I’m not blogging about this

We are all to some extent creatures of habit, me perhaps more than some and perhaps more so as I age. Today my routine was upset. Movers were due at nine o’clock this morning to take three pieces of furniture from my bedroom—a mahogany bed with a six-foot headboard and a four-foot footboard, a matching mahogany buffet with a marble top, and a sewing stand. The buffet is not so heavy, but the bed and buffet are. The plan is for the movers to store the furniture until the new floor is in.

I was not surprised that I woke up at four-thirty and could not go back to sleep. Anticipation. Worrying about those few last-minute things I had to move—a drawer to be emptied, the bed to be stripped. With the help of Jordan and Jacob, I had emptied drawers over a two-week period and moved chairs and gotten everything off the floor and much of it stored in the main house. But there was that nervous anticipation.

The movers arrived promptly, and all seemed well. But then they had trouble dismantling the bed frame, and that made me nervous. It’s the bed my parents slept in—probably the one in which I was conceived—and it’s a memory from childhood, the place I would go for comfort. I remember once having nightmares—the only time in my life—and going to sleep with my parents. And I remember as a tiny child being invited to cuddle in the mornings. No, I don’t want anything to happen to that bed. The buffet was always in our dining room. Now its marble is broken into two pieces, and I am never sure if it always was or if that happened in one of my moves since I’ve had it. The sewing stand, also a piece of childhood memory, is light and not a problem—and it makes a great bedside table. I love being surrounded by family antiques.

They got everything moved in fairly short order once they figured out how to deal with the bed. And Omigosh! The mess under the bed. And the difference in color in the carpet where it was trafficked from where it was under the bed. That carpet was a mistake from the beginning. W will leave it in the closet simply because clearing out the closet was too much to even contemplate. I took pictures of the mess, but even as I did, I heard Jordan’s words, “Don’t blog about this.” I am not sharing those pictures.

The floor people had said they’d be here “after lunch,” but time ticked away. By two I decided to take a nap on the couch, figuring I could hop right up if they arrived. They didn’t, and now I hear that they will be here at nine-thirty in the morning. I can sleep late, provided the couch lets me sleep soundly.

I was delighted that with all this today I got quite a bit of writing done and am headed in the right direction on research. But I sure will be glad to have my house back in order and to sleep in my own bed. Who knows when?

Catastrophe in the Bedroom

No, not that kind! Shame on you! My cottage is heated and cooled by two ductless units, the kind that hug the ceiling. In this small space, they are godsends. I have one in the living area and another in the bedroom, which is the only carpeted room. Perhaps you can see the catastrophe coming.

A week ago or more I noticed two spots on the carpet, so yesterday I asked the lovely lady who cleans my house to treat them. She can do what I can’t—get down on her hands and knees. She moved some light pieces of furniture and announced that the problem was much bigger than I thought—about half the carpet was soaked and badly stained. Frantic calls to my contractor and my insurance company.

Today, said contractor, Lewis Bundock, came and we stood and shook our heads. The problem is that the very small bedroom in my very small cottage contains one antique mahogany bed (read heavy) and one mahogany buffet with a marble top—I use it as a dresser. Both are family pieces that I treasure. But if we have to empty the bedroom to replace the floor, what do we do with these massive pieces of furniture. There’s no room in the cottage, nor in the main house. And where do I sleep? The less than satisfactory answer to that is probably on the couch in my living area—yes, it pulls out to a double bed, but then what do you do with the coffee table? I see some uncomfortable nights ahead.

I spent much of today calling around to find solutions, talking to the insurance appraiser, etc. What nobody seems to understand is that the furniture doesn’t need restoration—it simply needs storage. Several companies that I called said they just don’t do that kind of thing. I’m beginning to think that the best solution if to rent a storage locker for a month and hire movers to take the furniture—costly but necessary.

Meanwhile Lewis will meet with the floor guy in the morning. I have decided for several reasons not to replace carpet with more carpet—I will put down hardwoods. Easier for my rolling walker, that I sometimes sit on, and less of a trap for dirt and fleas. But insurance won’t cover that upgrade, so with a high deductible this is going to hit my pocketbook.

On a brighter note, Jacob went to supper tonight with Betty, Jean, and me—because he wanted mahi mahi, and I promised we would go to Pacific Table. I thought he should order fish in a seafood restaurant, not a steak house. The special of the night was blackened mahi-mahi, and he pronounced it “pretty good,” high praise from a twelve-year-old. We ate on the patio where it was blessedly quiet and empty except for a couple of tables. As we left, the man at an adjoining table, waiting for his wife, said something to the effect that Jacob was one polite young man, in spite of the Baylor shirt. Words that pleased me and will delight his father and other grandmother. He’s a good kid, even if he admits he’s a bit leery for his contemporaries to see my car. “It’s not a very masculine car,” he explained to me tonight. I told him women have come up to me in the grocery story to say, “My husband would kill for your car” He was skeptical.

Life goes on, not without minor traumas.

Downsizing: to keep or discard?

At Sunday night supper, a friend and I had a friendly but heated discussion. I was explaining to Sue, my good friend, that I had two marble-topped pieces of furniture that matched my bed but probably wouldn’t fit in the cottage. Her instant reply was, “Get rid of them.” I said no, they were family pieces, very old, with both sentiment and value attached to them.

“So are you going to pay storage fees on them for forty years?”

“Probably,” Jordan said. They have rented two storage units for the leftovers from their house already.

Sue was completely exasperated.

The world, I’ve discovered during this move and downsizing, is made up of sentimentalists and hard-hearted realists. I am obviously a sentimentalist. I have many antiques--not Louis 14^th spindly things but good solid pieces from late 19^th and early 20^th century America. My mother’s secretary—when my brother and I look at it, we see Mom sitting there paying bills.

My bed—mahogany, with a six-foot headboard and four-foot footboard. I remember crawling into it as a toddler when I had a nightmare. The two marble-topped pieces mentioned above match the bed.

Jordan and Christian are keeping the sideboard that I remember from my Canadian grandmother’s house—built in 1846—and my dining table, which is not a family piece but beautiful nonetheless.

My point is that so many of these pieces hold memories that I could not just get rid of them. This weekend I will offer a couple of things again to my children, and I’ve discussed the marble-topped with my brother. If some of those pieces go to storage, maybe on down the line some grandchildren will want them. My niece was delighted to get a set of her grandmother’s china and said, ‘I’m just grateful to have anything of hers.” So maybe we’re a family of sentimentalists. I like to think that.

And here is a corner of my bedroom during the move--not much sentimental about this.

An Antique Mall and the rivalry of two cities

Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge, Dallas

A dear friend of mine has a booth at an antique mall in Dallas, and two friends and I met her there for lunch and a look at her goods. Antique malls are not my thing--there are so many tables and cabinets loaded with breakables and so close together that with my unsteady balance right now I was sure I'd go crashing into something. I clung to Carol who understood and was kind about it.
The mall has a small tea room, and we had a delicious lunch--stuffed avocadoes. They all chose chicken salad but I stuck with my tuna, and it was good. A terrific Caesar salad--not really a traditional Caesar but one of the best salads I've had in a long time--and fruit on the lunch plate. Lovely meal and good time catching up with good and longtime friends--though we did note that we talked about illness and death a lot. It's the age we are--at least two of us and it's fairly discouraging. But we also caught up with children and grandchildren and daily doings and had some good laughs.
Then we shopped in Kathie's booth, where she assured me she had a chair, and I could point with my cane at things I liked--I had a $15 gift certificate. I came away with a prize--a cane with a Bakelite handle, a rather dignified cane or as Carol called it a formal one. Bakelite is now collectible, so I thought it was grand. I think it's a bit too tall, but it can be cut down.
I don't go to Dallas often and saw some sights and parts I'd never seen before--I think the mall is on Forest Lane, but don't try to go there by my directions. Carol's a back road person and knows Dallas well enough that she wove in and out avoiding I-35's congestion. We ended up in Uptown (I think) and drove by Claiborne Park (I'm also not sure that's the name but it's a scenic area that gives all those apartment dwellers a green space in which to walk, sit and enjoy the sunshine, whatever). It also has a restaurant that Carol said we must try next time. Then we drove on the innovative Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge, and Carol pointed out the old bridge which has been turned into a park-like area, with a fountain area that drains into a kiddie wading pool below. Impressive to see what Dallas is doing to green up their city.
There's that old rivalry between Dallas and Fort Worth, so I said something to the effect that Dallas was better than I remembered. Carol replied that folks in the two cities will never think the same but there are some really positive things about Dallas. She should know--she worked there for years. I'll still take Fort Worth any day--love my city--but this was an interesting day.
Home in time for Jacob, homework, happy hour and an evening of writing.