This morning the phone started ringing five minutes after Dave posted his outboard motor and his duck decoys on CraigsList. These are the same decoys and motor that have resided in the garage for twelve-plus years. Within thirty minutes, we knew that he had under-priced the motor because we got one call per minute. The duck decoys took a little more time; they sold within an hour.
Dave's comment: "Now, see, if you'd let me advertise these things ten years ago like I wanted to...." Yeah. You know, that didn't bother me too much, even though I've asked at least once every season, "When are you going to get rid of that stuff?"
No, what bothers me is this: About a month ago, I listed a beautiful deep-green cut velvet sofa with matching lamps and twenty-five collector's teapots. One responder wanted to know if I would trade the couch for two tan chairs that needed upholstery. Another wanted to know if I could deliver it fifty miles away. About the teapots - Well, actually, no one even asked about the teapots.
This whole situation struck me much the same as the disparity between the pay for teachers vs. Titans and I went on a sudden rant. The successful sale of hunting and fishing equipment vs. lovely household furnishings must be all about what men want. Who puts the energy - and funds - into sports? Men. Who puts the energy into elementary school? Mamas. Who buys the school clothes? Mamas. And everybody knows that men make more money than mamas.
I'm keeping the green sofa. The teapots are going to ThriftSmart.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Home, home, home...blessed home.
My Uncle Morgan was in a skilled nursing facility for the last twenty-one days of his life. He was a jolly old soul and it did not take Uncle Morgan long to say that Quality Care was the best place for him at the time, considering his needs brought on by cancer - the tubes, the medications, the blood transfusions, the frequent jaunts to the hospital.
The day we arrived at Quality Care, he was a bit delirious, the aftermath of a kidney infection - but he made a firm statement: "My goal is to go home." About three months later, he told me that he just wanted "to get out of this world, but," he said, "Have you noticed that all these old people here just want to go home?" (Uncle Morgan was almost ninety, so his pronouncement of age on the rest of the residents was not lost on me.)
We all want to go home. When I was in Boston, I wanted to go home. Now I've been in Savannah for just three days, and I wanted to come home the first day there. Savannah is a beautiful city, rich in arts, seafood, and a culture of its own - but I wanted to be home.
Home is where everything is happening. Dave stayed home, and I always miss him when either of us is absent from the home fires. "Moving" is at home; we're moving from one home to another and the contracts are readying the "new" place. Most of all, my soul is at home in Tennessee. My thoughts come more clearly here. My writing flows. My desk - and my bed - feel right-er.
About a year before he died, Uncle Morgan began to talk of a different home; he was ready to move but he, like all the rest, wanted to go home. He even chided those who had made the trip from earthly house to Father's Mansion: "Here I've laid in this bed for over a year, and all Bill had to do was fall over and die!"
We will all go Home, and for now, this place, this time, this room, this husband, even this Shih-tzu - they give me a glimpse of what Home will mean.
It's where Everything happens.
The day we arrived at Quality Care, he was a bit delirious, the aftermath of a kidney infection - but he made a firm statement: "My goal is to go home." About three months later, he told me that he just wanted "to get out of this world, but," he said, "Have you noticed that all these old people here just want to go home?" (Uncle Morgan was almost ninety, so his pronouncement of age on the rest of the residents was not lost on me.)
We all want to go home. When I was in Boston, I wanted to go home. Now I've been in Savannah for just three days, and I wanted to come home the first day there. Savannah is a beautiful city, rich in arts, seafood, and a culture of its own - but I wanted to be home.
Home is where everything is happening. Dave stayed home, and I always miss him when either of us is absent from the home fires. "Moving" is at home; we're moving from one home to another and the contracts are readying the "new" place. Most of all, my soul is at home in Tennessee. My thoughts come more clearly here. My writing flows. My desk - and my bed - feel right-er.
About a year before he died, Uncle Morgan began to talk of a different home; he was ready to move but he, like all the rest, wanted to go home. He even chided those who had made the trip from earthly house to Father's Mansion: "Here I've laid in this bed for over a year, and all Bill had to do was fall over and die!"
We will all go Home, and for now, this place, this time, this room, this husband, even this Shih-tzu - they give me a glimpse of what Home will mean.
It's where Everything happens.
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