The Dump, part II

All this talk about the dump has reminded me of two personal stories of the East Hampton recycling center.

The first is rather humorous, at least it is now, looking back on it. When my husband and I were engaged to be married, we spent a lot of time in my yard, transforming it from what I called " a desert" into what my Mom called "a jungle." Mike, being a plant-lover and a landscaper, would often get 'freebies' from customers or his nursery connections. Sometimes he'd find discarded plants at the dump. One day, while accompanying him to the dump, we drove around to the landscape dumping section. We were on a hunt for some large stones for use in the flower gardens. We found a pile of rocks and began to load some choices into the back of his truck. We realized it was nearly closing time for the dump, and decided we'd better make our way around the mountains of dirt to the gate. As we came up over the hill on the road to the dump, we saw that a man was getting into his truck after locking the gate from the other side. We honked the horn to get his attention, but it was too late. Either he was deaf or too intent to get home for supper, but either way, we found ourselves locked in the dump!

Ok....there we were, sitting in the truck, laughing about our dilemna. There was no way out with the dump truck, although a small person might be able to slip between the fence post and the gate post, which is what we finally determined that I should do. Then I walked to the One Stop Market phone booth to call the police. I happened to know the dispatcher who answered, and I made her promise not to put the story in the local paper. She asked, "why? what happened?" As I told her, she laughed along with me and then said, "Look at the headlines on Thursday!" When she finally calmed down, she said she'd send someone with a key to get us out of our lock up!

When I got back to Mike, we were still laughing at our predicament, when along came Buzzy Brown in his pick up truck and his key to the gates. We told him how we came to be inside after hours, and said, 'the police work fast around here, sending you so quickly.' He told us that he wasn't sent, but was on his daily run for metal for the junk yard. We left, without ever seeing a policeman, and with the knowledge that if we ever stayed too late at the dump again, Buzzy would eventually show up to free us!

Stand by for another blog with my second personal story in the "Adventures at the Dump."

The East Hampton Dump

You never know what will show up on a social networking website. There's one friend on my list there who, quite regularly, posts photos of 'dump treasures'. These photographs have created quite a rousing discussion of the dump at East Hampton.

Some folks are sharing the finding of 'good stuff' they've rescued from the recycling area. One spoke of some items that sound suspiciously like things we delivered to the spot while we were in the midst of a move. Others have remarked about the 'camping out' of many who seek out things in good shape which they can sell at yard sales for a little extra cash. I know one man who is a 'regular' at the pavillion. He waits for a drop off, then rushes in like a vulture at a carcass, and lays claim to whatever pleases him. He told me that he's found many old pieces of jewelry, including diamond rings, in the drawers of discarded bureaus and desks. There were great numbers of those who sat on the tailgates of their trucks, waiting all day for just the 'perfect" finds. My husband and I arrived one day with our refuse, to find a semi-circle of folks having a 'tailgate party' and eating watermelon while they waited!

There has been discussion of the entertainment aspect of the dump. Shooting rats with pellet guns, was 'big' with some young men at the old Bull Path location, before it was fenced in. It was done after dark, when there was noone but other target shooters there.

In a place like East Hampton, summer renters discard many useful things at the end of the season. There are some wonderful things to be found at the recycling center, but I don't think I am so determined that I'd sit all day in the heat eating watermelon, to get them... even for free.

Kids' Version of "Fashion"

For a few years now, there has been a tendency for the younger generation of men to wear loose-fitting pants, with the waistband slung far down on the hips with boxer shorts in full view at the top. This whole sloppy look is a turn-off to this Grandmother, and I can tell you that if I was a young woman, instead of an old fogey, the look would still turn me off. (Thankfully, my grandsons haven't chosen this silly trend in 'fashion')

The girls, too, cannot be left out. Some of them are wearing low waistbands, but at least the 'rise' is where it ought to be, rather than having the crotch of the pants hanging at the knees. What my complaint with these 'hip hugging' waists is, the tummy above it is not usually flat enough to carry the look attractively. There is often a roll of flab above it which shows beneath the too-snug t-shirts. Worse yet is the idea of exposing the skin of the belly between the naval and the low waistband. Don't these kids have mirrors in their homes?

What annoys me most is that the clothing designers seem to cater to the youth of the world. I have to wear clothing, too, and so does a whole realm of people who are not built to wear things designed for people of twenty years or less. My husband complains everytime he wants to buy a pair of jeans, because a regular rise with a regular cut, straight leg has to be searched for, and is not readily found among the piles and piles of 'relaxed-fit' baggy-butt items.

I know, I know, I sound like an old lady. Well, I'm working on that...not the sounding of it, but the being of one. I fear that I sound an awful lot like my grandfather did in the early seventies. That was the time when skirts were at an all-time high, not much more than a very wide belt.
If females weren't wearing those, they were wearing what was known as 'grannie dresses', long skirts to the ankle. There were also bell-bottoms and 'hippie' garments, many made in India. Hairdos were 'natural'....long, straight locks parted in the middle or a wild crop of curls known as an "Afro". Whatever you were born with ...'natural'. The young men would grown their hair long and their sideburns would grow to the jaw bone, sometimes trimmed into 'mutton chops'.
My grandfather normally didn't say much about things like this, but I remember one day when he really railed upon me about the look young people had adopted.

Well, the bottom line is that we all grow up and eventually we do find mirrors. We, as young people, experiment with our hair and clothing and attitudes, in order to find out what 'fits' us.
What usually fits best when you're young, is looking like everyone else does. Eventually, we figure out that we can think for ourselves, not be governed by fashion designers, choosing more flattering clothing, and find a hair do that works with our individual facial structure. The young people out there today will figure it all out, too, in time. They will, like we do now, look back someday upon the photographs taken in their youth, and be appalled by their appearance.

There IS justice, afterall.

St Valentine's Day

It's February 14th, the accepted date of an annual celebration of love. I heard on our news this morning that the 'holiday' goes back to the third century. My own celebrations don't go back that far, obviously, but I've had a good many of them.

I have vague recollections of grade school parties, when we'd each decorate a shoe box with red crepe paper, hearts and ribbons. These would become our mailboxes where our friends would deposit their paper offerings to us. I remember some teachers would hand out a list with all the classmates names on it so that no one was left out. There would be refreshments, usually cupcakes or pretty homemade cookies, heart-shaped and decorated with red glittery sprinkles or pink icing. Sometimes there would be small paper cups with candy message hearts too.

As I grew into teen years, those parties at school had ceased. By then there was a 'boy friend' who was faithful to deliver a pretty card and some sort of gift. Sometimes it was a box of chocolates, sometimes a piece of jewelry. I still have a silver pin in the form of an open heart and a gold chain bracelet with a gold heart charm. I've removed the charm, however, because it was engraved with his name and mine, and those days are long gone! I do wear the bracelet now and again, with no thought of where it came from.

As far back as I can remember, at our family dinner table on Valentine's day, there was a small heart-shaped box of candy on our plates....a gift from Mom and Dad. I carried that tradition on with my own children when they were younger.

My husband is always good about cards, and he's quite a romantic man. He always recognizes Valentine's Day in some special way. Every year at this time, or at Christmas when the jewelry stores are incessantly hawking their wares on TV, I jokingly say..."oh yeah! There's my perfect gift" or "that diamond has my name written all over it." He knows I'm kidding. But, truthfully, I've come to realize that it's the little things he does throughout the year, not just on February 14th, that mean the most to me. It's not the things that can be wrapped in a pretty box, but rather the wrapping of his arms around me. It's not new little trinkets to be worn on my body, but the remembrance of what he said when we were shopping for our wedding rings. When I see my white gold wedding ring ... engraved with tiny stars, his words that day replay, 'you should have this one because Kathleen still puts stars in my eyes.'

Why is it that we have to designate a special day on which to celebrate love? Wouldn't it be nice if people would celebrate the 'little things' every day year-round? Wouldn't it be a warmer, sweeter world if each of extended a smile, a word of encouragement, a small act of kindness to each person we have contact with? I think so.

Stockings

Because we women have, for decades, fallen prey to the advertised idea that we must have smooth and perfect legs, we don't feel fully-dressed when wearing dresses, without an undergarment called panty hose.

Yesterday I took a new pair of L'Eggs out of its little cardboard container, and began the arduous task of putting them on. First I pulled them...lengthwise. Then I tugged them along each leg and at the panty...to allow them to stretch a bit before attempting to put my foot into them. Ok. I was ready.

I sat on the edge of the tub, with the entire left leg in the palm of my left hand. I inserted my left foot into the toe and gently led the silky, tan fabric up my leg as far as the knee. Then I repeated the process on the right side. Success, so far. No runs. Now there was the continuation process to be dealt with.

Standing up, I attempted to pull the stocking up my thigh on the left leg. Something was wrong.
It was very, very tight...(think tournaquet). The right leg was not quite as tight, but still difficult. I leaned over and plucked the box out of the wastebasket to check the size. Ok. It read the correct size....and according to the chart on the box, it should fit someone thirty pounds heavier and quite a bit taller than my stubby little frame. I tossed the container back into the trash and continued the chore at hand.

I unrolled and pulled upward. I wiggled. I twisted. I yanked. I bent. I marched. I tugged. I pulled and jumped at the same time. I took a deep breath and grunted, all to no avail. Those L'Eggs were NOT going up this time.

I took them off and went to the drawer for another pair, one that's been worn before. I repeated the gyrations and accomplished the feat, feeling like a stuffed sausage, only to discover that there was a huge run from the heel up the back of my calf. I unrolled my second skin and tied a knot in the garment, and slam dunked that baby into the garbage with everything short of a cuss word!

Back to the drawer to find something else. Determining that time for church was rapidly approaching, I chose the 'easy way out'... a pair of knee high trouser socks and went to the closet for my favorite pair of black dress slacks. While pressing the fold line out of the leg where had been hung over a hanger, I thought about how vulnerable and vain we women are about so many things. For years we've worn stockings...why, other than warmth? Why would we subject ourselves to leg coverings and all of the aggravations associated with that?

There were days when there were just the silk stockings with the seams up the back, knotted at the top to keep them up. Then there was the war-time, when silk was precious and too expensive to induldge in, so women put leg make up on their legs, and drew a line up the back of their legs with an eyebrow pencil, to give the appearance of that seam, which would never stay straight! After WWII women wore 'nylons', a sort of 'fake silk'. To keep those things in place, there were lumpy garters, attached to uncomfortable girdles (think tournaquet again.) Following that, there was the garter belt, more comfortable than a girdle, it was a belt of fabric and elastic, with 4 long elastic strips which had a garter attached at the end to keep the stockings up. Often there was not enough tension on the stocking itself, and there would be wrinkles at the ankles, like baggy elephant legs have. To prevent that, someone came up with the idea of panty hose. No girdles, no belts, no lumpy garters. It seems like it would be a brilliant idea, but the agony involved in donning the item makes me wonder if the creator is responsible for inventing the many methods Chinese torture.

Because there is not much alternative, other than wearing slacks to every event I attend, I will once again attempt the wearing of pantyhose. If you want me next Sunday morning, look for me in my Master bathroom. I'll be the one who looks as if she's doing a native ritual dance of the hunt. The grimace on my face will tell you that my role is that of the hunted victim.

Footwear

Not too long ago, I vented my thoughts about the clothing available to short, chubby, late middle-aged women. Today, I'm going to visit the shoe department.

Young women with strong muscles, young feet and little common sense, have the availability of a huge assortment of flimsy, strappy, non-sturdy shoes. There are thick-soled, round toes, and dainty flats with pointed-toes. There are stilettos, and chunky heels, both of which could break an ankle with one wrong step. There are crocks and clogs and slides.

Every time I go shopping, I look for a new pair of shoes. I've been wearing the same shoes to church for years. Why? Because they are the only comfortable pair I own that actually fits properly! I try them on in the store, I do the diligent check as to feel and fit as I walk around on the carpet. I bring them home, do the same careful examination as I walk on our carpet, only to find myself returning the footwear within days of the purchase.

Shoes are just NOT made for my feet. They pinch at the toe, they slide at the heel. They're not the size seven they claim to be, they're either too large or too small. The width normal width is either too wide, or it's too narrow. I know enough not to even attempt wide-width or narrow sizes. Shoe shopping is a futile chore for me.

I don't like flip flops because of that thing between the toe that causes a blister. I like open-toed strappy sandals in summer because it almost feels as if I'm barefoot. Well, it would feel that way if the straps were just a half inch longer so that they didn't suffocate my instep. I like dress boots, but with calves like mine, a knee-length boot is impossible for me to find. I'm suffering from a falling arch in my left foot, so a high heel is not feasible for me, and besides, I feel a little like the toe-dancing ballerina hippo in Disney's Fantasia when I'm stutting my stuff in high heels.

I'm not any more wild about bulky shoes than I am about bulky winter coats, so wearing work boots with my jeans doesn't thrill me. I used to wear clogs, but now I'm more comfortable in a lower 'slide'. I think crocs are quite comfortable, but equally as ugly. I'm not six years old, so little flat 'mary janes' is not an option for me, though I've seen other, younger women wearing them.

So, I continue to shop for shoes....most especially a nice pair of brown ones for church. As for every day, I wear a well-arched workout shoe, most would call a sneaker. Oh, and that brings up another topic of contention...sneakers. But don't let me start that one now, or I'll be here all day.

Past Lives for The Present Ones

As I sit here looking at piles, no...mountains, of photographs to be creatively placed in my grandkids scrapbooks, I find myself wishing that my family members before me had been as enamored with the history-keeping. Oh yes, we've got some photos, glued with something like "Liquid Nails" to the black pages. One or two of the pictures have been labeled, but the majority of them are not, so unless we recognize the faces or the places, that history has been lost.

In my feeble attempts to keep up with my hobby, I not only adhere my loved ones faces to lovely, acid-free papers which in some way coordinate with the visual aid, but I date them and pen a brief journaling of what was happening to whomever is pictured there. If the story is longer, I generally type it out on the computer and give the story a page of it's own. This is my way of sharing past lives with the present ones....and preserving ours for future souls.

The kids love to see their own pictures, as well as each other's. They laugh at the clothing they were wearing or grimace at the way their hair was done. They enjoy remembering the events or asking questions about people, places or things. I enjoy spending that time with them, as we turn the pages of our lives, reliving our histories and those of our ancestors. I feel that they should know who their fore-family members were and how they lived. It is a history lesson, but it doesn't 'feel' like one to them. They are curious about life the way it was before the technologies that they live with entered our world. They want to see the faces of the people who they call Great-grandpa, and his parents, and their parents, because they were gone before the children were born.

There is so much to do, so many things to share, so much that I have to tell. It is a joy for me! I do, however, have an aching within my chest to know more than I do about the every-day details of those who were gone before I arrived. No one can give that to me now. I must work with what I've got and fill in the blanks with assumptions that their lives were lived in much the same way as others of the time period. I learn from those who did not leave those facts to me, however unimportant. I will add as much detail about 'today' as I can find time and thought for.

As I look toward that mountain of photos, I think it's time for me to leave this writing, and get busy. It will be a race for time as it is, and there's not a minute to waste. I'll see you later.....