It’s “Hey Rene J” Today!

There is something in the wind that announces a change, even before a single leaf turns. The rustling sounds differ from that of mid-summer. You can hear it the minute you walk outside one day. Then you feel it. The warmth is not like that of summer either. It is softer and more gentle, perhaps kinder, though just as heated. It makes you stop and notice, perhaps retrieve a childhood memory of the days growing shorter.

The prequel to my favorite season, these treasured days. I allow them to bestow their gifts, as I cling to the remnants of summer…

Car shopping. This is not my favorite activity. I don’t enjoy the comparison of features and figuring out “what’s what” on these beautiful new computerized models. Now, when it comes to the deal-making, I don’t mind that part at all. That’s just a game.

It was quite obvious yesterday that dealerships are still holding back on ordering certain models. Only one of the three we visited had a version for us to easily drive, and not even the exact one I would have wanted. The other two had to move mountains to get the floor model out of the showroom – and they weren’t even the ones we were interested in. It was just exhausting to look at vehicles, though we knew what we wanted to compare.

Thus, I am committed to driving my hail-ridden, zippy little car until I am really ready to find something else. I also feel certain that no one will want to steal or break into my green machine! They would just get a lot of dents and empty bags anyway.

If I were a contractor, digguh, digguh, digguh, digguh, digguh, digguh, digguh, dum…Apologies to Tevye.

My home-building advice would be to install “cleaning closets” properly situated so as to be of use daily. No running to the garage to get the mop. No hostile takeover of the coat closet to store a vacuum. And there would be plenty of hooks for hats and satchels in the “mud room,” which would be an actual room, not a walkway. I would also offer an “out-the-door” closet. It would contain storage for purses – so you can easily switch when needed, socks – so you don’t have to run back to the main closet for a pair, most-worn shoes, shelves large enough for hats – big hats, and lots of hooks for coats. None of this hanger business. It impedes the departure process.

We’re not planning on building, but if we did, most of the abode would be storage. Thankfully, we have been able to convert two closets to better suit us in our current home, so we’ll stay put. And “contractor” is off the plate for a possible career. For now.

“The Alternate Routes” is the name of the band. The lyrics are just lovely – and reminders of how we need to treat each other.

I was sitting on the porch with the beautiful sunset listening to this song. I thought of all the people who try to “sell” me stuff. The people on the phone “hawking” their promises. The peddlers looking for a handout. The politicians and their seemingly thoughtless promises, their limited knowledge of history. The hunchbacked person slowly walking for the door I’m heading towards. It’s pretty easy to just keep going and ignoring what is uncomfortable.

So, I’m sticking myself in others’ shoes. Ah. It may make no difference in this year’s election turmoil and absurdity, yet…it may help someone else, maybe me, connect to a broader scope of worth in this world. It may not change my vote, but could potentially lessen my eye-rolling a bit!

“Nothing More” *note

To be humble, to be kind
It is the giving of the peace in your mind*
To a stranger, to a friend…
To give in such a way that has no end*
We are love
We are one
We are how we treat each other when the day is done
We are peace
We are war
We are how we treat each other and nothing more
To be bold, to be brave;
It is the thinking that the heart can still be saved
And the darkness can come quick;
The Danger’s in the Anger and the hanging on to it*
We are love
We are one
We are how we treat each other when the day is done
We are peace
We are war
We are how we treat each other and nothing more
Tell me what it is that you see
A world that’s filled with endless possibilities?
Heroes don’t look they used to, they look like you do*
We are love
We are one
We are how we treat each other when the day is done
We are peace
We are war
We are how we treat each other and nothing more

Time to buy stock again. It’s hay-fever season and there is no end to the sneezing and itchy nose business. As the gentle zephyrs blow everything around I am hoping for an early frost – even though it’s still August.

These things never bothered me in my youth. Why am I becoming a delicate flower now? It’s rather annoying. At least the imperceptible tremor in my left eye is gone, another annoyance brought on by either dry eyes or stress, fatigue, overuse…the possibilities there are endless. The optometrist gave me drops and said, “Some people have found tonic water helps, too.” So I tried both.

She didn’t say whether or not to add vodka, so as a precaution, I added a pinch. At least the sneezing didn’t bother me as much and the tremor is gone. Modern medicine!

The Rice Krispie expedition led me to ponder my grandfather’s breakfast habit. Along with the daily fried eggs and bacon he would have a bowl of cornflakes. It was a hearty meal, to be sure, the most important of the day!

He was a farmer who worked hard. He needed that fuel – and apparently double that. He would pour his cereal in a bowl, then crush the flakes with another bowl on top. Removing that he would pour more cereal on, crushing that. Then he could properly douse this huge bowl with milk and sugar. That energy sustained him until coffee break at 10 a.m. when my mother, with three littles in tow, would drive out to the farm to enjoy time with her parents. This is when my grandmother introduced the substance I would ascribe to for the rest of my life – coffee.

No wonder I so enjoy breakfast. It provides nourishment for the body and soul through food and memory.

Chatting with my sister I mentioned that I had three bags of marshmallows in my pantry. Apparently there were no s’mores made on the last camping expedition. A bag just appeared out of nowhere one day. The third was actually purchased for my fudge recipe. “You’ll have to make Rice Krispie treats,” exclaimed my sister.

I have never made RK treats. My children were deprived of this culinary delight. Research revealed that the recipe only takes three ingredients: butter, cereal and of course, an entire bag of marshmallows. I now have a grocery list with one item.

We’ll see how this adventure transpires.

It’s still the best! Even my third grade teacher rejoiced when she received my letter. I was thrilled to receive a reply yesterday. We are pen pals of a sort, reconnecting a few years back at a grade school reunion. She was the teacher who had me rewrite Archibald MacLeish’s play, “J.B.”, when I was in sixth grade. I still remember the opening lines, even though I don’t think I had a role in the production.

“The Escape of the Lime,” was a fine lengthy poem – about ten pages – which was also a product of her pedagogy. I couldn’t bear to part with that when I was purging old memories. It’s safely ensconced in a basement bin. She was definitely a winner in terms of teaching, and my class of nine fellow students had her for third, fourth, fifth and sixth grades. She followed us, knew our strengths and weaknesses, and prodded us to do better. When we matriculated to public education in seventh grade, we were ahead of the game. 60% of our class graduated in the top ten those many years ago. She’s the reason I think the “one room schoolhouse” experience is worthy of merit.

So, spurred on I wrote a letter to an old friend yesterday. Just spreading delight via mail.

Saturday I baked two cherry pies because my kitchen was an immaculate, gleaming, pristine room. It was just too clean, begging for a coating of flour over the counters and cabinets. I also baked bread.

Leftover pie has always been my favorite option for breakfast, slightly ahead of cold pizza. It’s just like a pastry? Now that it’s no longer a choice for my opening meal I guess I’ll consider a healthier option.

I wonder if I can make it to Winchell’s and back before the insurance adjuster visits this morning?

Yesterday Marie “Pachel” Kondo visited my home. She was swift and thorough, ruthless and yet caring. She let me keep a lonely sock because I liked the little alpaca on it and continue to hold out hope that I will find its match.

We didn’t do the “joy” thing. We did the, “Please tell me if this looks awful on me” approach. We came away with three garbage bags full. My wardrobe needed to breathe apparently – and now it does, with an empty shelf, half of a hanging rod open, and room for more shoes. The shoes were one bag all by themselves. Thankfully, nary a hat found a new home!

It’s good to have an honest opinion when the goal involves fashion. My closet still resembles a costume depository, so the transition to “stylish” may be a subtle, barely recognizable one. Whew!