Your Clutter is My Collection

One of Gretchen Rubin's www.happiness-project.com first resolutions in her year long happiness project was to "toss, restore, organize".  I smiled when I read that and awarded myself a large mental check mark.   A born organizer with a taste for minimalist decor, I'm surprised Ikea hasn't approached me to be in their ads - seriously, my closets are that tidy.  In fact, a few years ago I made a resolution to call a halt to decluttering. I spent so much time sorting my fabrics and yarn - by weight/color/ theme - that I never got around to actually making anything.

Then I happened to glance at my basement shelves this morning and realized my title as the self-appointed "Queen of Clean" is in jeopardy.

It appears moving to new quarters, combining households and inheriting my dad's memorabilia have resulted in my space resembling the "before" in the home makeover articles which is a new experience for me.

As we unpacked our possessions from our respective houses last fall, the basement became the repository for anything that didn't have an obvious home elsewhere - duplicate kitchenwares, outgrown sports equipment, boxes marked "Miscellaneous".  Contemplating the shelves, I've come up against my first "Secret of Adulthood".  (If you're familiar with Gretchen's Happiness Project, you'll know of what I speak.  If not, check out http://www.happiness-project.com/happiness_project/secrets-of-adulthood.html).

My first Secret of Adulthood is this:

Living with other adults is difficult.

And living with other adults' stuff is a perfect example.  Left to my own devices, I could have the shelves cleared in an afternoon.  A few empty boxes labelled "Donate" and "Toss" followed by a trip to Goodwill and the dump and the "after" pics would be posted by Monday.

But let it be said here "One man's treasures are sure to be some woman's trash" (10 years of back issues of Sports Illustrated anyone?) and vice versa - my "collection" of florist shop vases might be reasonably viewed as "clutter" to the casual observer.  Then there are the boxes I brought from my dad's.  I have no need for a collection of wooden ducks and going through the scrapbooks he meticulously compiled still makes me cry.  But they were important to him and, therefor, of value to me.

I refuse to be discouraged.  I'm quite certain I'm up to the challenge.  I'm just saying it could take awhile...

Construction and Deconstruction

 This month I'm living on a construction site.

It's hardly the idyllic summer I'd envisioned - there are backhoes, mountains of old tires and a gaping hole where I'd pictured chickens and alpaca and an herb garden.


There's an enormous pit behind the kitchen where Peter and his crew are laying the foundation for a garage.  It's something of an archeological dig - Peter has uncovered a collection of glass Coke bottles and half a car.

The barn is still upright.  Pat and Charles have spent hours removing and separating the contents - motors, metal, hazardous waste (fortunately not too much of that) and everything else.

The barn removal company we contacted in the spring have failed to show up so, with the insurance company hot on my heels, I'm busy contacting anyone and everyone I can think of to get the structure down by the end of the month.

A Happiness Project

I've been reading Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project and following her blog at www.happiness-project.com.  It possibly reveals a lot about my character that what attracted me in the title was the word "project" more than the word "happiness".  I love a project.  I'm also largely in favor of happiness but I don't think I'd have handed over my $6.75 plus HST to purchase it.  On the other hand, a project for less than $10 is a bargain not to be missed.

My love of projects dates back to elementary school where "projects" invariably involved old magazines, construction paper and glue.  I wasn't very fond of Art as a subject but creating art for a social studies project was great fun.  Years later in my working life, I was always the first in the office to volunteer for special projects.  Accounting projects aren't much different from regular accounting - both involve numbers and cross-checking and hours at the photocopier.  But while regular files were tedious, project files were exciting.  I think my last boss picked up on my bias (or perhaps he shared my enthusiasm for projects).  He would show up at my desk every week or so and announce "I have a project for you".  These were frequently nasty files that involved preparing long overdue tax returns and/or correcting other firms' errors.  The supporting receipts were most often nearly illegible, coffee stained and crumb encrusted.  The clients were high maintenance - either exceptionally demanding or blithely unconcerned about notices from CRA or simply outright odd.  If the files had been placed in the usual "pending work" bin, I would have given them a wide berth but being selected for a "special project" I was all over it.

Since I've retired, projects are what get me out of bed in the morning.  Reading Gretchen's book, I've recognized that the farm could be viewed as my happiness project - undertaking a venture to improve the quality of life without expectation of monetary profit.  I have a myriad of other smaller projects that boost my sense of well being; crafts, of course, but also the challenges my friend Jan and I set for one another on a regular basis - make a list of things you like to do and do one, read a book outside of your preferred genre, go a day without complaining about the kids, make a business plan for a wool shop, try a new salad recipe and, my favourite of Jan's suggestions, do one useful thing each day.  Jan and I don't think of these as "happiness" projects - we call it "surviving" - but I suppose that is what they are.

I'm ambivalent about making "happiness" a project (although I'm itching to complete Gretchen's Resolutions Chart) but what I've learned this week is that projects make me happy.

Knitting Purgatory

Last year I had an "Aha" moment.  Henceforth I resolved I would knit only small projects - one skein wonders.

The benefits of small projects are many.  You can work with exquisite and costly yarns without mortgaging the farm.  Errors are easier to spot and correct.  Working to gauge is not as important in accessories so there's less need to knit swatches.  And there's the possibility of actually completing a project in less time than it takes to grow out a bad haircut.

I embraced the small project and happily cast on toques and purses, socks and scarves, fingerless gloves and Christmas stockings, a yoga bag and a donkey destined for a knitted nativity.  I have a lovely little stash of hand knits set aside for gift giving - although I'm not sure who on my list would appreciate half an ass.

Then  Carol announced the June knit along would be a top-down cardigan.  I've knit a few sweaters in my day and I know that by the time I cast off the final stitch, I'm likely to be heartily sick of whichever yarn/color/pattern I've chosen so I was prepared to give this one a pass until I saw the sample sweater.  It was nearly identical to one I'd considered purchasing for myself a few days earlier.  Carol assured me it wouldn't take a lifetime to complete and she had the perfect yarn in stock, Elsebeth Favold's Silky Wool in an oatmeal that would co-ordinate with several items in my wardrobes including the fine layer of dog hair that covers everything I own.  "How bad could it be?" I asked myself and "everyone else is doing it" I thought as I plunked down my Visa.

"How bad can it be?"  Pretty bad I concluded a week later having knit, ripped and re-knit the first 4 inches of the yoke several times.  It's not a complicated pattern and I don't usually stress over small mistakes - as Carol says "there are no knitting police".  But it seemed that every stitch I dropped or twisted was in a spot where it would be clearly visible once the sweater was completed.  And I was having second thoughts about my color choice.  While I like to wear neutrals, I prefer to knit in bright colors.  Emerald green or shocking pink yarn nestled in my knitting basket calls to me but a sweater's worth of oatmeal yarn is a whole lot of beige.

I called my friend Jan.  "Why am I doing this?" I asked.  "Because everyone else is?"  Yes.  "And if everyone else at knitting group decided to jump off a bridge, would you?"  Yes.

I persevered, completed the yoke and embarked upon the body of the sweater - 360 stitches X 15 inches of stockinette, an eternity of beige that put me in mind of the Gobi desert.  Dull beyond belief but at least I had reached the "easy" part.  Until I realized that in my boredom I'd somehow switched from knitting side to side to knitting in the round.  I was faced, yet again, with ripping back several hours worth of work.

I called my sister.  She laughed herself silly.  (Which was why I called her.  My sister finds crafting mishaps endlessly amusing.  It isn't schadenfreude, she laughs at her own mistakes as well as those of others.  It's recognition that knitting isn't brain surgery and mistakes are seldom life threatening.  I needed a reality check.)  "Why don't you rip the whole thing out and find another use for the yarn?" she asked. I couldn't muster any enthusiasm for embarking on a second project involving 800 grams of beige; the only other use for the yarn that came to mind was using it to stuff the donkey.  I toddled off to the yarn shop and asked Carol to rip back the sweater to the yoke so I could try again.

By the third week of June it seemed everyone else had completed their sweaters.  They proudly modeled their creations - I noted most had chosen brights - sapphire blue, yummy raspberry.  A few had enjoyed the project so much that they'd cast on second sweaters and several had chosen to alter the pattern and knit pullovers in the round but it was too late for me to salvage my earlier error and turn it into a design element.

 They spoke excitedly about the July knit along - socks - exactly my kind of small project.  I was sorely tempted to join up - everyone else was doing it. I resisted.  I don't know that I've finally learned to not jump off bridges - at least of the knitting variety - but it appears I have several more weeks in knitting purgatory to contemplate the error of my ways.

Vacation Envy

In July it seemed everyone was on vacation.  Jan went to Vegas, Catherine went to China, various other friends set off on road trips and camping expeditions.  I moped about and felt quite sorry for myself.  Why couldn't I take a vacation?

Summer travel doesn't make a lot of sense in my life at the moment.  Having waited months for some long overdue heat, it's time to be working in the garden, grooming the lawn and preparing the farm yard for the eventual arrival of our chickens and alpacas - all of which are activities I enjoy.  Nor is there anywhere I really want to visit right now - I have a couple of winter escapes in mind for when the snow closes in but being a tourist in the extreme heat has no appeal.

When my children were much younger and time and money were tight, we sometimes took "at home" vacations.  We'd stay in our pajamas until noon, putter about the house, eat takeout and watch movies on DVD.  Other days we'd venture out to explore our own city and try new restaurants.  Not as memorable as visiting a more exotic location but nonetheless satisfying and with the bonus of not needing to deal with airport security or travel sickness.

I briefly considered an "at home" vacation and concluded, apart from the takeout food,  it was too much like my regular life.

I spoke with my nephew who is enjoying a 6 week break from his job at the moment.  "Can't you take vacation?" he asked.  "Are you too busy right now?"

I had to laugh.  I'm retired so I'm more or less on a permanent vacation.  I'm not in need of a rest from my exertions or a break from stress.  Putter around the house is what I do most days and I can spend my life in my pj's if I choose.  What I do need - and what a vacation provides - is a change.    Because I've discovered over the years that a change in scenery provokes a change in perspective which, in turn, leads to a new enthusiasm for one's daily life.

I judge the success of vacations by how anxious I am to return home by the end.  Not because I haven't enjoyed myself but because I've been inspired by the things I've seen and done and I can't wait to get back to my "real" life to put my inspirations into practice.

So I've marked off the second week of August in my calendar as "vacation" and I'm planning to head to the cottage.  We're at the cottage most weekends from May through October and I hadn't thought of it as a vacation destination - we spend much of our time there working - fixing things, cutting the grass, planning renovations - much as we do at home.  What is significant about the cottage is the activities I don't engage in - doing laundry, watching television.  I think I'll leave my knitting and quilting at home as well - things I used to do in my spare time but which in retirement have become serious occupations.  I'll bring a sack of books and my camera and leave the dog at the farm.  Hopefully I'll emerge with that "vacation" feeling.

If not, next year I'll go to China.

Barn Saga - Part 1

Our barn is 130 years old - 18 years older than the farm house.  From the road it is still an imposing structure, rising 3 stories from its stone foundation to the curved steel roof; the 6 lighting rods poised as if to catch and pierce a low lying cloud.

On closer inspection, there are spaces in the board siding where planks have been blown off by the gale force winds that sweep through here regularly.  At one end there are gaps in the stone foundation.  (The missing stones puzzle me.  Pat and I would be hard pressed to budge any but the smallest of the stones between us.)  Inside, a couple of the supporting beams have shifted.  Despite all of that, the building seems in better condition than many of those we pass on our way home from the city - smaller, more precarious looking structures that are still being used to house animals and farm equipment.

Ted, the previous owner, issued dire warnings against entering the barn which Pat quickly dismissed.  I am more cautious and, mindful of the warnings, peered through the doorway expecting the interior to be dark and dank.  Instead, it is dry and filled with light (and junk - Ted, like every man I've ever known, didn't send anything to the dump if it could be stored in an outbuilding).  Apart from the broken furniture and rusted tools, the barn is surprisingly clean.  There is no trace of the animals it must have housed once.

My friend, Christine, tells me it's the absence of animals that has caused the barn to deteriorate.  Apparently the humidity from their sweat and breath is what helps wood retain moisture.  Without them, it dries and crumbles.

Ted insisted the barn was beyond restoration.  He told us other prospective buyers had brought in engineers and architects with the hope of converting it to a studio or a guest house and had concluded it was impossible.  One of my mantras is that anything can be rebuilt or restored for a price but I don't need an engineer, or Ted, to tell me that the price would be astronomical.  In any event, I'm not in need of either a studio or a guest house.  I need a home for my alpacas

It is tempting to think that we could replace a few boards, fill the gaps in the foundation from the quarry's worth of stone that sits behind the barn (another puzzle - we assume it is left over from the barn's original construction but why would the builders have hauled in 4 times as much stone as they could possibly use?), shore up the leaning beams and bring in some goats and alpacas whose body heat would preserve the barn for another 130 years.  But it is not to be.

The "R" Word

I recall taking my then 85 year old father to visit a retirement home.  His health was in decline and being a practical sort, he knew he couldn't continue living on his own much longer.  He dutifully toured the facility and, ever the gentleman, complimented the administrator on the decor and amenities.  As we left, he turned to me and said "it's a real nice place but, honey, everyone there is OLD."

A few months later, he gave up his condo and moved into the retirement home.  He adjusted rapidly and was soon encouraging others to make the move to assisted living.  He was genuinely enthusiastic about everything - the food, the staff, the other residents.  He would always conclude "of course, they're all much older than me."

For the past three years or so, I have been cautiously, and with some reluctance, wading into retirement.  Having spent the prior two decades dipping my foot into the career pool, there was not a significant change in my daily routine.  But with my son's graduation from high school and the move to the farm, it seems I've finally taken the plunge.

I've had the feeling of treading water for the past several months - it's a relief to recognize just what pond I've landed in.  I've joined the legion of retirees.

Like my father, I want to add the disclaimer that I'm much younger than everyone else.