Winter Fun on the Sled; or in the Bed: Reading

Our parents took us sledding on a hill in Humboldt Park, which was one of many places named after Alexander Von Humboldt, German explorer and naturalist, 1769 to 1859.  He influenced Charles Darwin, John Muir of the redwoods, and others with his web of life/global interconnectedness point of view. I've been reading an excellent book about his life and travels written by Andrea Wulf.  https://www.amazon.com/Invention-Nature-Alexander-Humboldts-World/dp/038535066X

Winter is a time of reflection and reading for me.  I thought I would gather up some more favorite books you might enjoy as well. I always liked reading a cross section of books by the same author if I really liked the first. I love fiction, but as I have increasing difficulty reading small or medium print, especially in the evenings. And so, I find myself appreciating books with pictures more and more.  In no particular order, except for the pile up by the side of my bed:

*If Walls Could Talk: An Intimate History of the Home and The Courtiers: Splendor and Intrigue in the Georgian Court at Kensington Palace by Lucy Worsley. I've seen British documentaries hosted by her and enjoyed the mix of history and juicy, gossipy presentation, endlessly compelling.

* Creative Space and Time: Making Room for Making Art by Rice Freeman-Zachery. I loved her voodoonotes blog, which sadly seems to be gone--why? There it showed her beautiful art quilts, embellished clothing, colorful, whimsical home. She has written other books, which I heartily recommend as well.

*The Secret Birds, The Wonder, and others by Tony Fitzpatrick. He is a Chicago-based artist and writer.  I went to see (twice) his exhibit of bird collages at the DePaul Museum.  Beautiful paintings/assemblage using ephemera like cigar wrappers and matchbook covers of nightclubs that no longer exist.  I love Joseph Cornell's shadow boxes and Fitzpatrick's work is reminiscent in its dreaminess and ache for things you can't touch, places you can't go.

https://www.google.com/search?q=tony+fitzpatrick+bird+collages&rlz=1C1CHMO_enUS568US568&espv=2&biw=1536&bih=736&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj11Zeft-XRAhXk8YMKHfipCwkQsAQIGQ

*How to Catch a Frog: And Other Stories of Family, Love, Dysfunction, Survival, and  DIY and Prints: 50+ Designs and 20 Projects to Get You Started  by Heather Ross.  The first is a combination, a memoir, and just when it becomes painful to read, interspersed with how-tos at the end of each chapter. The second, a project book with bonus gifts; with a golden chapter on how to create designs in photoshop; many of her sweet patterns of unicorns, toadstools, princesses, mermaids, etc, to photocopy & use for crafts; a dvd with cute, downloadable designs of hers. 

*The Kitchen Diaries: A Year in the Kitchen Notes and  From the Larder by Nigel Slater. I wish I could pull out the delicious foods photographed and eat them up.  Barring that, I must resign myself to following the short, not too complicated recipes to satisfy my appetite.  I like the spirit of improvisation, if not this then that, use what you have, thought process he presents.  Lovely writer, several years ago, I read his memoir, Toast, spanning his childhood and adolescence.  Tart, bitter, sweet, in turn, like many childhood memories are. 

*Decorate Fearlessly: Using Whimsy, Confidence, and a Dash of Surprise to Create Deeply Personal Spaces and Be Your Own Decorator: Taking Inspiration and Cues From Today's Top Designers by Susanna Salk.  Gorgeous, imaginative interiors to drink in.  Two of my favorite picture books to savor. Our own living room is inspired by the Peacock Room. Cough, cough, inspired, if not realized. 😅 http://www.asia.si.edu/exhibitions/online/peacock/4bdetail.htm

* The Yestermorrow Clothes Book: How to Remodel Secondhand Clothes by Diana Funaro, published in 1976.  I haven't read it  yet, just looked at the photos and illustrations.  Models have sexy Addicted to Love/Robert Palmer vibe.  Not the black dresses, but the vamp makeup. I love that era of fashion!

The chapters headings include mending, decorating, recycling, remodeling dresses, transforming lingerie and loungewear into street clothes, refitting and redesigning sweaters, reworking coats and jackets, altering and updating jeans. Lots of hippie refashions like turning pants into skirts, patchwork, inserting flash of print onto sides of jeans.

Addicted to Love/Robert Palmer link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XcATvu5f9vE

letting go

 Letting go is hard to do. Can't do it.  

I heard a report that a darling friend referred to my apartment as cluttered.  Her son, a collector like me, called it cluttered with wonderful things. Once I helped him carry a teak dining table into their house from the alley. He asked me to keep an eye out for solid wood bookcases.  She tosses things out wholesale, can't stand a mishmash of items on a counter.  Tossed out pencils, Lego pieces from expensive sets in a younger son's Lego museum.  Of course, she'll be buying pencils again soon enough.  Her husband saved a hefty gift check enclosed in a card from the bin. In my mind, if you save what you already have, then you will be prepared for the eventual possibility and probability of future need. A full pantry is insurance against famine.  Favorite books can be read with equal gusto the third time around. Unread books can be stored up for the cold winter ahead. Photos and letters contain precious memories.

It hurts too much to make decisions about what to keep and what to let go, and where to let it go to. I'm going through boxes and bags of collected stacks of papers, small slips of paper, Christmas cards from friends, ATM receipts, scrawled telephone numbers, son's artwork (on every paper he's ever touched). Bundles cleared off the table, put out of sight for another day. Pulled out old newspapers, compelling articles and picture sacrificed to the recycling bin, sight unseen.  That I could do. Filled shopping bags with unsolicited credit card come ons destined for community shredding event in September.  That I could do.

Any piece of paper with my mother's writing saved, a limited edition collector's item.  She started printing communications to me when I went away to college, after I confessed I had a hard time reading her cramped handwriting, a habit developed to save on paper. She has outlasted many of the ladies of her generation on her block, in her neighborhood. Sifted through and saved are her homework help for Clement, notes detailing ingredients of soup she deposited into our refrigerator, notes penciled into vintage Christmas cards. Penciled so that we have the option of erasing her marks and reusing cards.  Cards she purchased at church rummage sale donated by other ladies who had saved them for many years. Once she gave me a happy mother's day to my dear aunt card, this after her last auntie died, she could not hope to use it anymore. 

My mother has pitched out scores of vintage doorknobs, hardware from the basement into cans in the alley in an effort to declutter.  She worries about our having to sort through things after she's gone.  Had I known about her plan I certainly would have asked her to pass them on to me.  My only "consolation" is that a dumpster diver fished them out.

Many papers triggered flashbacks, good trips down memory lane.  Clement's detailed, complicated, funny artwork of forests, treasure maps, traps without escape hatches, changeable aliens, letters to Santa with priceless misspellings. A few year's worth to compile into sleeves and big binders.  An unpleasant chill runs through me as I realize our big empty binders have been donated away.

A printed out e-mail from adoption agency shortly before we traveled to get Wisteria.  It details her height, weight in Metric with my husband's conversions into feet and inches.  How is it that she grew all that muscle and bone in the time she's been with us?  How is it that Clement wore that tiny bib?

I remember things that I've thrown away and regretted.  A pencil drawing that smudged.  Haunting portraits bought at garage sale that acquired a moldy smell in the basement.  Painted by a lady who passed away.  Sold by her husband for a quarter apiece.  He kept only the one she painted of her son.
A charmingly painted tin train that came with my childhood home.  I smashed it with a brick to see what would happen.  I threw it away to hide the evidence of my destructiveness.  That was the same year I washed my hair with toothpaste and trimmed my bangs away into a mini crewcut.  Sadness and regret all around.

Surrounded by boxes,  flood of memories washed over me.  A shakiness, a tremor, a minor earthquake throwing me off balance.  Trying to sort out my present looking into the past.  Motion sickness. Pull over to the side of the road. Disorientation.  A few deep breaths, resolution to put off to a future day when circumstances are different.  Decide to join my children in the present moment.  Watch a movie, play, eat.  Put a lid on each box, firmly now, stack in a pile behind a door that locks, walk away. Put off till tomorrow what you can't do today.