Month: April 2023

Small World

/ Ann Coleman / 140 Comments

One of the nicest things about blogging is the connections you make with other bloggers from all over the world.  I may have started my blog simply because I love to write, but one of the main reasons I’ve kept it going all these years is that I really value the friendships I’ve made because of it.  The people who read my blog and take the time to comment on my posts have provided more encouragement, new perspectives, and advice than I ever would have imagined, and that’s a gift.  I may only know these people through our blogs, but they still touch my life in a real and positive way.

A few years ago, a blogging friend who lives in the Netherlands was in my area to visit her son, and she asked if she could stop by the animal shelter where I volunteer for a quick tour.  (I occasionally write about my experiences at the shelter.)  I agreed, and was happy to discover that she was just as nice in person as I had expected.  It was fun meeting someone from halfway around the world who I had only known through her excellent blog,  https://thecedarjournal.com/blog/ .

A few months ago, she emailed me to say that her son and daughter-in-law had bought a house here in St. Louis and asked if I could give her any information about the neighborhood.  As it turned out, I could give all kinds of detailed advice about the neighborhood, because her son’s new house was a mere two blocks from my own.

Last weekend, my friend came to visit her son and daughter-in-law and offered to meet me and my dog Finn for a quick walk.  Finn, of course, thought this was an excellent idea so I leashed him up and we met in her son’s yard.  I got to meet her husband, son, and daughter-in-law before we set out.  It was a beautiful Spring day, and I enjoyed our walk very much.  But I just couldn’t stop wondering:  what are the odds that someone  I met through my blog and lives in the Netherlands would have a son who moved into my immediate neighborhood?  Neither of them are originally from St. Louis, and she hasn’t lived in the States in years.  And yet there we were, walking and chatting like old friends.

Clearly, people who say, “it’s a small world” know what they’re talking about.   And you know what?  I think that’s a very good thing indeed…..

Recharged

/ Ann Coleman / 91 Comments

This morning I was driving home after a morning spent running errands when I got the bright idea to stop by our neighborhood bakery and deli.  It makes delicious bread that my grandchildren love, and I wanted to replenish my supply.  (I always keep a couple of loaves in my freezer.)  The parking lot wasn’t very full, so I figured it would be a quick stop and I’d be home in plenty of time to meet my husband for lunch and then tackle my afternoon chores.

Once inside the shop, I decided to also order a sandwich for my husband and I to share.  We both love their sandwiches and I’m always a fan of any food I don’t actually have to prepare.  Everything was going great until I got back in my car and tried to start it.  The key word in that sentence is “tried” because, despite repeated efforts, the car refused to start.

I muttered a few things I shouldn’t have, called my husband to let him know why I wouldn’t be home, and then called the number on my AAA roadside assistance card.  After a long and complicated process involving an automated answering machine, time on hold waiting for the next available operator, and repeatedly spelling the address of my location, I was informed that an assistant would be arriving in an hour or two.

If only I hadn’t stopped at the bakery,  I thought.  If I’d been home when my car battery died, I could get all sorts of things done while I was waiting for help to arrive.  Instead I was stuck in a now-crowded parking lot, hungry and thirsty, and far from confident that the operator had given the roadside assistant the right address.  This seemed like just one more thing that had gone wrong in a week where nothing seemed to go right, and a good time for a pity party.

I sat down at a recently-vacated outdoor table to wait.  My husband, who had arrived with his own key in the hope that it might start the car (it didn’t) joined me and we decided to go ahead and eat our sandwich while it was still good.  It was actually kind of nice sitting in the warm Spring sun, eating and watching the cars drive by.  Then the owner of the bakery, who had come out earlier to check that we were okay, brought us out some water and extra napkins, along with an offer for anything else we might need while we waited.  We ended up chatting with the people at the table next to us, and what had started out as a major inconvenience turned into a very pleasant lunch experience.

Which, of course, just goes to show how important it is to be willing to let go of our own agendas and expectations from time to time and be prepared to not only accept what happens instead, but to be willing to see the good in a situation we weren’t expecting and didn’t want.  The roadside assistant showed up shortly after we were done eating, my car has a new battery, and I (thankfully) have a much better attitude today…..

Clean Living

/ Ann Coleman / 81 Comments

I blame it on Agatha Christie.  Both of my parents were fans of Agatha Christie’s mysteries, so I had access to dozens of her books and read them while I was still young and impressionable.  Most of her works featured Hercule Poirot, a retired Belgian police officer who had a love for cleanliness and a passion for order and tidiness.  I read dozens of books in which Poirot solved his cases not just by “employing his little grey cells,” but by methodically gathering clues and putting them into the proper order.

I may not have Poirot’s detective skills or brain power, but I must have assimilated his love of cleanliness and order.  How else do you explain the fact that the spices on my spice rack are in alphabetical order?  Or that the books on my bookshelf are grouped both according to the author, with subcategories for hardback and paperback books?  I read a home-decorating article once that said end tables must be decorated in groups of threes, and now all my end tables have exactly three framed photos or knick-knacks on them.

My kitchen is small, so I have an extra pantry in the basement where the food is sorted according to size and expiration date.  The tops in my closet are hung according to style, with the sleeveless tops at the far right, followed by short-sleeved, three-quarter sleeved, and finally, long-sleeved.  Those are the casual tops.  The dressy ones are on the rack directly above, similarly sorted.  My shoes, on the other hand, are just haphazardly stuck in there, don’t ask me why.  Poirot would be horrified.

Luckily, or unluckily, depending on how you look at it, my husband is at the complete opposite end of the spectrum.  I have a photo of the contents of one of his drawers I keep just in case I’ll ever need it for blackmail.  If I tell you the photo contains both underwear and a screwdriver, you’ll get the idea.  One of the many reasons we have a happy marriage is that we never share closet space or dresser drawers, and I do all the cooking.

I have long since learned to stop apologizing for my compulsive desire to organize things, or to try to change my husband’s lack of organization.  (Clearly, he didn’t grow up on Hercule Poirot novels.)  Because I’ve learned that a happy home doesn’t have to be either clean or messy.  It just has to be the place where we get to be ourselves, and know that we’re loved and accepted for exactly who we are.

Through the Years

/ Ann Coleman / 81 Comments

I was raised in a family that didn’t have a lot of extra money.  We weren’t poor, but we did have to manage our money carefully.  Our version of going on vacation was piling into our car and driving across country to visit relatives.  We got one new pair of school shoes and tennis shoes each September, which were expected to last for the entire school year, and most of my clothes had first been worn by my older sister.

That’s probably why I have such fond memories of our annual shopping trips to buy our special Easter outfits.  I didn’t just get a fancy new dress–I got new shoes, special socks, a hat and sometimes even a little purse.  The shoes were always white patent-leather, which only looked good until the first scuff mark appeared, and that was usually about five minutes after I put them on.  But I didn’t care, because I thought I looked great.  As far as I was concerned, wearing my new Easter outfit to church was the second best part of Easter.  The best part, of course, was receiving my very own Easter basket full of candy and knowing I didn’t have to share any of it.

Now I’m all grown up, and honestly can’t remember the last time I looked in the mirror and truly thought I looked great.  I also haven’t bought a special Easter outfit in years, either for myself or for my own children.   I still have my old Easter basket, but it’s tucked away in a storage bin with my other memorabilia.  The purple wicker has faded to the palest of lilacs, and a really heavy chocolate Easter bunny would probably break it in two.

But that’s okay, because I enjoy Easter now just as much as I ever did.  It doesn’t matter that I won’t wear a brand-new outfit to church, or that I’m the one who has to clean the house and fix the food for our immediate family’s Easter lunch.  I’ll gladly hide the eggs for my grandchildren to find and spend a couple of hours making my mother’s home-made potato salad.  (It’s labor-intensive, but the results are worth it.)

One thing I’ve learned about the holidays I’ve celebrated all my life is that the way I celebrate may change, but the important thing is that I still celebrate.  Participating in meaningful rituals and traditions, gathering with the people I love, and in general, just being grateful for actually experiencing another new holiday is what really matters.  And why we never really outgrow the holidays we love.