End of an Era

I got the e-mail from Dad exactly a week ago. 

The one I've been anticipating for almost three years now, the one that made it final, irrevocable.

The end of an era.

Subject: Willimantic Home Sold! 
"We got call from Attorney at 12:30 PM our time that all paper work and deals had been signed. 
He will Express mail us the final documents and what was left of the money tomorrow morning. New owner has keys and will be taking care of whatever needs to be done to move in ASAP. 

Done and Done! Let it snow or rain, I don't have to worry about leaks, breaks, or bugs out there any more."

 It really wasn't a surprise. This has been a long process of adjustment.

First there was the family announcement. Then the For Sale sign went up. The neighbors and friends began to realize. There were open houses, walk-throughs, followed by near misses due to economic issues and lack of bank financing. The moving trucks came and left for Utah. I visited, more than once, and there was the ongoing removal of "just one more thing." The calendar cycled through months and then years. Dad flew out in October to deal with a host of major issues, including, securing a new agent. Things began to finally move, and this past December, my last set of "emergency keys" were removed from my key ring ... for good.

Throughout this there were prayers and the relearning of the concepts of patience and "in the Lord's time."

But now? It's really real.

And, as I've said to a few people,

I feel weirdly ... Weird about it.

But glad.

It was time.

I have more to say ... stuff that will include pulling out and reworking the draft of the post I wrote in the immediate aftermath/processing of when my parents first told me in July 2010 ... but for now, I will leave you with this story.

The photos above are from the main entrance of the house, the formal entrance - the one we as family we would use the least, but still considered the front. To enter this way, you would ring the doorbell and get the classic two-tone chime. The "screen" door would be opened, and then you would be invited in through the classic and very solid wooden door - bedecked with it's classic oval glass, dental and fancy molding, and very vintage mail slot.

Those people who say that buildings don't have souls are wrong. When a house has been loved as a home, it will love - and show - you in return.

On many of my solo visits since my family moved out for good, I have wandered the rooms, stairs, and floors photographing and reliving my experiences under this roof. I have stroked woodwork, caressed banisters, swept out cobwebs, and infused what happy karma I could into empty corners. I have breathed in the house's distinctive scents and expelled out my blessings, whispering throughout: "Thank you. Thank you for keeping us safe. Thank you for being patient with our rough-housing. You were a good house; you were good for us. Be good for the next family. Thank you isn't enough, but thank you for everything."

As I was trying to prop the front door --  open just a crack -- to take the photo on the right, the door would continually, slowly, steadily, open wider ...  as if to invite me to walk back over the threshold.

Some would blame gravity or some other physical force, but for years I sat in that room practicing my piano with my back to that door. For years I lived under that roof; I would go in and out that door to collect the mail or papers; for years, that door would welcome friends, family, guests, and then, just me ... back home ... and the door would not swing open like that.

I had to wistfully and tearfully whisper, "Thank you. I will come in for a minute, but then I have to leave. This time for good. But thank you."

The next time, the door stayed where I put it.

And then when I came in, closed the door, and threw the deadbolt, there was certain click of finality to it. The action may have been automatic, but the realization came a second later, and I had to pause and take a deep breath.

I had probably just literally and figuratively closed a door on a chapter of my life.

Until the house was sold, there was always the possibility of going back, but I think I knew then.

I had been having dreams recently too, subconscious message from beyond, that the end was coming. 

Dad's e-mail made it really real. That era is over. My parents can finally exhale, and we can whisper "thank you" out to the universe again and again.

Dwellings may come and go, but there really is no place  ... like a home.

Tracking my Travails via iTouch

Life has been a bit of a hoot lately, as if you weren't getting that idea from the odd postings. Whose feathers are flying? This girl.

Pillow at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I like the fabric.

My brain has been a bit static-y, and the glare from the monitors at work and then the iTouch screens have short-circuited my creativity from time to time.

Not my photo, but can't remember where I found it online.

Then there is the fact that I've been stuck in my "cube," underground, and it's been grey - well, even the tourist bureaus have figured out how to target their marketing on the Times Square Shuttle.

The changing weather has given the view from the Attic a variety of ever changing vistas, from snowy Marches on the escape, to wishing I was small enough to curl up in a brief patch of sunlight, to rosy dusks after the storms.

If you watch long enough, you can track the perambulations of this family down the snowy street and then perfectly frame up the inevitable slipping and slow fall of a young explorer as she trudges along with the adults. It's not fall, honey. It's still winter. The spring in your step will come soon. (The groundhog lied!)

The calendar flipped to March and there was a brief flurry of spring cleaning, between the flurries, probably brought on by the Return of the Laundry Cart Celebrations. They are irregular, these celebrations, so it's important to mark the return of the wandering carts by doing loads of laundry and then unearthing the piles of ironing that have been ignored under hurricane supplies and other detritus from trips to Connecticut. It was in CT that I "rescued" an iron from it's lonely, forelorn existence in an empty house. It's been sitting keeping my old rusty iron company, until LCC weekend, when Mr. Rusty was left in the laundry room for a new owner. Turns out, you shouldn't have done that (Hal), because, .... well, there is no easy way to say this. The new iron is a Cylon. (And not the hot Anders model either.)

Oh yeah, it's out to get me. No doubts about it.

I've been spending so much time in the City. It's time to get away, but I'm not sure when or where yet.

Contrary to the advertising on another Times Square Shuttle, it won't be Arizona, no matter how appealing it might be to hang my hat on an antler rack. (Yes Arizona. You wrapped 4 subway cars and this was my take-away. Sorry.).

What?

This.

The trip to the Bed Bath and Beyond nearby wasn't much of a help in me trying to find some "inspiration," "pep," or "eye candy." I ended up looking at pillows that, well ... Come on. This is a little too much. I know where I live near and work. I don't need a throw pillow - unless I want to use it to smother myself.

Maybe I need recreational "play" therapy? I know, I'll build something.

Oh wait. This seems familiar somehow.

It's Grand Central.

Okay. Okay. I didn't make this replica of Grand Central. It's on display in Grand Central as part of the 100th Anniversary celebrations. It's made of Lego® bricks created and presented by LEGOLAND Discovery Center Westchester. These iTouch photos don't do it justice. The details are amazing. Look at the eagle hovering over the 42nd street corner entrance and the people taking photos of it. On the right is the photo I took during 2012 Summer Streets.

I usually don't have a lot of time to kill between trains, but one night I got a call for a research project just as I was packing up (90 minutes after the rest of the office had scattered off for the evening) and ended up missing one train. I had a good 20-30 minutes to wait, so I finally had time to take in some of the other exhibitions that Grand Central has put up as part of Grand Central: 100 Years.

I'm glad I had a chance to poke around Vanderbilt Hall at: 

Grand by Design: A Centennial Celebration of Grand Central Terminal

February 1, 2013 - March 13, 2013 | Open Daily, 8am-10pm 

It was illuminating.

"A dramatic, multi-media installation on Grand Central Terminal's century long lifespan will be the centerpiece of the Centennial celebration revealing how the iconic building, on the verge of changing the way New Yorkers travel over the next decade, shaped modern New York and determines its future."

Just a few things from the exhibition.

So much better than modern typography

Vintage Trains

I told Kari that if I had a time machine, I would go back and hop on this train to come and see her. Then I thought better. If I had a time machine, I'd be inventing a freaking transporter, so I could beam myself there. Or go ahead in time and learn what part of my brain contols teleportation, so I could beam myself there without a transporter.

Anyway, here are photos of displays about how the Terminal was saved and some of the architectural components.

And I thought I had baggage!

Do you see how they worked the train in here?

Good use of vertical space

12 years on, and these types of displays about the history and impact of September 11, 2001 still make me cry. The stories and names are so familiar. I am so grateful that the MTA and MetroNorth originally had these, preserved them, and they are used for important exhibitions like these. We can never forget.

The Grand Central Theatre may no longer be part of Grand Central, but I would argue that is actually still is, but not the way you would expect. (For an excellent post on the original Grand Central Theatre, please see Emily's post over on I Ride The Harlem Line. Emily is a TRUE rail fan, and has many good contacts at MetroNorth to inform her posts.)

Grand Central. Entrance through Railroad Station:

To the craziest theater of human drama you could ever want to expect. If you find a good spot, you can observe the entire gambit of emotions in just minute or two: sorrow, anger, angst, aggravation, love, romance, pathos, hunger, harrassment ... the list goes on and on. You can merely observe or ... throw yourself into the narrative, dodging and weaving and wending your way into someone else's train tales. The story is ever evolving and never ending.

This is just an iTouch tale of my journey across the Terminal Theatre to catch the 7:07, a preferred express with a jovial conductor (seen on the right), who breaks up the doldrums of commuting by addressing almost every passenger with "thanks" and then: sport, junior, curly, lady, miss, princess, or some other non-offensive smile-inducing noun, i.e. Thanks, Princess.  I like it. I told him he can call me Miss all he wants, and it's a good day, anyday, to be a Princess. Heads come up out of devices, bonding occurs, grins pass around, and for at least a minute, camaraderie is established. If only more of us could find such bonhomie on our daily commute.

But until then, and until it's warmer, light out later, and I can walk and/or escape to the Garden, this is how I spent a lot of my theraputic weekends. Mixing, stirring, chopping, and baking the winter blues away.

Oh, and fretting about blogging. Not enough hours in a weekend.

Photo of the Day: When the Snow Flies

March Storm, Thursday, March 7, 2012

I was walking to the train late last night as the snows fell, the dark swallowing up my shadow, blurring me into one of the faceless mass of humanity in the City, being so grateful for this place - New York City - where you can blend into near invisibility. The March snow came down and the words swam up out of my subconscious. Better poets than me say it best.

A winter's day
In a deep and dark December*;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Don't talk of love,
But I've heard the words before;
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

~ Paul Simon

 *or March even

Photo of the Day: Slaying the Season

Spotted in Moscow, ID, January 2013

Thank Goodness it's March. The season was beginning to feel like an epic battle and instead of slaying the SAD dragon, it was IS draggin' on and on......

Another snow storm is en route and is just another blast from that silly SAD dragon...

Where is St. George to slay this thing already?

Blogging is Time Consuming

Image from here

Blogging is time consuming. Even for someone unencumbered by responsibilities like spouses, offspring, or pets, there are only so many hours in the day to balance the many demands placed, or self-imposed, upon me. I am invariably dropping one ball or another in the great juggling act of life (sorry friends). I also want to experience things and be present in my life and not a slave to social media and this blog.

As technology has shifted to new mediums, I have seen some blogs shift completely away from this forum and/or be taken down from the Internet (I really hope they saved them in one form or another). Other have managed to somehow integrate networking streams and their lives a little more successfully than me. It's hard not to compare and contrast lots in life and to feel inferior to other people and their many accomplishments, presented both in real life and on the web.

I keep coming  back to my reasons for doing this in the first place - documenting my life for future generations.

It is not for revenue streams.
It is not for readership statistics.
It is not to compete in a popularity contests.
It is not a platform for a book/television/movie deal.
It is for my nieces and nephews and their offspring.

Yesterday evening, between the baking marathon that helps me de-stress and honestly, to bribe various people to like me, and the phone calls to some friends and family, I managed to catch up on some reading of an online periodical. I SHOULD have been finishing the Refrigerator Roll Recipe and/or "banking" more posts for the week, but I was prompted (I realize now) to catch up on my reading.

It was to find this article in the Deseret News. It was to extract these quotes to keep me on track and remember WHY I am doing this -- to keep me motivated to keep this blog going despite time constraints, writer's block, the dearth of readers, and the fact that it this a very public forum and I am actually a very private person.

Now, I don't usually post too many faith-heavy entries, but this one will definitely have a Mormon-slant, and I'll do my best to post links to explain the jaragon. The themes, however, are universal.

With thanks to the article’s writer, Trent Toone. The full article was published on February 21, 2013, and may be found at http://www.deseretnews.com/article/print/865573684/Tips-guidelines-and-principles-How-to-write-a-personal-history-your-posterity-cant-put-down.html 

Copyright 2013, Deseret News Publishing Company

Extracted for length and pertinence, all phrases bolded for emphasis are done by me and not in the original article. 

Tips, guidelines and principles: How to write a personal history your posterity can't put down

By Trent Toone, Deseret News, February 21, 2013

Regarding the book: “More To Your Story: Discover the Powerful Experiences You’re Already Having” by LDS Church leader, Elder W. Craig Zwick and his wife, Jan. Elder Zwick is a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy [See the hyperlinks for definitions of these LDS terms].

“…We believe it is impossible to overestimate the influence our own stories can have on us, our children and future generations,” the Zwicks wrote in the book’s introduction. “But if we and those we love are to benefit from these moments, we would be wise to ‘Treasure up … the words of life’ (Doctrine and Covenants 84:85), write them down and frequently recount them — thus making them part of our family lore and heritage.”

“There is power in teaching true principles the same way we learned them,” Elder Zwick said. “The purpose of all of us in mortality is to learn through our experiences, whatever they may be. Stories infuse our life with meaning. We are here to learn from our experiences. … For the experience to be meaningful to you, it needs to be verbalized or written. … Until you speak or write about it, it doesn’t have power in your life.”

Once an experience has been identified, don’t get too hung up on details or flowery words, focus on the feelings that were felt, Elder Zwick said.

“The real essence of the experience is what we felt in our heart,” Elder Zwick said. “It is not so much what you write, but the idea is to convey a feeling.”

For help on deciding what is appropriate and what isn’t, Elder Zwick pointed out two scriptures in the Book of Mormon.

Alma 37:8 states, “And now, it has hitherto been wisdom in God that these things should be preserved; for behold, they have enlarged the memory of this people, yea, and convinced many of the error of their ways, and brought them to the knowledge of their God unto the salvation of their souls.”

In 3 Nephi 27:23, it reads: “Write the things which ye have seen and heard, save it be those which are forbidden.”...

Notable author, Lee Nelson also has this wisdom about documenting your life …

… Nelson wrote: “How many departed souls are regretting that they didn’t write something down before it was too late? How frustrated are they that the too-brief stories of their lives, often written by people who didn’t know them, miss the mark by such a great distance?”

As he wrote his own story, his life made more sense.

“I began to see pattern and purpose instead of accidents and dead ends,” Nelson wrote. “As I wrote about regrets and mistakes … I began to see some of these events as wonderful learning opportunities preparing me for future events.”

Writing a personal history is not like writing an algebra textbook, he wrote, it is nothing more, or less, than telling stories of your life. Some are short and funny and some are longer and more serious. Sometimes you explain at the end of a story what you learned, sometimes you don’t, he wrote.

“There is no secret,” Nelson wrote, “It’s not hard, but it does take time and attention, usually over several years. It might go faster if I do it for you, but it might be better if you do it yourself. After all, you are the one who did all the research.

“The elements in great stories, the stories that never die, are the same elements we see in our own lives. The great stories parallel the lives of human beings. All of us are reluctant heroes or heroines engaged in life’s journey.”

Also from the News:

Elder Dennis B. Neuenschwander
"A life that is not documented is a life that within a generation or two will largely be lost to memory. What a tragedy this can be in the history of a family. Knowledge of our ancestors shapes us and instills within us values that give direction and meaning to our lives." (General Conference, April 1999) [AN note: emphasis my own]

And so, onward ... to keep trying to keep this up, to keep writing the stories, documenting the milestones, and articulating the oddities that are my life.

~ Auntie Nettie

Recipes from Grandmary - Refrigerator Rolls

Unedited version of the recipe on the left. The Cheshire Cat on the right had to retype them from the original 1970's mimeograph that had faded to near invisibility. Then I had to add my editorial comments all over that copy, and THEN add more to the version that ....

will be posted later today or this week.

Am. So. Tired. Must. Sleep. Now....

Dreaming Out Loud - Sizing up Saris

Photo via here

Despite having a first generation Indian-American roommate in college for a few years, I didn't really get the desire to wear a sari until recently*. We were just too busy in college and the opportunity never really seemed to come up. I am trying to remember if S---- ever wore one on campus, for a formal or in heading off to an event, but I don't think so. Since she didn't really bring it up, and we were no where near the City to "drop by a shop" I didn't even have an inkling of a desire to try one on. It also wouldn't have been appropriate for a Halloween party, and we didn't have "dress-up balls" like that, at least not that I ever attended.

As the years have gone on, I've had the opportunity to attend a variety of functions with many of my international friends, and even then Western formal wear was the default.

More recently, however, as I've spent more time crafting, I've really begun to appreciate textiles, textures, the workmanship, and the possibilities of color and embellishment that  goes into a sari. Even if they aren't wedding saris, bedecked in more bling that one could possibly imagine, even the "everyday" saris are alive with a rainbow of colors that can't help but brighten your day.

I mean, look at these colors, combinations, and BLING:

Sri Lankan Saris via here

Photo via here

Wedding Saris via here

And this ... this color, this photo, just ... this! Can someone drape and dress me and make me feel like this? And then show me how to pose so I actually take a good photo? (Maybe that's another dream? Actually yes -- another post.)

From here

The thing about saris I've also been realizing is that they can be draped carefully to conceal a multitude of those "things" that women don't (in any way shape or form) want to show, and can also be draped carefully over layers to be modest. Do you know how hard it is with traditional modern Western formal wear to even get a dress that's not strapless or plunging, or both? Or in a size for most of the "normal" American women?

The other reverie about getting dressed up in a sari would include satisfying my urge for a tattoo - by getting a henna one instead. This kind of tattoo would wear off, eventually, not be a permanent reminder that I would probably regret as soon as the ink started to flow, and oh yeah -- not cause pain.

A foot and/or leg henna tattoo would be fun. I'm not so keen on my hands or forearms, just given that they are harder to hide as the henna wears off and, if you are like me, and you wreck your hands two seconds after you look at them. I know feet are sensitive, but it'd be worth it if they looked like this when they were done:

Photo from here

I'd ALMOST think about wearing heels if my feet looked this awesome. Almost. I don't have the heel gene (and that's ANOTHER post.)

Now that I've compiled all these pieces, I realize it's a weird multi-layered dream "ensemble" .. like a sari:
~Dress-up in pretty fabrics and colors
~Faux Tattoos
~And the component of trying on a bit of the exotic without having to travel to the far distant lands.

Not to mention the lurking underlying, real nightmare of having strangers size you up, mentally critique your foundation garments, posture, grooming, and lack of photogenicness ...

So it's a pretty normal REM cycle type dream scenario,

Once I hit Publish, it's like jerking awake to the alarm clock. You can't really get the dream back. It's out there ... and taking on a life of it's own.

I just hope it smells of night jasmine ... and not of desperation.


*I also blame The New York Times for being one of the catalysts for this. See this November 22, 2012 Article on a Jackson Heights Shop that serves South Asian Brides and other clientele and this September 2012 article on the evolving fashion of saris. I'm traditional. I'd go for the full coverage styles, thank you very much.