Bob Frysinger, my wife's brother, spoke eloquently at his father's memorial. Some of what he said comes to mind in these first days after my mother's death.
"I thought I knew him. He was one of two people that I had the most intimate of relationships with as I was growing up. But when you look at the arc of a life, especially one that spans nearly a century, I realized that my memories start at perhaps 5 and by the time I was 16 I was going off to Westtown to board, then I went to college, then I got married and moved away. There was perhaps 10 years of really paying attention and knowing him and that constitutes perhaps a little bit more than 10% of his life."
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| 1983 - with crossword puzzle |
Born Carol Elizabeth in 1918, my mother was the daughter of David Richie, a Quaker from New Jersey, and Edith Russell, a Quaker from Ohio. What was it like to be the daughter of these two loving but fairly stern parents? A childhood in the midst of the Great Depression, frugality was hammered into a guiding principle. I'm certain there was joy in this childhood but I heard more about what one didn't do, didn't say, couldn't afford.
She was a younger sister to a brother and a sister. How was it to follow in the footsteps of two attractive, bright, successful siblings? She loved them dearly but I think she always felt she didn't do as well.
She was a student at Westtown Boarding School, most likely a conscientious but average student. There she formed friendships that lasted her lifetime. She maintained a "round robin" letter chain with these friends for decades, for as long as they were able. I know she was a valued friend to some.
In 1945 she married Russell Tuttle. He was fatherless from the age of nine, raised by his widowed mother, prep school and college educated, a conscientious objector to the war. They met at a Civilian Public Service camp where he served his country during the war. I think they were genuinely happily married for 67 years. I never saw them fight, almost never heard them raise their voices to each other. I always thought he held a few more cards, that she was somewhat subservient, but such were the times. I will never know just how it felt to be his wife.
In 1947 she had her first of four children and became a parent. I know she did the best she could to raise us "right" using the primary model she was given, the way she was raised. She took the role of disciplinarian, scolding and spanking us when she thought needed, all the while hearing her mother's voice saying she was far too lenient.
She worked for the American Friends Service Committee in her twenties and later in life. I think she was a competent, reliable employee and a convivial workmate. She enjoyed her work life but I just know about small fragments.
And so to others she was a daughter, a sister, a student, a wife, a friend, an employee, a workmate and combinations of these things. But she was Mom to me.
I was a stay-at-home dad and tried my best to nurture despite roles cast by our culture. But when my children were hurt, when they were sick, when they needed comfort I understood it was Mom they wanted. It was Mom they needed. I understood because there is something about moms.
I remember being carried into a doctor's office or sitting together in a waiting room. I remember being held in a lap and hugs and kisses to make it all better. I remember a cool wash cloth wiped across a fevered brow; light fingers rubbing my back; a lullaby singing me to sleep. I remember hot soup brought on a tray to my bed, stories read aloud, and soothing words in the middle of the night. I remember the softness of Mom.
This is the loss I feel; a loving soul who cared for me.
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| Inner Voice Extraction Kit $89.99 |
Before I get into my business plan let's first talk about the problem I'm trying to address with this product. Being a typical fellow I'll use myself as a case study. And it is my own search for relief that brought forth the idea; that necessity/mother of invention thing.
I have a voice in my head that talks constantly. If I'm awake, he's talking. Round-the-clock, twenty-four seven, incessant, never ending blathering. Wake in the morning and he starts before my feet hit the ground. Can't even get my coffee first. Step out on a fine summer's eve and he says "Wow! Beautiful sunset!". Well, yeah, duh. Doesn't he know I'm standing right here looking at it? As a matter of fact I saw it first. So there it is, I have my very own play-by-play announcer. Walking about the world is like I'm in kindergarten where the teacher has written labels on things to help me learn to read. "Big bus." "Pink shoes." "Cold wind." We do this because it makes us feel safer. Labeling things allows us to place what we perceive into all the little compartments we have created, validating our personal reality, reassuring us. But it means we experience our lives through the play by play guy, missing out on all he chooses to ignore, the things he thinks don't fit. I'm tired of this.
My guy thinks he's a real problem solver. Yes, sir, he is all over the "Problem du Jour" even though his batting average is so bad he'd be warming the bench in Double A. Worse yet, if he doesn't have a good problem to work on, he dreams one up and makes it mine. Thanks. I need that.
He is incessant and redundant. Did I already say that? He thinks if he says something enough times, no matter if it's true or not, I'll believe him. I hate to admit he's probably right on that one.
He is so judgmental he carries a gavel with him at all times. Good. Bad. Smart. Dumb. Like. Don't like. I've tried to tell him this is very uncool but he thinks it's his job. I don't think it is unreasonable in a relationship as intimate as ours for me to expect a little encouragement, a little praise now and then, you know, a little love. But there is no pleasing this guy. I can't start something without him tearing into it from the get go. Can't I at least get a rough sketch on paper first?
And he's so insecure if he was on his own he'd be committed. "Did I say the right thing? Oh no! I did the wrong thing! They might not like me! They might think I'm incompetent! Quick, do something! Fix it!" Holy cow, buddy, calm down, give it a rest. I don't get it. Was this guy's childhood so much worse than mine?
I do have to say his saving grace is he's funny sometimes. I might miss that.
But anyway you get the idea. This guy is bad company and it's time for him to leave. Sometimes intimate relationships don't work out. Shit happens.
Well, it turns out ending this relationship, getting this voice to be quiet, is quite difficult. My research shows there are some very old school methods available but they are arduous to say the least, results vary widely, and there is certainly no guarantee. I was hoping for something quick and dirty.
I looked in the Yellow Pages. Zip. I did find Voice Training but I'm sure that was for the regular voice. If it was for the inner voice I would have pursued it. My Mom could do this job. Don't interrupt. If you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all. A few basics would help a lot.
I checked YouTube and got nada. Unbelievable. Not even on YouTube. So that's when the wheels started turning…. I can't be the only one who wants to know how to do this.
We have over 7 billion people on the planet and almost everyone of them has this incessant, nagging, irritating voice talking to them. It's costing them a pretty penny in sleep, anxiety, and depression meds. I bet some people have more than one voice, maybe they have that good cop/bad cop thing going, and would pay dearly to get rid of the bad one. And, as far as I know, no one is offering this service.
We'll have to make it clear in the sales pitch that we're talking about the mind voice not the heart one. I wouldn't mess with the heart one. And we'll have to do some reassuring to those people who think they might be signing up for euthanasia. Some before and after videos like those late night weight loss ones might help.
Now I have to admit I don't actually have a working product to offer yet. But while R & D works on that little snag in the plan I thought it would be wise to do some market testing with a do-it-yourself kit. This 16 piece ensemble comes complete with undecipherable Chinese instructions for an introductory price of $89.99. This should give a measurable indication of people's desperation and some good data to take to the venture capitalists.
Meanwhile, my personal solution to this problem is to stop listening. That Stephen guy, or whatever his name is, can say whatever he wants, talk until he's blue in the face, yammer till the cows come home. I'm not listening.
drawn to openings
an open door, a window in the wall
a garden gate, some entry to beyond
the tunnel, the bridge, the winding road
this woodland path, this barefoot path
this mossy path, the middle path
I have been wanting to try this for a long time. It must have been a year ago, I attended a fellowship weekend at a home near Towanda, Pa. There was a pot luck feast on the patio around a large smoking fire and the host served this great crusty bread he had made earlier in the day. I left with the recipe and an eye out for an old cast iron dutch oven.
So every now and then I would stop at antique shops for a look but it turned out to be something that was not an easy find as I had thought it would be. And so months go by with the recipe and technique untried.
My son knew I was looking and so one day, a little before my birthday, he and his lady friend, went looking in antique places near her home but to no avail. Back to her Grandmother's house for a meal and they mention the search. Her mother says, "I think there is one in the basement that hasn't been used in 30 years".
And so I was gifted with this perfect kettle. A little wire brushing and seasoning and the show is on. This is a "no knead, slow rise" method using just a 1/4 t. of yeast. I'm pleased with the result. A good crust. I substituted 1/2 c. of whole wheat flour. With this size pan I think I will double the recipe next time as this smallish loaf will be gone in no time.
The recipe I was given:
http://www.sullivanstreetbakery.com/recipe/baking-perfect-loaf-bread-home
Over the years, around the time of my birthday, I have taken a day off from my routine, whatever that might be, to do something different. Maybe something I have never done before. I'd never had breakfast in Philipsburg. So the plan was to walk around this small town that is 20 miles from home, a place I have just driven through on the way to somewhere else, take pictures and look for a local diner serving breakfast.
It's 9:00 AM Friday morning and I walk down the main street, Front Street, and nothing is happening. No traffic, no pedestrians. I step into the middle of the street to take a picture of nothing happening. Almost all of the storefronts are Closed, For Sale, For Rent or Lease, their windows papered over or displaying junk and debris. A few of the once grand old buildings show signs of previous renovation but are now abandoned once again. Fayes Place, a diner I thought had potential, is closed, for sale. The Rowland Theater, built in 1917, one of those ornate theaters with red velvet seats, now owned by the town and operated by volunteers, has been reduced to nightly showings of "Escape from Planet Earth".
I think this is the tale of so many a small town these days. If there is commerce it is happening beyond main street, at the mall, the big box stores, the Wal Marts. In Philipsburg even this is not happening. The inhabitants work and shop else where.
But an inquiry does lead me to what I was looking for a few blocks away on Pine Street, a place called the Retro Eatery established just a year ago by two sisters. With good funding they created a pleasant space in retro style black and white and red with a menu offering the expected mac 'n cheese local fare but stretching into salmon florentine salad. I order eggs benedict, drink coffee, and observe a table of ten men enjoying each others company over a late breakfast. I hear one say, "I won't be here next Friday, I'll be driving" , and wonder if this gathering is a regular thing.
I leave with my feelings for local businesses re-enforced. Here is a bright spot amidst the ruins. A place offering a service to neighbors and much needed employment to a few. The exchange of goods and services for monies stays within the community and supports it.
Notes: I met a "newfie" walking her man to the post office and a 350 year old "heritage oak" standing in a graveyard where 13 civil war veterans are buried.
A few more images. Click to enlarge.
Click images to enlarge.
Westtown School, founded in 1799, is a Quaker coeducational boarding school located 25 miles west of Philadelphia. Westtown plates, made by the Josiah Wedgewood and Sons Pottery Co. of England, were sold by Westtown School's Alumni Association beginning in 1935. The plates were designed by George G. Whitney, Westtown's Director of Fine Arts from 1920 - 1956. The first editions were available in four colors(rose, green, mulberry, and blue) in twelve scenes of the school campus. The 7th edition in 1956 was only offered in blue and the 1976 8th edition reduced the number of scenes to six. The 10th and last edition was made in 1990.
This set of twelve plates is from the 7th edition. I have never seen the green or mulberry colored plates but am told they are on display in the Westtown School dining room.
A side note: the Wedgewood company story is coming to a sad ending. Founded in 1759 and family owned for much of its lifespan, it struggled, merged with Waterford Crystal in 1987, and then was bought by an American firm, KPS Capital in 2009. It has now filed for bankruptcy. In a worst case scenario it is possible that the Wedgewood Museum artifacts, considered by many to be a very significant historical collection, will be sold to cover the firm's £134m pension debt.
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| Middlesburg, Pa |
Once we were hunter gatherers, light of feet and load. Constant movement and a limit to what we could carry kept our accumulated possessions in check. Agriculture, that watershed event in our species' evolution, meant we could stay put along with our stuff. And so we may no longer be hunting but we surely have not stopped gathering.
The closet is full. In this country the closet as we know it, a small room with a door, was very uncommon prior to WWII. People stored their clothing in trunks, or chests, or hung on wall pegs. But now the closet is full of outfits for each season, each day of the week, each activity we do. It's filled with the covers and cloths and towels and blankets and pillows. Some of it will have to go to the basement.
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| Lewistown, Pa |
The basement is full. It's full of the things you put here before. The clothes that no longer fit, the toys that no longer play, the tools that you use every once in a while. The food stuffs that won't fit in the cupboard, the pots and pans that saw better days. The old television and stereo sets, an extra refrig and the laundry appliance. The treadmill and elliptical stairclimber bicycle rowing machines. The table and chairs from Grandmother's house. We'll just have to see if there's room in the attic.
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| Old Fort, Pa |
The attic is full. It's full of more stuff and it's being abused. It's freezing in winter and humid in summer. There are boxes of books and boxes of papers and boxes of boxes. There are boxes of clothes now turning to rags. It's cramped and dusty and mouse-ridden dirty and it's really the place where stuff comes to die. The garage would be better by far.
The garage is full and the cars are outside. It's filled with the lawnmower tractor, and the walk behind kind, the weedwacker, snowblower, edger, and tiller. The clippers and cutters and spreaders and movers. The ladders and two dozen cans of old paint for the house. The tent, the coolers, the kayak and croquet and badminton sets. The tricycles bicycles from kids through the years. There was every intention to clean it all up, but it just didn't happen, there just wasn't time. So I guess what is needed is a little more space…..
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| Clearfield, Pa |
U-Store It Self Storage Units
Some time ago I became aware of the proliferation of these storage businesses and realized they were a phenomenon of my lifetime. Sure enough the first enterprise in the US began in 1958. These businesses grew steadily through the 90's but took off in the millennium. From 2000 to 2005, over 3,000 new facilities were built every year. At year-end 2009, there were a total of some 58,000 self storage facilities, owned by 30,235 companies. Not surprisingly, when it comes to stuff, the US rules the planet. One report states in 2006 there were 1.6 billion rentable square feet in the US compared to #2 Australia with a paltry 22 million.*
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| Port Matilda, Pa |
More stats from SSA (of course there's a Self Storage Association):
One
in ten households in the US uses a self storage unit. There is 7.3
sq.ft. of self storage space for every man, woman and child in the
nation; thus, it is physically possible that every American could stand –
all at the same time – under the total canopy of self storage
roofing.(That's so beautiful.)
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| Potters Mills, Pa |
I try not to be judgmental about this but it's hard. What is it with our
culture that we need this? Why do we have so much stuff? Something
seems askew. One reason given for the industry's meteoric growth was its
filling the needed niche for a mobile society. Temporary storage for
those in transition. The average American will change residences 11
times in his life. The average rental period is 15 months. Here is a good
article on the subject:
Self Storage Nation by Tom Vanderbilt
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| Warriors Mark, Pa |
The photographs here are of storage units in rural settings. It further
complicates the story for me that these are in places where people are
just getting by. And in some instances they are in the "middle of
nowhere". Space for rent in a spacious place.
Click images for enlarged view.
* Self Storage - Wikipedia
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