Homely

            I like the word “homely.” My dictionary says “homely” means not attractive or good looking. Yet it’s the secondary definition that appeals to me: simple or unpretentious; plain, and finally, characteristic of the home. People tend to value perfection and unblemished beauty, which is understandable, but I think those qualities have their limits. A wild flower is exquisite even though it waves its petals over hard scrabble ground dotted with weeds.

            Reality is homely. We treasure cracked china cups because they remind us of our grandparents who brought them out on special occasions so friends and relatives could sit around an old scarred kitchen table to celebrate a special event. Or, what about the faded quilt with the too large quilting stitches – far less than the desired twelve to an inch? Homely. Not quite perfect…isn’t supposed to be.

            I find a lot of homely items when I browse the antique stores. They appeal to me because I remember many from my childhood. For me, an antique becomes more desirable with a homely edge to it. I recall my father flipping down the side of the metal toaster to turn the bread over to toast the other side and I remember pink plastic transistor radios. These things aren’t pretty; they’re even a little ugly or funny looking now, but they make me smile.

            Have you ever seen a dog or cat so quirky looking you had to love it?

            Homely has a place in our lives. It has its own wild attraction. Things that are homely don’t demand much from us. We don’t need to polish or insure them. They are a large part of the fabric of our lives and perhaps we lose something when we discard them for something perfect.

           

Birdbrain at Work

            I’m worried about the cardinal bouncing on the holly branch across from my husband’s office window. Every few seconds, she flies toward the window pane, flutters against the glass and returns to her perch. She returns every day to her branch and repeats the attacks for hours, never concluding she is getting nowhere, will never accomplish her task and really should move on and get a mate or a life – whatever it is that makes a bird happy. 

            We assume she sees her reflection and thinks she is approaching another bird. On the other hand, if she is seeing what’s IN that room behind the window, she may be entertaining thoughts of nesting. Goodness knows there’s enough stuff in that room to make a bird want to move in and stake a claim for life. 

            As I’m tisk- tisking about her little bird brain draining her energy and time in a fruitless endeavor, I realize there may be a lesson here for me. I want to tell the bird, “move on and get a life; you’re getting nowhere here!” Instead, I think it would be wise for me to direct that pearl of wisdom back to myself. For years I’ve been cajoling, begging, encouraging – OK nagging- himself to clear out his man-cave. I’m like that little bird, making one useless foray after another.

            I’m no birdbrain. I’ve got it now. I’m moving on.

Life With a CSI

            My husband Gene was a CSI long before the occupation became popular. Years ago, he needed to explain what a “forensic chemist” was to someone who asked what he did for a living. Of course, after forty plus years in the crime lab, there are stories – lots of stories and many are downright funny.

            One cold wintery evening, Gene gulped a quick dinner before leaving in a blizzard to testify at night court in a rather distant county. His car no sooner disappeared into the swirling white mist, when the district attorney called to inform him the proceedings for that evening had been cancelled.  This was before the era of cell phones so I had no way to call my honey back to home and hearth. I did what I thought was the next best thing.

            Knowing he would need to take the Interstate for a bit, I called the State Troopers and began with,”Now I know this isn’t an emergency, but….” Since troopers bring evidence to his crime lab, it did not seem unreasonable to ask them to help their colleague. I got a tired, “we’ll do what we can lady, but….” from the officer on the line. “Just keep an eye out for him when you patrol, that’s all I ask.” My request seemed quite reasonable to me.

            A bit later, Gene opened the door and chuckled as walked into the kitchen. It seems he arrived at the courthouse and decided since he would be the last to testify he would kill some time and enjoy a banana split in the local diner.

            “I was sitting there with my ice cream and out of the corner of my eye I see one state trooper car after another drive by with lights flashing. I thought it must be a raid or something. When I got back to the courthouse, there was a trooper standing by his car.

            “Where were you?” he asked me. “We were patrolling for you. The court was cancelled for the evening. Your wife called us.”

             Then there was the time………….

American Quilt

            If I were rich and had no ties, I would study a map of the United States to find where I would put down shallow roots and live for a year. And then do it all again the following year.  Perhaps I would settle in New England – land of Norman Rockwell and lobsters. How about the bayou in Louisiana where I could eat gumbo and listen to Dixieland jazz? The Southwest may be interesting. I could live near pueblos and encounter American Indian culture.

            When our son was stationed at the Twenty Nine Palms Marine base in California, we visited and took a day trip through Death Valley. Turn to the right or left, look forward or backward, all we saw was dirt. Mountains of dirt; valleys of dirt, plateaus of dirt. Occasionally there would be a house situated in a lot made of dirt. I wondered how people looked around nature’s sandbox and picked one particular spot amid all that dirt to call home.

            We arrived at an intersection and pulled into an all-service rest stop. Gas pumps with a convenience store offering fast food and magazines, comprised the usual roadside oasis (without grass) that dot America. As I purchased my can of soda, I asked the cashier if she lived in Death Valley area all her life.

            “Oh no. We used to live in Rochester New York.”

            “Do you like it here?” I asked, wondering how she could have landed in this place.

            “Oh yea!”   She sounded enthusiastic.

            I couldn’t help asking, “why?”

            “It’s rural”

            Rural!!??  Lady, you passed rural a long time ago. This is pure desolation.

            It’s amazing how adaptable we humans are. We somehow manage not only to exist in extremely, hot, cold, dry, rainy, verdant, arid places, we thrive in them! The other evening my husband was watching The Swamp People on Animal Planet. It featured four fellows who made a living hunting alligators. One hunter sang the praises of life near a swamp; he declared he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

            Something for everyone in this great country! Wouldn’t it be awesome to make a traveling sampler from the  giant quilt called America?