a tragedy look like?’ and ‘Who is the community?’ I hope that this could be the start of a dialogue that builds stronger relationships within a community - within a city.
(note to self: expand on this)
sage holben/originally written for Dayton's Bluff Forum, 11/2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Rhythm From My Porch
The Rhythm from my porch
Tire low of air, flap, flap, flap…does the driver realize he’s almost
on the rim?
A ball game played in my neighbor’s yard…I’m half asleep on the porch,
listening to a metal clang…the bat? A metal plate used as a base? The rhythm
plays like music in its own way. I recognize Mario’s echoing laughter, and I
smile…laughter with a real, a full joy in it. I hear Jose’s voice…a rather
humorous lilt in how he makes his pronouncements…
A group of wrens, massed around
a ‘puddle’ of seeds fallen from a tree; they move almost as one, from the
driveway apron to the drive, and then to the lilac bushes, flowers shed so long
ago. As if prompted by the influx of wrens, a cardinal bursts from the bushes
to a neighboring tree...one rhythmic note affecting the other.
“F….him, I said, mother f’er….”, I heard the words, followed by laughter, words I
can’t understand – is it a dialect, is it lazy speech, is it just that I don’t
want to hear it…my cold eyes hold no power if the speakers don’t make eye contact
with me. The raw, unwelcomed cursing is oddly rhythmic…its own music…is it?
Slap, slap, slap; rap, rap, rap; basketballs and rap music, both
hitting the sidewalk. Rhythmic, too, are the glances….”Don’t look, Sage’ my 12
year old neighbor whispers to me. He’s Blood; don’t look.’ This, too, is a
warning oft repeated to me. He’s Crypt, he’s Blood, He’s an 18…don’t do it,
Sage.
You’re gay; am not; sure you are; laughter; some tension; the message
not spoken now reveals who has been ripping on who today. You are, so I’m not.
A day’s rhythm is coming to its end on the porch. Kids are gathering, feeling safe to say what
they wouldn’t on the street. We talk about ‘gay’. “You’ve met my son; he’s gay.
You like him. You respect him. What’s different?
Karen boys bike by; chattering in a language we don’t understand. Marco
mocks the unknown under his breath. Hey, I tell him, how was it when you came
here and didn’t speak English? Did people mock your Spanish? How did you feel?
The form of our conversation takes up a familiar rhythm, we’ve had it before
about Hmong language and culture. It’s a rhythm that becomes, sadly, almost
comfortable.
Weed wackers, lawn mowers, people calling to each other. Motors
revving, missing mufflers, roaring motorcycles; planes in a no-fly zone,
dismiss any shred of conversation. Wait.
A scooter’s whirrrrrr; a Rainbow shopping cart, rumbles down the hill,
child propelling child; in the background a car horn out of control, but in
perfect rhythm.
And then, one Saturday morning, the world regains briefly, the rhythm
of only birds, the sipping of early morning coffee, and the quiet turning of a
book’s pages. I’m alone with my own rhythm.
9/2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Book review: Neighborhood Law by Cora Jordan and Emily Doskow
Neighbor Law: Fences, Trees, Boundaries & Noise… by Cora Jordan Attorney
This review was written for LibraryThing Early Reviewers.People and situations not being perfect, NEIGHBOR LAW: Fences, Trees, Boundaries & Noise, by Attorneys Cora Jordan and Emily Doskow, offers real solutions to common problems. The substance of the book doesn’t become stifled or diluted because of varying state or city laws. Doskow and Jordan offer common sense, step by step advice in logical sequence with practical, easily applied examples of letters and conversations. The appendixes and Index provide state and legal resources, with a web site for updates. If friendly dialogue and attempted resolution doesn’t work, the reader is taken to the next level with suggestions of what statutes, laws, or legal contacts or actions might help.
I serve on the board of my district community council board, and attend the monthly community meetings where residents bring problems that range from noise, disintegrating retaining walls, and junk cars, to meth labs, guns, and vandalized vacant houses. Very few attempted resolutions seem to have started with a civil conversation. I realize that sometimes fear is an uninvited guest, and all too often, it’s not clear in some neighborhoods who actually lives, owns, or is responsible for a house, especially a rental which a German bank owns.
Given all that, I very highly recommend Neighbor Law as a reference handbook for any community group, neighborhood mediator, or just easy, helpful reading to be a more informed, understanding, and proactive resident.
State statutes, general laws, common sense guidelines and reasonable use guidelines are offered for various situations and disputes , including unclear boundary lines, overhanging trees, animal issues, ‘attractive’ nuisances, fences, and noisy neighbors. When things go too far, there is a section on restoring relations. Whether you live in a bungalow on Primrose Lane, a McMansion in Andover, a farm in Forest Lake, or you are one of 300 apartment units on McKnight, you are someone’s neighbor - buy the book and first read the tips on building community.
Now, please excuse me, I really need to read the section on secondhand smoke.
Thank you, Cora Jordan and Emily Doskow, for helping maintain a higher quality of neighborhood life!
sh 6/11/11 (
)Thursday, June 2, 2011
processing thoughts on this:
What could my mother have taught me; what would I have wanted her to teach me? Just thinking of that this morning, for some unknown reason.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
A few bits and pieces
I have no idea how anyone could be bored or have 'nothing to do'. I would at first say that it's especially living in St. Paul, or as Sam would know, living in NYC. But even when I lived in Iowa, unemployed at first and knowing absolutely no one, once fixing a schedule to keep me sane, I could always find something to do.
I have an occasional downstairs neighbor who comments 'do you EVER sleep?' Well, yes, but have you ever been in bed, sometimes awaken with a great idea and just have to start putting it into place?
The last few months have been very busy. I was thinking I'd have a few quiet months before summer, but not so. I have learned so much about the St. Paul city CIB program; I'll write the process I've learned in a different blog. It went from something with many attached misconceptions on my part, to quickly writing a proposal, to seeing how the community task force works, to planning a neighborhood workshop so other people have the information I didn't.
Neighborhood kids have visited more this winter than last; I've learned more about bicycles than I ever thought I would; the girls want a mostly girls summer. I don't know - girls are so high maintenance. Boys can be a little bit crude at times, but they are so much easier going.
I have been away from Door County for way too long and need to visit very soon. My brakes need work and I need a little money to do that.
I need to visit with Aunt Cleo. I miss her. I need to at least call soon. I need to write more letters to everyone.
Thursday evening, Murphy, four now? said we need to do some street clean-up. I had been thinking that too, Murph. So Friday I picked up a rake and some garbage bags. From almost 6pm to about 9, Kari, Kate, Murph, Abigail, Alma, Francisco, Jesus, Sam, Jose, KayLynn (sp) Jeff and I raked, swept, scooped and picked up. We filled, what, six big garbage bags and 12 big orange city bags. When the street sweepers come in a week or two, their job will be so much easier and less waste will enter the sewer to the Mississippi. I was achy, but it felt so satisfying.
Then Kate's brother and uncle had grilled ribs and chicken for a nice late supper, and a visit with Kate, Mel, Jill and some wine...a nice evening.
The next day, Saturday, was the City DFL endorsing convention. I couldn't get the kids to go. I thought they might enjoy it. I've always loved the DFL process. This morning I kept my apheresis appointment, but the nurse said she nicked the vein, tried to move it around, but the clotting had already begun; tried another vein, couldn't get any saline in. The bruise is forming, and none of us thought to go to a one-needle apheresis instead of my usual two. I'll make another appointment when the bruise heals. It did open two hours for me this morning. I went to Byerly's for lemon ricotta pancakes...lovely.
I have an occasional downstairs neighbor who comments 'do you EVER sleep?' Well, yes, but have you ever been in bed, sometimes awaken with a great idea and just have to start putting it into place?
The last few months have been very busy. I was thinking I'd have a few quiet months before summer, but not so. I have learned so much about the St. Paul city CIB program; I'll write the process I've learned in a different blog. It went from something with many attached misconceptions on my part, to quickly writing a proposal, to seeing how the community task force works, to planning a neighborhood workshop so other people have the information I didn't.
Neighborhood kids have visited more this winter than last; I've learned more about bicycles than I ever thought I would; the girls want a mostly girls summer. I don't know - girls are so high maintenance. Boys can be a little bit crude at times, but they are so much easier going.
I have been away from Door County for way too long and need to visit very soon. My brakes need work and I need a little money to do that.
I need to visit with Aunt Cleo. I miss her. I need to at least call soon. I need to write more letters to everyone.
Thursday evening, Murphy, four now? said we need to do some street clean-up. I had been thinking that too, Murph. So Friday I picked up a rake and some garbage bags. From almost 6pm to about 9, Kari, Kate, Murph, Abigail, Alma, Francisco, Jesus, Sam, Jose, KayLynn (sp) Jeff and I raked, swept, scooped and picked up. We filled, what, six big garbage bags and 12 big orange city bags. When the street sweepers come in a week or two, their job will be so much easier and less waste will enter the sewer to the Mississippi. I was achy, but it felt so satisfying.
Then Kate's brother and uncle had grilled ribs and chicken for a nice late supper, and a visit with Kate, Mel, Jill and some wine...a nice evening.
The next day, Saturday, was the City DFL endorsing convention. I couldn't get the kids to go. I thought they might enjoy it. I've always loved the DFL process. This morning I kept my apheresis appointment, but the nurse said she nicked the vein, tried to move it around, but the clotting had already begun; tried another vein, couldn't get any saline in. The bruise is forming, and none of us thought to go to a one-needle apheresis instead of my usual two. I'll make another appointment when the bruise heals. It did open two hours for me this morning. I went to Byerly's for lemon ricotta pancakes...lovely.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
OW! to a sore thumb and to customer service
I am so looking forward to a quiet Saturday - write some letters, research contacts for community events. In the meantime, I'm nursing a sore thumb, waiting for a doctor appointment tomorrow. This past Saturday, I had stopped to pick up coffee at a drive-thru. Two newspaper stands/boxes were set up for customers as they approach the window. My Metro sits low, so I am reaching up a bit - put in my quarters for the Saturday Minneapolis Star Tribune, pulled the handle up and reached in to get my paper. WHAM! Down came the front of the box, the edge hitting my wrist. Someone either had not secured the top latch on filling the box that morning, or someone else had broken into the money box and broken the latch.
My left hand was still in there, trying to get my paper - and WHAM! It came down again. I shoved the front up again (the newspaper door to pull out one paper opens from the bottom, but the larger front, to fill the box, and/or to empty the money box, apparently comes forward, also, hinged at the bottom).
Third time, WHAM! The front came down. This is heavy metal...and this time, I was fighting so hard with two hands to get this heavy metal door of my hand, that I started moving forward. In line to reach the window, I foolishly had not put the car in park - it's always been so easy to deposit my money and get my paper. Now, not only my wrist had been slammed again, but as I inched forward, my thumb got jammed between the door and the box base, and wouldn't pull out as I went forward. Big OW!
Working for the state, I'm accustomed to incident reports, so I went inside and told the shift manager what had happened. She nervously gave me information for their insurance company and the manager's name and store phone number. She said she would contact the Star Tribune and let them know of the problem with the box.
By the end of the day, my thumb was hard, swollen and bruised. It looked very much like a very fat, firm sausage, even with the ice I applied. Amazingly, it didn't hurt...until Monday. Still it was swollen, so I called the 24-hour nurse line for my insurance. I soon started regretting my Open Enrollment switch from Blue Cross/Blue Shield to Health Partners. The nurse line was fine. I wondered it I should wait and let the thumb play itself out. She said I should have it checked because of my health issues. She transferred me and I made an appoint to go to Como Health Partners because my clinic had no openings. An hour or so later I left work for my appointment. My cell rang on the way over, and as is my habit, I didn't answer it while driving. I checked my messages when I arrived - 'We're sorry, the doctor we scheduled you with does not see injuries. You can reschedule or go to urgent care.' I walked into the clinic and found there is no center desk for questions/directions. One can go to the pharmacy, radiology, OB and whatever is on that one area.
I went back to the vestibule with the door opening and closing, and spent several minutes on the phone, calling people inside the building! When I asked about urgent care and the cost, the person said O, yes, your insurance will cover everything. I replied how unusual that would be, so might I take her words as a contract. Then she said she wasn't really able to answer that and transferred me to one more automated call. All day long with Health Partners I was given to automated voices...I finally hung up and went back to work.
I called the Minneapolis Star Tribune and could get one person who transferred me and with that call and two others, never spoke with a human. I left two messages, one with Star Tribune Public Relations and one with 'one copy service' and Thank You, Mpls Star Tribune, for never returning my call. Thank you, Health Partners, for not answering my 'contact us' comment on your website. Thank you, poor customer service everywhere!!!
I did get a person today when I called the Wabasha clinic and I do have an appointment for tomorrow. Maybe by tomorrow I'll be able to bend my thumb and it won't be prickly or throbbing.
My left hand was still in there, trying to get my paper - and WHAM! It came down again. I shoved the front up again (the newspaper door to pull out one paper opens from the bottom, but the larger front, to fill the box, and/or to empty the money box, apparently comes forward, also, hinged at the bottom).
Third time, WHAM! The front came down. This is heavy metal...and this time, I was fighting so hard with two hands to get this heavy metal door of my hand, that I started moving forward. In line to reach the window, I foolishly had not put the car in park - it's always been so easy to deposit my money and get my paper. Now, not only my wrist had been slammed again, but as I inched forward, my thumb got jammed between the door and the box base, and wouldn't pull out as I went forward. Big OW!
Working for the state, I'm accustomed to incident reports, so I went inside and told the shift manager what had happened. She nervously gave me information for their insurance company and the manager's name and store phone number. She said she would contact the Star Tribune and let them know of the problem with the box.
By the end of the day, my thumb was hard, swollen and bruised. It looked very much like a very fat, firm sausage, even with the ice I applied. Amazingly, it didn't hurt...until Monday. Still it was swollen, so I called the 24-hour nurse line for my insurance. I soon started regretting my Open Enrollment switch from Blue Cross/Blue Shield to Health Partners. The nurse line was fine. I wondered it I should wait and let the thumb play itself out. She said I should have it checked because of my health issues. She transferred me and I made an appoint to go to Como Health Partners because my clinic had no openings. An hour or so later I left work for my appointment. My cell rang on the way over, and as is my habit, I didn't answer it while driving. I checked my messages when I arrived - 'We're sorry, the doctor we scheduled you with does not see injuries. You can reschedule or go to urgent care.' I walked into the clinic and found there is no center desk for questions/directions. One can go to the pharmacy, radiology, OB and whatever is on that one area.
I went back to the vestibule with the door opening and closing, and spent several minutes on the phone, calling people inside the building! When I asked about urgent care and the cost, the person said O, yes, your insurance will cover everything. I replied how unusual that would be, so might I take her words as a contract. Then she said she wasn't really able to answer that and transferred me to one more automated call. All day long with Health Partners I was given to automated voices...I finally hung up and went back to work.
I called the Minneapolis Star Tribune and could get one person who transferred me and with that call and two others, never spoke with a human. I left two messages, one with Star Tribune Public Relations and one with 'one copy service' and Thank You, Mpls Star Tribune, for never returning my call. Thank you, Health Partners, for not answering my 'contact us' comment on your website. Thank you, poor customer service everywhere!!!
I did get a person today when I called the Wabasha clinic and I do have an appointment for tomorrow. Maybe by tomorrow I'll be able to bend my thumb and it won't be prickly or throbbing.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Second Christmas and minimizing at its best
Wow, I can't believe how long it's been since I've posted. A couple weeks ago I picked up Sam's celebration of 'Second Christmas'. Normally meant to be held on January 25, I had to do it a couple days early because of a DFL SD67 meeting. The idea is to recycle: as a potluck, food is to be leftovers, truly pot luck! The party-giver offers items s/he wants people to take home as they leave (the secret there, is to sure a lot of the attendees are YOUNG and not of the age where they are already thinning their own possessions!
Over the last few months, I had been collecting items from around the house and stashing them aside. Not one of them spoke to me to 'take me back!' Pottery, china, collectibles, jewelry was all arrayed with colorful bows and packaging...and no leftovers came back in! I have another several bags/boxes to deliver to the local thrift store (where all proceeds support a no-kill animal shelter which also gives free exams to strays.) Tommy - fomerly known as 'Duluth Bob' - had the pleasure of Animal Ark's assistance...otherwise, I don't think he could have stayed here.
It's been wonderfully freeing to pack up so many items that once had given me enjoyment and even served a purpose, but now can go on to a second, third, or fourth life. I just don't have the patience to market items on Craigslist or E-Bay. Animal Ark is a worthwhile endeavor.
I dropped some items off last week at a Goodwill store and stopped in to see what frames they might have. I didn't purchase anything, and left the store laughing. Several of the Second Christmas items were 70s Avon glassware pieces. On the shelves at Goodwill were FIVE of the blue George Washington cobalt goblet I put out; and then I saw an Avon covered butterdish I gave away years ago (well not the same one, of course). A friend of Sam once commented something to the effect that an item that may have cost $200 off the store shelf depreciates to $5 at the local thrift store. SO right!
Over the last few months, I had been collecting items from around the house and stashing them aside. Not one of them spoke to me to 'take me back!' Pottery, china, collectibles, jewelry was all arrayed with colorful bows and packaging...and no leftovers came back in! I have another several bags/boxes to deliver to the local thrift store (where all proceeds support a no-kill animal shelter which also gives free exams to strays.) Tommy - fomerly known as 'Duluth Bob' - had the pleasure of Animal Ark's assistance...otherwise, I don't think he could have stayed here.
It's been wonderfully freeing to pack up so many items that once had given me enjoyment and even served a purpose, but now can go on to a second, third, or fourth life. I just don't have the patience to market items on Craigslist or E-Bay. Animal Ark is a worthwhile endeavor.
I dropped some items off last week at a Goodwill store and stopped in to see what frames they might have. I didn't purchase anything, and left the store laughing. Several of the Second Christmas items were 70s Avon glassware pieces. On the shelves at Goodwill were FIVE of the blue George Washington cobalt goblet I put out; and then I saw an Avon covered butterdish I gave away years ago (well not the same one, of course). A friend of Sam once commented something to the effect that an item that may have cost $200 off the store shelf depreciates to $5 at the local thrift store. SO right!
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