A Charmed Life

I went to an estate sale today (think mega yard sale). As I walked through the house looking at everything, I wondered what the story was, so I asked Penny, the girl running the sale. It was a familiar story: The man who lived there needed to go to an assisted living situation. "He took all he could, and this is what's left," I was told. 

The more I walked through the house, the more I imagined his story. Many of the items were from other states and other countries. “They traveled quite a bit,” I thought. I noted the feminine touches throughout the bedrooms: porcelain dolls, ruffled curtains, flowered wall paper. I was sure that the man and his wife had lived in the house for most of their lives—they raised their children there, had family dinners, perhaps some arguments and of course some agreements. The grandchildren came over from time to time. As the years passed the wife eventually left the earth, and the man was left alone in the house. He loved his wife so much, and he found it too daunting to rid himself of her trinkets and decor.

My attention finally landed on the vintage jewelry. There were bracelets and pins, necklaces and some beautiful silver charms, most from other states and countries. They weren't attached to a charm bracelet or necklace, rather just lying about in a box. I collected as many as I could, and I took them to Penny. I also found a monkey puppet and a copper bracelet that needed a bit of repair. "How much?" I asked. 

"How about $12 for all of it?" Penny replied.

"That works for me," I said, already deciding to put the charms on a single bracelet. I will wear it, and I'll think about the stories behind each of the little icons. I might even write a story that's inspired by those charms that were held for years in that box. They stayed there, silent, as life when on around them. Perhaps they were waiting for someone to come along and tell a story about them. Well, I can do that. And if the lady who collected these is watching from above, I want you to know that I will wear these charms knowing that you've added to my charmed life.

Waiting and Typing

So, I bought this new Kindle Fire HD and I got a keyboard so I can type anywhere. It is smaller than a laptop and easier to carry, so I can get work done on the go. As a matter of fact, I am sitting in a doctor's waiting room right now, typing this.

If I were home and in my office, these would be working hours for me, so I should get some work done, right? I could sit here and read, or tat, or write by longhand, or stir up a conversation with someone — but I need to get this blog done, so I  am typing. Which makes me wonder, what do you do when you are in a waiting room? By the way, singing is usually frowned upon. (I may or may not have experience with this.)

They just called my name, so this is the end of my blog for this week.

The Giant's Grave

I have a seriously big mulch pile in my driveway, and a giant's grave is in my back yard. I hear you: "A giant's grave?" Yep. 

Remember the story of Jack and the beanstalk? Well, when Jack cut down the beanstalk, and the giant landed in my backyard...

I'm a storyteller. It's all about the story.

So, what is the giant's grave really? When the houses were built in our neighborhood, much of the construction debris was buried in our backyard. As time has passed, that debris has broken down and left a couple of large sink holes. We’ve just kept filling the sink holes with leaves, branches and garden debris. 

To tidy it up we put wood chips on top, which brings me to the seriously big mulch pile in my driveway. I get mulch for free. When a neighbor is having a tree taken down, I usually ask for the chipped wood. More often than not, the landscape companies are glad to drop the chips in my driveway, because it saves them from paying a charge at the local dump. It saves me money, because I don't have to buy mulch. 

After years of putting all this organic debris on the giant's grave, I’ve been left with some really rich soil. You’d think that I would have finished filling up those sink holes by now, and actually I have. I just keep unfilling them and using the soil in other places in my garden. I suppose I could just leave it there and let the grass grow, but then what would happen to the story about the giant's grave? 

My Sanctuary

Being a storyteller and puppeteer is not just about being on a stage or in a classroom. I am a business owner, and I have to take the time to write, manage paperwork, pay bills, research and do all the behind-the-scenes work that any other self-employed individual must do. The benefit I have is that I can take my office nearly anywhere. 

My garden is my sanctuary. I love to dig in the dirt, plant some flowers and vegetables and share my plants with neighbors. And then I love to sit and enjoy it. The canopy of the maple tree in my front yard provides welcome, natural air conditioning. It truly feels 20 degrees cooler under those leaves and branches. I have a table and chairs under that tree, and during the summer it's a favorite place for me to take some office work. 

Of course, my garden is not just in my back yard, but in my front yard as well. I do my best to keep flowers blooming throughout the season, so the sights change almost daily.  Yesterday morning I needed to get some writing done, so I grabbed my coffee, my pens and some paper and headed to my frontyard table. That's how my office looked yesterday. 

I love being a storyteller and puppeteer, and I love my garden. It makes me happy to be able to enjoy them both at the same time.

Daddy's Rolaids Bottle

There is a Rolaids bottle sitting on shelf in my house. It is special to me. Really, it is! I'm sure you've scrunched up one side of your face wondering how a plastic bottle that says Rolaids on it could have extra significance to me. 

There is a story in it. Years ago, my father would buy Rolaids and take them for his heartburn, which he often had. Then he would save the bottle and put pennies in it. The bottle that sits on my shelf is ¾ of the way filled with pennies. When I look at it, I see my dad taking a penny out of his pocket, opening the lid of that plastic jar and dropping it in there. I laugh at the memory: Daddy had Rolaids bottles scattered here and there  throughout the house, each one worth its weight in pennies.

Every cent in my little bottle was held by my father; he touched every one of them and valued them all because “a penny saved is a penny earned.” My father left the earth more than two decades ago, and I miss him every day. Yep, that plastic bottle of pennies is special, and it will remain on my shelf in an honored place.