Downsizing

I have told the tale of the patterns. I posted the story of giving away my precious instrument. I have hinted about downsizing and the fact that my daughter would never believe I would ever get rid of the gazillion dishes I have had since 1974.

Well, it finally happened. I took pictures for evidence.

I have had these dishes that could serve 24 people at a sit down dinner with a five course meal for decades. I decided to give the whole lot to the resale shop that supports a battered women’s shelter. It would stock at least six houses, if not more. Besides dinner plates, salad plates, soup bowls, steak plates, serving pieces and canisters - the set has custard cups, coffee cups, matching glasses and glass coffee cups, fruit bowls, chocolate pots and Swish chocolate mugs, soup tureens… awe heck, I would have to take inventory to get it all correct.

My niece, Krystal, needed some alterations done to a number of articles of clothing. I bartered sewing for packing. We worked all day. She ended up with clothing she could wear again, and I ended up with a car loaded with boxes of dishes.

Of course, in the packing process, the younger dog of the house, Maggie, supervised the whole time. She went from following Krys back and forth to planting herself on the floor right in the way. Maggie’s nick name is Supervisor Number Nine…..I have this little rhyme I say when she is nosing into my business. Supervisor Number Nine, supervising all the time! She is a mess. It doesn’t matter what you are doing, she follows every step of the way. When I was packing to move from mother’s house back to Baytown, I worked from what folks in the south say as “can till can’t.” Maggie moved every step with me in that packing process. When I dropped to the floor to sleep on my mat, Mag fell down right beside me with a huge sigh each night. You’d think she had packed and loaded the car herself.

Posted are just a few of the dishes in the cabinet before they left the building with Elvis. I have purchased a set of Waverly dishes painted with a black and white toile pattern of a French countryside. True to me they look vintage, but they are dishwasher and microwave safe. Since the set only has 4 plates, saucers, bowls and cups, the family will have to be happy with paper plates when they come to visit. It was past time for me to do this. Like I said, I don't want my daughter to send curses up to heaven when she has to deal with my stuff.

However, I will admit that I drove back and forth to work for over a week with the boxes in the car. I finally bit the bullet and drove to the resale shop. They couldn’t believe what they saw. They told me they are used to getting little sets, or mismatched bits and pieces. The guys helping unload couldn't believe how heavy they were.

Again, instead of having a heart aching for items I treasured, I felt uplifted. Downsizing has been tough. It has been hard work. And it has been rewarding. I won’t even know the people who will benefit from this. Just knowing something from my life will serve a purpose is enough for me.

Some of the dishes may even fall into the hands of some college girl who dresses in what she calls that funky stuff from the seventies! Now her kitchen can look retro.

Geeze, I am retro.
Bummer

How many canisters can you count? You'd be wrong cuz there were more in boxes.

Through the Eyes of a Young Musician

I have finally decided to let some things go. One of these is a very important part of my life, because it is connected to my heart as a musician and music lover – my trumpet.

I grew up playing in the school band. I started out on a French horn owned by the school because my family couldn’t afford an instrument. At the end of my eighth grade year my parents purchased an old, used cornet. I was thrilled. I wanted a trumpet, but was happy with the cornet. My band director was not happy. I was first chair in the horn section, and had been since sixth grade, and horn players don’t grow on trees. When I moved on to high school the band director at Bridge City High School called the junior high director and asked what happened to the promising French horn player he was expecting. The reply was, “She’s sitting in your trumpet section.” Another not so happy band director. I didn’t care.

My sophomore year I got a Holton Collegiate trumpet for Christmas. Not a top line instrument, but it was shiny and new. I played it through 10^th, 11^th and 12^th grade and on into the years following playing in a band with my husband back in the days of live music prior to DJs.

Around 1980 I purchased a dream instrument. I bought a King Silver Flare. He was stunning. I named the instrument Mr. Handsome. His tone quality and the balance of the horn in my hands were both excellent. I had plenty of opportunities to enjoy playing this horn.

I played in the orchestra pit for the Port Arthur Little Theater and the Beaumont Community Players. I played for church any time I was needed and was part of the Beaumont Community Band for a number of years. Around 1984 I started a five piece chamber group named The Triangle Chamber Brass. I made all of us elaborate Renaissance costumes and we played for a number of events for quite a while.

Alas, in 2013, the time had come for me to make life decisions. (Many of these were based on what I learned when I put mother in a care facility and had to deal with all her stuff that meant something to her but meant nothing to everyone else.) I knew my daughter wouldn’t have any use for a trumpet. My niece, who also played the trumpet in school, did not continue her music beyond high school.

With a very heavy heart, I took it to the music store in Beaumont where I worked for ages and put it in the hands of their shop manager to clean, polish and put Mr. Handsome into mint condition. I had cared for it lovingly over the decades, but a total cleaning was required if I was going to pass the instrument on to someone else.

While there, I asked one of the owners if they could put me in contact with a band director who might have a musician worthy of an instrument their family could not afford and who would deserve a gift of this magnitude. He gave me the name of a junior high director in Baytown, Texas. As soon as Mr. Handsome came out of the shop, I made the call.

The director had the name of a seventh grader who was talented, but financially unable to own an instrument. She had him on a school issued trumpet. She told me she wanted to have a talk with the family to ensure the young man was going to commit to continuing his music before I put a clostly item into the hands of a 13 year old.

I will call him Frank because I don’t want to use his real name. The director had a meeting with the family and questioned Frank as to his hopes and dreams with music. This young lad spends most of his free time in the band hall - a clear indication of his love of music. When the director told the family that, if Frank was indeed going to continue his music through high school, there was an individual who wanted to give him an instrument that would be his very own. Frank was elated. His mother wept. His father was overwhelmed. Their story moved me to tears. I knew I was doing the right thing. Instead of selling it on Ebay, I would net far more by placing this horn in the hands of a young person with a dream.

I made arrangements to meet the director and Frank before first class bell rang. Stepping into that band hall brought back a million memories. It smelled like every band hall in the world. Frank was waiting. He was practically floating over the floor. When I opened the case, I could hear him gasp. His hand trembled as it fluttered over the silver. He didn’t even attempt to pick it up for fear of putting a single finger print on it. He hovered over it reverently. The director sent him on to first class. His eyes clearly showed his excitement. I was sure he wouldn’t pay attention in any class prior to band class. He virtually bounced out of the room.

Through the eyes of this young musician, I was brought back to the day I first held Mr. Handsome. A wash of emotion overwhelmed me. The last time I played was Easter Sunday 2012. During the ensuing year I was consumed with packing up mother’s house, selling it and moving myself to relocate in Baytown. It was a tough year. I have not worked that hard in ages. I was exhausted – mentally, physically and emotionally. I decided to make big changes in life. Giving away a beloved instrument was just one of the items on my check list.

When the director asked if I would be interested in playing the piano to accompany students like Frank during Solo and Ensemble season, I told her I would be honored to accompany this young person. It will do my heart good to hear the music flowing from this instrument and knowing that it will be loved and appreciated for years to come.

It was a tough decision, but it was the right decision. 

A Gal and Her Bra

I just pissed myself off by doing the dumbest thing. I did some laundry yesterday – the last load being dog towels and work rags. It has been raining a bit recently, so I have needed to dry 16  paws before they enter the house. My rule is to ‘wash’ the washing machine after the dog towel load to clean out any remaining dog hair. This rule comes from a lesson learned in life. Well, I've slept since yesterday and grabbed a priority basket of lingerie to wash. And I didn’t clean out the machine prior to doing this.

Only we women know what misery it can be to wear an ill-fitting, or cheaply made, bra. It took me ages to find the right make and model that allows me to play the piano without straps slipping as I stretch out on the keyboard. I even patronized those expensive, exclusive shops in the mall. All the Fit Experts claimed to have the perfect design for my needs. No sooner than I tried on the pricey garment, I called each attendant in to see what I tried to describe was happening and what needed to be prevented by their top of the line model. Sure enough, the straps slipped in front of their eyes. One lady, proving she didn’t listen to a word I said in the initial interview, was dumb enough to say, “Why would you do your arm way out like that?” My reply was, “Because the very outer keys on the piano keyboard are way over yonder, and I have to lunge to slam down the low A octaves for the big finish.” I got a blank look. Needless to say, I didn’t purchase the item, even after she tried to convince me it was perfect for me. Sister, I can’t play a passage on an organ or piano in front of the whole church and then reach in my blouse to yank my bra strap back into place. Well, I guess I could, but I would look like I was doing right arm-left arm exercises as I fondle myself. With me being single, I guess the world would understand.

So, back to my laundry lesson. . . A few years ago, I had an uncomfortable feeling regarding a sensitive area that fits into the center of the cup of the bra. I kept checking myself to see if some spot, or bump, was coming up. I was thinking I might be showing signs of that rare funky cancer that’s out there. I found myself checking several times that day. A spot just on the rosey bit of flesh was itching and burning like crazy. Nothing showed after several hours, but the irritation became worse. I finally got a magnifying glass and my sewing lamp (which is an aluminum shop lamp most guys have in the garage) (not kidding) and examined myself. In the prospect of this examine my eye flicked to the fabric of the cup of the bra. Lo and behold, one of Bella’s hard guard hairs had wedged itself in the material and had been poking me all day long. Boink, Boink, Boink. All I needed was a cartoon sound bite to go with my misery. Once I plucked the offensive hair out of the weave of the fabric I was fine. And yes, I am that sensitive. And Bella’s hair is that strong.

Case in point: I called my sister over one evening and handed her the tweezers and a needle and asked her to remove a splinter from the bottom of my foot. I couldn’t see to remove it, so I needed her help. I turned around, flipped my foot up for her to see where the splinter was and heard her utter the classic, “Whuuuuuuut?” It was no splinter. It was a dog hair. She couldn’t believe my feet are soft enough for a dog hair to pierce.

So, anytime I get this miserable stabbing feeling, I check for stray doggie follicles. What can I say - it’s part of my life. Hence, I have made the rule of washing the washing machine before the finer things go in. Even when I follow the rule, I still scope both sides of the fabric for any strays that may slip in on me.

Today I am relegated to brushing away as much as possible before I hang them to dry. Once dry I will have to pull out the lint roller. Stubborn little cusses will have to be plucked using a magnifying glass and the shop light.

Dumb-ass. Dumb-ass. Dumb-ass