Living in Church

Over the years, some of my family and friends have commented that we 'live in church.' Granted, we often spend a good deal of time at our church, but I've yet to actually sleep there, even during the most boring of times!

However, I have often wished we could purchase a church building after it's been determined to be no longer useful to it's congregants. I want a REAL church, not a modern, flat roofed, sprawling brick building, but one with a steeple, bell-tower. loft, and stained glass windows. If it still has old wooden pews and an alter, all the better. Why do I want such a thing? Because I dream of actually living in church.

I've seen homes on TV, beautiful homes, transformed from church buildings. I think I had the notion long before I'd seen any, though. Think of living in something with high-ceiling, and a large balcony or loft, over-looking the area below. It might be perfect to place a complete second floor above it, or around it, with some glass windows that would allow views and light to the lower level. Think of a master bath which incorporates the baptismal pool. Wow! What a bathtub or indoor hot tub that would make. The stained glass windows would add such ambiance to each room...splintered color washing over the area with warmth and reminder of age-old Biblical figures and their lives! The wooden altar would make a lovely dining table with pews as its benches...or would that use be too sacrilegious? I have no desire to be disrespectful to God in my use of the church building or its furnishings!

I do hate the thought of these lovely old buildings being sold to who knows who and for who knows what purpose when there are people like me who would live in them, knowing what they stand for and respecting and preserving them. But, I fear that this one of my dreams will not come to reality. It's probably alright, in the long run, because with all my thoughts of the beauty and wonder and 'good feeling' I have about living in such a sacred place, there's another handful of thoughts. First of all, I wouldn't be happy to live in a busy area, where most churches are built. Secondly, the cost of a building in such a commercial (usually) area would be far too high for my wallet. Thirdly, the cost of renovation would probably be equal to the selling price. On top of that, what on earth would it cost to heat the place?

All things happen for a reason. I'm just as happy to live in my home, which is nearly as sacred to me because of the love in it as a church is.

The Dump, part III

This part 3 of my adventures at the East Hampton landfill and the second of my personal stories concerning the place.

When we were engaged to be married, we had long discussions and shopping trips in regard to 'the perfect' wedding rings. We finally made an agreement about them...they would be yellow gold 'wide' bands with etched edges, exactly like the ones Mike's grandparents had. When we bought them, we had engravings placed on the inside of each band. "Grow old with me. 6-15-96"

My husband was in the habit of taking off his watch and rings during his working hours. He'd place his watch on the dashboard of the truck and his rings would be put on his keyring. At the end of the day, when his tree-care or landscaping work was done, he'd put the ring back on his finger before he started the truck.

One April day in 1998 on his route toward home, he made a trip to the dump with some debris. While there, he spotted a pile of bulbs which had been cleaned out of someone's flower gardens. Not being one to leave any green, living plant to die, he began to scoop up the bulbs and put them into the back of the truck. After two wheelbarrow loads had been 'rescued' he made an unfortunate discovery. His wedding ring had slipped off. He began to search the area on his hands and knees. Three or four of the employees at the landfill got involved too, gently raking and scouring the spot where the bulbs had been, and the area between that and the truck. It was closing time, so they kindly roped off the area with yellow crime tape, and told Mike to return in the morning.

Mike came home, afraid to tell me what had happened, but I noticed immediately that his ring wasn't on his hand. Sheepishly, he told me the story. We gently took the bulbs from the truck, placing them into wheelbarrows, all the while keeping a close eye out for the precious ring. We didn't find it.

Early the next day, I arrived with my camera as the men gathered around Mike to search the spot at the dump. It was a vain effort which is sadly documented by the photos in my scrapbook.
We thanked the Town employees for their consideration and help, and both of us went off to work with heavy hearts.

On a Christmas a few years later, I bought Mike another wedding band, very similar to the first, which has not yet been engraved. I got down on one knee and tearfully asked him if he'd be my forever husband. The giving of the second ring is not the same, even the sentiment in it is not, because the first one was bought together and given together with great and meaningful vows offered on our very special day. However, it does tell the world that this wonderful man is married, and he's married to me!

Somewhere in that pile of debris on Springs Road is a symbol of our precious and long-lasting love. Someday, long after we've gone from this earth, I imagine that there will be the finding of our special symbol. Someone will discover it in the dirt, read the inside, and wonder about the people who loved each other and this size 13 band of gold that signified their union. What will they do with the ring, I wonder? Will it end up in a scrap pile of 'old gold'? No, I don't want to think about that. I'd rather think that we might be as lucky as some I've read of where a lost ring finds it's way, miraculously, back to it's original owner. Wouldn't that be something?

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.