IKEA Adventure

I was in the neighborhood, it was lunch-time and there were a few small items I wanted to pick-up. I hadn't been to IKEA for several months, and an hour spent there would be a nice break.

As I carried my plate of meat balls and boiled potatoes, with gravy and lingonberry jam, through the lunchroom, I was surprised to see Pastor Bill with two of his parishoners, Emma and Franklin. We greeted each other, then I proceeded to a table in the corner, removed my food from the tray and propped up the book I'd brought along. Suddenly Pastor Bill was at my elbow. "I didn't mean to ignore you. Why don't you come over to our table and join us?"

"Well," I answered, "I brought a book to read."

"Yes," he mused, "it would be hard to read with Emma at the table." Emma is a short, talkative women in her eighties, now bent over with arthritis and carrying a cane. Franklin is a pale, reserved man in his early nineties, slight and still spry, but carrying a cane, too, a white one. They have been long-time members of Pastor Bill's parish, and strong supporters of the church.

We frequently run into Pastor Bill with Emma and Franklin. I don't think Emma drives, and since Franklin lost his sight, they've walked long distances to various community events, the halt leading the blind. They've succeed in staying active and in touch with what's going on. But as Emma's arthritis has become more debilitating, Pastor B. has taken on what he calls his "pastoral ministry" by driving them places and doing things for them. He is, in a way, taking the place of the child they never had. Pastor B., in his early sixties, is the right age to be a son of Emma and Franklin. But you would not mistake him for their biological son because Pastor B. is very tall and powerfully built, with a smiling red face and an exuberant personality.

After lunch, my path crossed several times with the threesome. Pastor B. is just in the process of moving from an apartment into a house. Emma and Franklin are preparing to move from a house into a very small apartment in a senior citizen's complex. Pastor B. explained that he was picking up a few things for his new house. "But," he complained, "we haven't been able to find a convertable sofa-bed for Franklin. There are only futons and they're too hard to handle."

"I have a nice convertable I bought at IKEA a couple years ago," I replied. "But items at IKEA do tend to come and go. Let me look in the sofa department and see if I can spot something."

We left Emma and Franklin on a bench in a children's play area and shortcutted across the serpentine route IKEA customers are normally led along. There were actually several convertable sofas, but Pastor B. may not have recognized them because most do not look like the old sofa-beds our parents bought in the 1950s. We found two that were definite possibilities: one modern-looking and very easy to convert, and one more traditional in styling, but a bit more complicated to convert. Pastor B. excitedly went to fetch Emma and Franklin, then he and I explained the features and draw-backs of each model.

I didn't stay long enough to learn what they finally decided, but the encounter left me with several things to think about. I admired an ageing couple's dignity and their determination to stay active and in touch with the world in spite of increasing physical disabilities. Franklin asked if the bedding would need to be taken off the sofa each morning, and we assured him it could stay in place, with a nice bedspread on top. Emma added, "Even though Franklin doesn't see, he makes the beds."

She confided that Franklin would soon be 91. I replied that my father was almost 92 and is OK physically. But his mind is not good. Emma said with quiet pride, "Franklin's mind is as it was in his youth."

I could see it was true. He didn't seem confused when several people were talking at once, and when we read parts of the furniture specification sheets to him, he processed the measurements quickly and repeated the size in equivalent terms.

And I pondered the meaning of "family". This unlikely trio --- a gently gossipy old lady, a reserved and scholarly old man, and a physically commanding and flamboyantly gay, middle-aged cleric, talking to each other in easy intimacy, like I would talk to my sister or my daughter.

"You know that nice bedspread you gave me? I can give it back if you want to use it on the sofa-bed."

"I have lots of twin-size sheets I don't need any more, if you'd like them."

I'll return to IKEA --- it's one of my favorite places to shop --- and I'll enjoy the visual stimulation of well-designed items, attractively displayed. But I probably won't be as enriched and morally stimulated as I was during this particular IKEA adventure. And I won't have quite as much fun!

New Underwear

When we travel we usually pack old clothes, sometimes very old. Although I admit I've succumbed to buying a new wardrobe for a trip, experience has proved that old tried-and-true outfits are more comfortable, show wrinkles and dirt less, and if they get chewed up by an aggressive laundry or come out of the coin-op machine the color of dirty bubble gum, I don't mind throwing them away.

We left home for a three-month stay in Europe with all our old underwear. In the back of our minds was the idea that if we had more stuff to bring home than we started out with, we could jettison the underwear at the end of the trip. For awhile we wondered if the underwear would last that long. Holes got bigger and bigger, elastic lost its stretch and came loose. I started mending, and washing things by hand between weekly laundry sessions. But we made it, and when we departed, most of our underwear stayed behind in the Daily Bin Store (as the dumpster shed in England is called.)

When the kids left home, I started doing laundry every two weeks. My husband and I produce one load of bedding and towels, one load of white wash, one load of medium and one load of dark in that amount of time, and it seems like the most efficient schedule. But it means that we need two week's worth of underwear, plus a few extras for those times when we change more than once a day or when I don't get the laundry done quite on time.

Today I bought new underwear. I made a run to Target and WalMart for a three-pack of men's boxers, four bras, and three six-packs of women's briefs. I had enough socks. For undershirts, my husband wears t-shirts that people give him with things printed on them. He also mysteriously produced a dozen pair of new or nearly-new boxers. (He must have bought them some time ago and put them away.) And 18 pairs of men's socks arrived in the mail; they'd been ordered from the internet because my husband takes a size that's hard to find, and they accounted for the biggest part of the sum I spent on underwear.

So even though what I bought today was not really our full supply, I still resented spending $283.36 on underwear. I know it will last a long time; most of the boxers my husband threw away had been purchased at outlet prices from Big Lots, nearly 20 years ago. Our culture dictates that we wear underwear, and I'd feel cold and naked without it. Besides, what would happen if we were in an accident and someone found out we were not wearing underwear!!

Underwear is a necessity, but I can think of a lot more interesting ways to spend $283.36.

Any Volunteers?

Reading Jeninco's blog, Boulder Moment, brought back many thoughts about the North American practice of volunteering.

Most charitible organizations and churches could not exist without the efforts of volunteers, and most organizations are set up to accept volunteer help. In fact some organizations that rely heavily on volunteers have a paid staff person whose primary job is to manage the volunteers. The international center at our local univeristy has such a person who organizes and schedules all kinds of services and events for foreign students and their families: ESL partners, cooking and shopping demos, play groups, tours of local points of interest, even legal and technical advice about buying a used car, or renewing a visa. The people who actually carry out the work are mostly volunteers.

My sister-in-law just started volunteering with the political party she supports; she's unhappy with the present political situation, and working for the opposition is her way of doing something about it. My husband's secretary, after she retired, volunteered to shelve books at her local library. She loves to read, and she's a very efficient and organized person, so the job appealed to her for a couple of reasons.

My husband and I enjoyed a recent International Festival at our local elementary school. I suppose it was a fund-raiser of sorts, but more importantly, it brought the whole community together. It was inspiring to see children and parents from many different countries wearing their native costumes, explaining their cultural customs, and sharing their ethnic foods. I'm not sure what I ate at the international buffet --- it was like a huge potluck --- but all of it was delicious. While we ate, we watched the children perform. The kids were excited, the teachers were high, the parents and grandparents were proud and the music was good. Everyone had worked hard and contributed time, energy and resources. Could any highly-funded program create so much understanding and cooperation?

When our kids were little we lived in Europe for a year. It was my intention to volunteer at the school the kids attended or at a local library or hospital in order to learn the language. But I soon discovered this just wasn't done. When, somewhat later, we entertained a couple from then newly independent Czech Republic, I took the wife on a tour of volunteer agencies in our area. The idea of philanthropy, not to mention volunteer work, did not exist in the former communist country. When the government stopped supplying minimal social services, no one knew how to step in and take up the slack.

A generation ago, young, stay-at-home wives and mothers made up most of the volunteer army. Now with so many women working full-time, we see still-vigorous retirees filling the volunteer slots. Bright, home-schooled teenagers are fully capable volunteers. Some companies give their workers time-off for volunteer work.

We must nurture and cherish our volunteer networks. Any volunteers?

The Red Sweater

I was very happy this morning to see Maria come to church wearing a red sweater. She was a bit late, and I didn't have a chance to talk with her then, but during the sharing of the peace, I said, "You must be feeling better."

"Yes," she replied, "a lot better."

"I could tell," I responded. "You've been wearing black and grey. Today you're wearing a red sweater."

Maria is pregnant, and she's been feeling pretty yucky during the first three months; very tired, unable to keep food down, not up to doing much. She hasn't complained but there's been a look of patient suffering in her eyes.

Her first pregnancy was unexpected, and she was upset to find she was going to have a child. But once she accepted the situation, all went well. Their daughter has been such a joy to her and her husband, that they planned this second baby. But the "morning" sickness (actually "all day" sickness) and fatigue are new this time around.

I kept reassuring Maria of what she already knew; that she'd eventually start feeling better. (I didn't mention that a few unfortunate women are still throwing up on their way to the labor room.) Now I'm relieved to know that she'll soon enjoy food and be full of energy again, and that she feels like wearing her red sweater.

Super-sized

Each year during my annual physical check-up, the doctor has a serious conversation with me about loosing weight. A year ago, I told her I'd try to loose 15 pounds before I saw her again. Alas! I only managed to loose five pounds. But I'll keep trying, and making this public commitment may strengthen my resolve.

During my life-time, lots of other things have gotten bigger. Our grandparents raised large families in two- or three-bedroom houses. Our parents had fewer children, but felt privileged to have a bedroom for each family member. We raised two kids with a separate bedroom for each, plus a guest room, family room and office. Now in our neighborhood, families with only one or two children are building "monster" houses.

In the 1950s, our parents eagerly anticipated their first car and their first television set. Now we're in the minority with only one of each.

But I must admit that we have five computers, four of which are actively used. And this in spite of the fact that computer memories have gotten bigger at an incomprehensible rate.

My first personal computer held the equivalent of four or five typed pages before I had to download the memory onto a micro cassette tape. When floppy disks first came out (the 5 1/4" disks that really were floppy) they held an incredible 144 kilobytes. My second personal computer had a hard drive that held 10 megabytes, and my husband said I'd never need that much memory. I filled it in one year with text files --- before we had room for image files or color. When my husband brought home our first 3 1/2" floppy disk, it was strangely rigid. Since it had cost $15.00, the two of us shared one, and it took awhile to use all 1.4 megabytes.

Now I backup files to an iPod that stores almost 40 gigabytes. By my calculation, nowdays we get 1000 times more memory for the same dollar. Of course, software has gotten lots bigger, too, and I don't think anything of working with a single image that takes 40 megabytes.

As Americans, we work longer hours for larger paychecks, live in bigger houses, drive more cars, eat more food, buy more stuff, consume more electricty and burn more oil and gas. We think big. Maybe that's because we occupy a country with vast amounts of geographical space. Are we like goldfish? They grow as big as their environment will allow, whether that be a small goldfish bowl or a large pond.

Getting bigger is not necessarily bad --- I'm not ready to give up my iPod! But some kinds of super-sizing can be a selfish and ultimately distructive. And we can't super-size forever. Let's at least temper the present trend with a corresponding effort to super-size our compassion, our tolerence and our willingness to share with others.

Digital domesticity

When I started using a personal computer nearly 20 years ago, I naively thought that in this "office" environment, I'd be free from domestic tasks.

Wrong! It takes a lot of housekeeping to configure systems, organize files, and delete junk. The vocabulary is different; my mother would have said she was fixing up, redding up, and cleaning out. (By the way, is our technical world freezing out these colorful phrasal verbs --- verb followed by a preposition?) And, the physical effort of housecleaning on a computer is certainly minor compared to doing a thorough spring cleaning; no moving of furniture, no scrubbing of floors on hands and knees, no bags of trash to heft and carry out.

I'm not sure the mental effort is any less. I have a good sense of physical volume, size and time. When I look at a room in disarray, I can come up with a good estimate of how long it will take to put it in order again. But when I read on my computer screen that a file is occupying so many bytes of memory, my mind goes blank. I have a hard time remembering the difference between kilobytes, megabytes and gigabytes, although I have the general impression that gigabytes are very, very big.

This week, my husband and I have spent a lot of time doing digital housekeeping: reconfiguring email, setting up new accounts, checking passwords, backing up files. The big Mac is in the hospital having surgery to insert a new hard drive. Actual housecleaning wasn't on my list of things to do. But I got a nice bonus when I went to burn several CDs to back up my digital photos: the time it took to burn one CD was just right for cleaning out one shelf in the kitchen. Now I can find what I want to fix for supper and the family photo I took last Thanksgiving.

Grandmother's rug

I just finished assembling Grandmother's braided rug.

It was actually made by my husband's grandmother, who died in 1943 when my husband was five years old. She was an expert with a needle, and she worked compulsively. This was a woman who crocheted tablecloths and even curtains. She made quilts and knitted multi-colored, striped mittens for anyone in the village who would give her yarn. We have a diary she kept near the end of her life, and during one period, she was knitting sweaters at the rate of one a week.

When we cleared out the house of my husbands' parents, we found an almost-completed braided rug. I brought it home where it reposed for a few more years in a box. But, wanting something to do with my hands while I watched television, I got it out, and found that only two more rounds would complete the oval.

As I laced the braided strips together, I studied the fabrics, mostly wool, all obviously from discarded clothing: a dark grey, a black, and a grey and black tiny check, probably men's suits; a light grey and cream twill, a brown and cream tweed and a muted, pale yellow, probably from women's jackets or coats. There was even a strip that looked like it had once been a pair of dark brown socks. The fabric smelled dusty and old, but it was still strong and rough.

"Well," exclaimed my daugher, when I reported that I'd finished her great-grandmother's rug. "Now you know what might happen to your unfinished projects." I don't know if that was a warning or a promise.

Grandmother's rug now lays on our bedroom floor where we'll use it until it wears out. And everytime pass by, I think of a woman I never knew, a woman who lived in a different time and place but whose legacy helped shape my children and grand-children.