Downsizing

Downsizing to get my lifetime of accumulations into a three-room cottage is going to be a challenge. I have family pieces of furniture, silver, etc. that I don’t think will fit in my new quarters but I don’t want to part with them. I will of course offer them to the children, and there are some things I want to hang on to for now but someday I hope one of my children will want then. Like the wonderful oak chiming clock on the mantel that my mom went to school by as a child.

For years I thought I wasn’t going to think about this downsizing problem. I’d just let my children deal with it after I’m gone. But now that we’re into it, I’m glad to be able to be part of it, to voice my opinion. Tonight Jordan pulled silver pieces, badly tarnished I admit, out of a buffet I seldom open except to get the ice bucket. There were two silver tea services, and I was chagrined that I couldn’t tell her which belonged to who. I think the more ornate one was my paternal grandmother’s, and the more sleek, modern one belonged to my mom. I am more casual in entertaining and almost never use silver, which I realized with a pang when Jordan pulled silver serving dishes out and said, “What are these for?” One covered dish—Mom’s or something she inherited from Dad’s mother—is of the ornate grape pattern, but on the serving dish there is a place where the silver melted. I remember when I was a child and Mom set the dish too close to a flame and melted a bit of the pattern. Makes it more precious now.

Jordan also packed up Christmas today. I had it all in a pile on the dining table, but she wanted to pack it in a way that would make sense to her next Christmas. No more of my grocery sacks. She brought plastic bins with lids. As always, she got it all packed and discovered Christmas items she’d left out. She also organized all the wrapping material, which I generally just stuffed into black plastic bags. How did I get such an organized daughter?

Next on her agenda is what she refers to as my ten drawers of T-shirts. A slight exaggeration but I do have more than I use. And a small cabinet full of athletic knee-high sock which no one in the family would ever wear. I’m hoping we can give away a lot of this and avoid a garage sale.

All the kids will be here the weekend of the 29^th, and I’m hoping they’ll take a lot home with them.

This is an ongoing process, and you’ll probably hear a lot more about it. Meantime, can you think of a better ticket that Donald Trump and Sarah Palin? Oh good gravy. I stumbled into the kitchen this morning, turned on the TV, and heard this horrible shrieking, grating female voice. Sarah, of course.

The Remodeling/Merger Woes Begin

It’s Friday night, and I’m tired. It’s been a week of doctor appointments, a haircut for me and one for Sophie, people in the house every evening or out for dinner. I appreciate the busy social life, but it leaves little time or energy for writing. Not one day to stay at home all day at my desk. I have developed a standard answer when people ask if I’m writing or what I’m writing. My answer: “I’m managing my career.” For that is truly what I’m doing in the odd moments at my desk—arranging blog tours, working to post older titles that disappeared from Amazon, figuring out marketing plans for old and new books.

This week, in addition to all the busyness, we’ve made baby steps toward our project of merging households and remodeling. Jordan and Christian want some structural changes inside the house—a door closed off and made into a wall, a louvered door replaced with a solid door. And they couldn’t understand why it was taking so long. Today Lewis, my contractor about whom you’ll hear a lot more, was finally able to corral his painter and bring him over to look at the two rooms that will have to be repainted. No report yet.

What I feared would happen did: I became the middleman, the kids demanding answers from me about why this took so long, when would such and such be done. Today I got Christian to talk to Lewis and I think it was a mutually satisfying talk—Christian says they agreed the next step is up to the architect. So we need to light a firecracker under him.

Meantime, my most organized daughter, is leaving town on business for a week but has left me a list of chores: first is to dismantle Christmas, though I must leave it for her to pack in her own efficient way. When she comes back, we’ll pack up Christmas and then load the dining table with dishes, etc., that my children may want. They’ll all be here January 29 for the rodeo. I have given sets of china to Jamie and Megan, but there are others that I think the other kids want. As always I face the dilemma that many are family pieces. I may not have room for them in my new quarters, but I don’t want to see them leave the family. That is going to be an even bigger problem with furniture, though Jordan and Christian want my wonderful oak dining table with a gazillion leaves and the 1846 sideboard that has been in my family for generations. They’ll also keep the round oak table I bought for $3 at a farm sale in Missouri. Today you’d pay a fortune for that. I’m mentally trying to figure out which antiques and family pieces I can move to the apartment—my wonderful mahogany bed, with its six-foot headboard and four-foot footboard for sure, and my large square oak coffee table—once a kitchen table but we cut it down. Probably another $3 purchase when I lived in rural Missouri. Such decisions are sure to be wrenching.

I don’t foresee a lot of writing in the coming year. I will be busy managing my career and managing the merger and arranging my new space. Wish me luck, please.