the clock, the memories

 This was my daily writing exercise:

THE CLOCK SHOP

I’ve been to a couple of clock shops in the past few months, trying to get my

father’s clock fixed. Daddy had a bad heart and was forced to sit for hours

in his chair by the fireplace. I don’t know if I inherited the clock or maybe I

just stole it when he died. He was an uneducated man who read all the

time and knew more than most Harvard professors, I bet. This beautiful

clock was right there with him.

Are all clock shops messy? One would think they would be clean and

precise and tidy. That is not my experience. In any event, I picked up the

clock yesterday and Mr. Smith and I had a long talk about people and

clocks. I am not the only one who is attached to a very old clock.

Some clock makers specialize. One guy will only work on French time

pieces, the place in Noe Valley won’t touch electric clocks and the clock

repair woman prefers to work on time pieces manufactured before 1850.

I wish I had bothered to ask about Daddy’s clock when my parents were

still alive. It took Mr. Smith about two months to fix this and yes, I missed

it a lot. And expensive? Almost $300 for the fix-up. Worth it?  You betcha. 

living twice

 When the artist David Park knew he only had a few months to live he painted his memories on this long roll of butcher paper ~ you must see it to really appreciate it. I have been writing everyday for almost 20 years and my teacher/friend Jane Underwood would say that writers are allowed to Live Twice as we record our memories. Husbando started his memoir audio taping back in 2003, encouraged and enthused by my writing. He loved the whole process and at the end he asked me to toss all the tapes. No way. I'm sure he didn't really mean that. It's a VERY personal process, meant mostly for the writer/speaker/painter. And yet so wonderful for the survivors to have all these glorious memories.

one drawer at a time

I should lighten this photo for you but this is how it looks to me when I
enter Bill's office. This was once my father's desk and it is filled with
small cubby holes and many memories. We all save the damnedest strange
things. I did go through this when Bill first died and he had tucked away
about $400 in cash which I knew nothing about, but for which I was most
grateful, as even going to the bank in the first month seemed overwhelming.
I do a little bit at a time. Yesterday I found the pink slip to our old Toyota.
We had both looked for this about two years ago and ordered a replacement.
"See, I told you so." I muttered to Husbando. I hate this, but you know that.
Thirteen months later and this is still painful.

still hating this

We both thought we were pretty damn good for going to the Salvation Army
every six months. However we neglected to think about all the papers and
photos and crap we have accumulatd here. I wonder if we had moved in the
last 40 years? Then I hear of folks who just box it up and take it all to the new
home. Lately I've been working on the old orange (bright orange, another
temporary piece of furniture that we bought 2nd or 3rd hand and kept forever)
desk in the foyer. Once in awhile a letter or memory will bring a smile to
my face, other times it's more like "Who the hell is Sandra Johanssen and
why did we save this dumb birthday card?"

I no longer need the solitude of my office since I have the entire house
so I use it as a dumpster now. Someone said that in other cultures (Norway?
Sweden?) the oldsters are expected to get rid of their accumulations once
they reach a certain age. It should be fifty. Here we wait to "downsize"
when we move into "assisted living". I ain't going nowhere but I don't
want to leave this mess for others to paw through. Plus I like tidy.

Is it me? Most of these memories don't really warm my heart. More love
notes from Bill to remind me how funny he was when love was new. Will
I ever finish this tedious project? File this under grrrrrrrrr.

early summer?

Lunch with Gini yesterday at Starbelly's meant two good long walks and
rides on the J Church car which I always enjoy. When we first moved to SF
we lived on Church Street ("as poor as Church Street mice," we used to say
because we were) and now of course those sometimes rough years are
bathed in the glow of weren't-we-lucky?

memory lane

ON THE ROAD (a Round Robin prompt from last week)

Ah yes, the freedom of the Great American Highway. Sounds lovely, no? No.
Not anymore. Now a road trip means back aches and traffic jams ~ please do
not mention flat tires or other, even more expensive, car problems.

When I was growing up in Pasadena, my parents loved to "go driving" on a
Sunday afternoon. Sometimes we would have lunch out in some remote
little town, but often we'd just pile into the big old Buick and head off. My
father would drive and I think he loved being in control, because mother
usually held that honor.

My brother would wrangle for the front seat, but if he was forced to sit in
back with me he would hit and pinch me and then when I cried Daddy
would pull the car over and Mother would issue either a "Stop that now!"
or she would slap one or both of us. No, not child abuse.

If memory serves me correctly, and it often doesn't, we could take our
doxie Hexa on these drives. She always made life more tolerable.

fifteen years

It all seems to be colliding, this time business. This morning's
prompt was 15 Years, so I dug out my calendar to see what
in the Hell was going on back then. I have 30 years of my
work/play calendars and I seldom look at them, but today
1996 is invaluable.

• we were going to the Symphony then and I would doze
• dinner at Le Trou with Vera and Curt ~ he died several years ago
  
• g.dot Lindsay born
• working at B&N Colma (one of the worst in my retail career)
• first year anniversary for Lee and Kristin
• saw "The Matchmaker" at ACT ~ no memory of that play
• lots of games at Candlestick and the Giants did not win often

Yes, I won't do anything rash and I agree that old letters
and emails need to be saved. It just seems more complicated
in the electronic age. Or maybe that's just me. Sign me,
Conflicted.