Appreciating the "pack rat"

My mother never threw anything away, a trait that annoyed me to no end. I'm not talking garbage -- she was fastidious in that respect. We used to tease her about sterilizing the outside of oranges before peeling. But she saved papers, letters, bills, pictures, and receipts. When I could escape her eagle eye, I'd toss out outdated sales slips and the like. Every so often I would say to her, "Why don't we go through all these papers and throw away the ones you don't need." The Queen would always agree. She'd point to a drawer and suggest we start there. One by one, she would study an outdated grocery coupon or a sales slip. On a good day, we might eliminate a quarter of the drawer's contents. I instinctively knew when to leave well enough alone.

Occasionally, she would say, "Let's go through the closet." I always fell for it. I'd pull out a dress that hadn't been worn in twenty years and hold it up. She would consider, then say, "put it back." The closet was a lost cause, but she seemed to enjoy the process.

To be fair, there was one time when her need to hold on to correspondence paid off. When her application for long-term health care was denied, the reason given was she had failed to respond to the renewal letter. Knowing that the letter must be somewhere, she and I went through her piles of folders. There was no letter. I requested a copy. There was no proof that such a letter had ever been sent to her, and after an exhausting battle, the insurance was reinstated.

I did not appreciate the positive aspect of my mother's pack rat mentality until she passed away. My sister and I were left with the daunting task of going through 70 odd years of saved papers. The photographs were easy. We kept the old family pictures, and made copies for relatives. Our mother kept every report card we had received, from kindergarten on, and it was fun to look back and laugh at teacher comments like "lacks self control" or "talks too much."

More interesting, however, were our mother's old college papers. I always knew she was intelligent, but until I read those papers and reports, I did not realize how intelligent she was. She hung on to all the evaluations she received from her superiors when she became a social worker in her mid-life. It goes without saying they were all terrific. It wasn't until I came to the boxes filled with family letters, that I came to fully appreciate her reluctance to part with her papers.

Among the most treasured for me were letters to my uncles (who were in the army) from my grandmother, Jennie, usually filled with humorous descriptions of everyday events. One described a restaurant outing where I was a "perfect lady" while my sister "threw food on the floor and made a fuss which the 'fancy' people didn't like." Another told of my sister's birthday party during which I started a fight with her. "But they kissed and made up," she ended the letter.

Especially poignant were letters from my mother's brothers. Our uncle Moey, a navigator, wrote in detail of his experiences in Italy and North Africa. Uncle Harry wrote funny letters to Barbie and me from the VA hospital.

Perhaps the most meaningful letters my mother saved, were the many ones I wrote to her from college and after. Now, I know what people mean when they talk about revisionist history. There, in my handwriting, is the young, real me. And, my confidences illuminate my relationship to my mother during those, for me, intense years.

To sum it all up, I now firmly believe being a "pack rat" has its good side. My mother left a treasured legacy in those old letters. And, despite how annoyed I used to get at her "clutter," I look through my filing cabinets and boxes stacked in the closet and find that I have held on to all of my daughter's report cards, notes, hand-drawn pictures, toys and baby clothes. I trust that one day she will value them as I do.

Best, Fran

Princess and the Queen

The other day seemed like the first day of spring -- or rather, the first day of spring-like weather, nearly 60 degrees, and yes, we have earned it, through it may be an illusion. It was the first day warm enough to sit on the deck with a book. I'm battling a cold and hoping the sun will banish my symptoms.

Lucy, our blind dog, keeps me company. Despite her disability, she has mastered her environment. I love watching her navigate the steps. She uses her muzzle and her paw to determine where they start. Then she descends, front paws first, then hind legs. The effort gives her an endearing waddle, and with her tail up, she's the canine equivalent of the back end of a 747.

We grew up with dogs, and I always loved them. Not all of them lived to "doggy dotage." Our mother, though not really an "animal person," developed a close bond with Princess, a cocker spaniel so sweet the people who gave her to us wanted her back the same day. Too late. We loved her from the very start.

When the Queen took out the broom, it was Princess's cue to hop on, and the two of them would waltz around the kitchen. I don't believe our mother ever loved a dog the way she loved that one.

Princess matured, and thanks to the constant treats, she gained weight. Our mother dubbed her "the horse." She and my father seldom took trips together, but they did spend a weekend at Grossingers, a famous Catskill resort catering to a Jewish clientele.

It was a stormy weekend, and Fran and I were left at home. Our mother called us from one of the very public pay phones. "Girls, be sure to bring the horse in the house." I'm sure eyebrows were raised, but knowing our mother, I'm certain no explanation was given.

Barbara

Free Gift

No such thing as a free lunch, the saying goes. But where my mother was concerned, that didn't apply to charity solicitations. In her later years, when she was living in various retirement homes and then in an apartment with her caregiver, she looked forward to going through her mail with me. This was the ritual. I'd bring the mail to her room and we'd sit down. I should mention that her mail consisted of bills, catalogs and solicitations. I'd pick up an envelope and read the return address. "AT&T." "Pay it," she'd say, and I'd start a pile for bills, which I paid with her checks (that's another story I will relate another time). I'd hold up a catalog. "Toss it," was her usual response, so into the wastebasket it went. You get the idea. But then I would inevitably pick up an envelope from The Humane Society. "Is there a gift with purchase?" she'd ask. I'd take her letter opener and slit open the envelope and hand the letter over. She'd shake her head in disapproval if the gift turned out to be address labels with pictures of appealing looking dogs. "Throw it away," she'd say. However, if the "free gift" turned out to be a little blanket, or better yet, an umbrella adorned with an image of an animal, that was it. "How much?" she'd ask. I'd read her the suggested donation amounts, and after careful consideration, she would choose the lowest donation that would entitle her to the gift. Whenever we went out, the Queen would be in her wheelchair, her makeup on, her outfit carefully chosen, especially her ever-present hat, and always, a Humane Society or PETA blanket over her knees. The thing I never really figured out was why she loved those little blankets and umbrellas. You see, she was the first to admit she was not an animal lover, although we'd grown-up with dogs. It must have been she couldn't refuse a "free gift." Now that I think of it, she only bought cosmetics in department stores when there was a "free gift with purchase." Well, why not?

Best, Fran

Snow Day

Just last week we had a "Norman Rockwell" snow day. It began the night before. By morning it was magical, everything draped in a mantle of bright white. Huge, "Ivory Soap" snow flakes came down from the heavens. It was glorious for us; not so for the many in our region who lost power, some for days!

Those of us who were unaffected by the outages had a chance to share our good fortune and offer a hot meal and a warm bed to friends. Our overnight guest had endured three terrifying nights in the dark and cold.

And yet, I've always favored winter. I'm comforted by warm layers of clothing and lots of quilts on the bed. Woodstockers leave en masse in winter: Florida and Mexico are frequent destinations. In past years, we too, have escaped. This year, we chose to stay. I like to feel I've earned the Spring, that day when, just when I think winter will never end I walk outside, and there they are, the first buds on the trees!

I suspect the Queen loved winter, too. We grew up in Connecticut and winters were harsh. But the snow never deterred our mother. I hold vivid memories of her on a snowy day, needing a book more than the warmth. Off she went, on foot, to the lending library, wool coat, gloves, hat, seamed stockings and high heels. Off she went, a tall, proud, lone figure off to the lending library on a snow swept winter day.

Well, I've gone and done it!

Well, I've gone and done it! Not quite a hand basket to hell, no, not THAT bad. Disingenuous? Certainly. I didn't mean for it to go quite as far as it went.

"I'll just do a little bit," she said. "We'll take it slowly, see how you like it. We can always add more."

I could have believed her, but I'm not entirely innocent. After all, I watched as she partitioned, then slid slices of my hair, my gray-white hair, slathered them with cream-brown-green slosh, and made tin foil sandwiches all over my head. Truth be told, I liked the look before the tin foil came off. I looked absolutely aerodynamic, space-age chic, a "Martian Matron."

Don't get me wrong. I LIKE my gray, but I'm not a "virgin." In the past, I routinely -- and sometimes disastrously -- colored my hair. The "disastrous" part has to do with upkeep, always a personal shortcoming. After a while, my auburn hair would fade to pink. Well-meaning friends would pull me aside and point to my two-inch long roots. When I met my husband in 1991, he liberated me with seven simple words: "I think gray-haired women are sexy." I didn't skip a beat. "I think I can oblige you," I said, and that was that.

Later, when we moved from Los Angeles to New York, I discovered low maintenance "low lights," the perfect compromise. Leave most of the "salt," but just add back a pinch of "pepper," and I grew to trust master colorist Gary Collins, a sweet, gentle man who worked out of his apartment on West 16th Street while his little Yorkshire Terrier, Gracie, bounced around the room chasing myriad objects. Then we moved to Woodstock where gray is good.

My mother, the Queen, never colored her hair. She must have thought gray is good and white is wonderful because she withstood the pressure all of us -- sisters and daughters -- brought to bear. But the Queen was proud. Whatever her reasons, she chose to put them in that private, impenetrable place where secrets reside, a place where she remains unknowable, safe from the probing of all who sought to unravel her complicated being.

When I awake this morning and look in the mirror, I see a stranger and it is not altogether unpleasant. It's me and it's not me. I see that I am mutable. I wonder what the Queen would have said.

It's GOOD to be old!

Fran, you just don't get it! It's GOOD to be old! It's even -- perish the thought -- good to LOOK old, especially if you're frugal and love a bargain. Gray hair is especially useful. You get a head start on the privileges of age before you even get there! Those lines and wrinkles? They may not look great, but nine out of ten times they'll get you a seat on the subway at rush hour, and that's no small feat. Shoot a pathetic look at the young person sitting, and it's guaranteed. Lest you think movies and grocery stores are the only perks, think again. Be creative! Buying a new mattress? Ask for a senior discount and you'll probably get it. And don't stop there. My favorite line -- after, "senior discount, please," is, "Is that the best you can do?" You'd be amazed how effective it can be. So, why be young and pay retail? Age has it's advantage, and it's not just wisdom.

Best, Barbara

Senior Discounts

There are a few positives about growing older. I'm not ashamed to ask for a senior ticket at the movies, or when I book a flight.

Now, every Tuesday is "senior discount day" at my local gourmet market. If I need some special items - or even if I don't - I usually stop by. Looking around, it's obvious I am not the only one lured in by the senior discount.

So I make my way around the aisles, stopping to avail myself of the delicious little samples and the mini cup of coffee, then head to the checkout line. The clerk begins to ring up my purchase.

I wonder if I should tell her "senior discount, please." Most of the time, I wait until my items are all tallied. Then one of three things happens:

1. The clerk rings up the total forgetting the discount.
2. The clerk asks if I am eligible for the discount.
3. The clerk automatically deducts the senior discount.

Which feels best? Number one makes me think either he or she is being polite assuming I could not possibly be of age to qualify for the discount, or he or she is not paying attention. Number two makes me feel the clerk is following the manager's orders to flatter the senior customer by asking. Surely we both know I qualify. Number three makes me wonder if it's time to invest in cosmetic fillers.

Which approach do I prefer? Number three is the easiest - I simply pay and wheel my cart out. Number two requires only a simple yes. Number one means I have to ask for the discount and I wonder if doing so is undignified.

But the most demeaning thing of all occurs as I head for the exit. A young male employee smiles disarmingly. I return his smile. He asks, "Did you find everything, young lady?" YOUNG LADY!

Later, I ask my husband if a salesperson ever addresses him as "young man." He thinks, then replies: "No, but at some point they began calling me 'sir.'

Best, Fran