The Estate Sale

I come from a long line of traders. My grandfather, Willard, worked his way up from rag man to cattle man. My Dad, Ward; one of his nicknames was Trader Horn. My Uncles Virgil and Ralph could wheel and deal with rest of them. This knack, or talent, or just plain old urge, runs deep in my blood. It is in my cousins as well. It has rubbed off on my husband, too. Although, his Dad was cut from the same cloth as mine. My sister-in-law and I have an annual sale and have sort of started competing with each other for "finds". (There is no competition. She rules.)

Dad, Uncle Virgil, and some of the cousins.. and little ole me.

Uncle Ralph and Aunt Ila taught me how to treasure hunt. That is what I called it. They called it picking junk. One of the first major scars I have gotten is from digging in the old dump behind my Grandma and Grandpa Johnson's house for bottles and accidently kneeling on a fat broken piece of whisky bottle. No stitches, but the scar is still quite bold some forty-five years later.

I have learned from the best of them. Wish I had paid a little more attention. Wish I could ask them advice.

And then I was asked to help with my aunt and uncle's estate. Apparently, I am a trustworthy individual. I did not volunteer, but I did accept the job.

This adventure began just about the same time I started a new job at nights. I had forgotten I am not as young as I once was when I signed up for the job. Used to be able to work double shifts and still do more.  So, I got the keys and went over to evaluate the situation. Wow. There had been a major shuffle done after my uncle went in the medical care facility. Things were piled up willy-nilly. The house was in pretty good shape but there was still food in the cupboards and stuff like that. It was hard to see the house that used to be my aunt and uncle's home change into a vacant property.

Burned a lot of cardboard. Bagged up trash. Started finding treasure. I think I found twenty heads worth of permanent curlers and papers. What we thought was a Barbie doll case was a wig head case. Did my aunt really read Robert Jordan and Stephen King? Found my grandma's bible. Found my uncle's army photos.  A porcelain top cabinet. Yoga mat. Video games. Baby stuff. Baby stuff????

Many people wanted to buy the truck. Many people wanted to pay two dollars for an antique railroad lamp. Many people stopped to talk about how they missed seeing my uncle sitting on the porch and exchanging waves. The gal who set up my aunt's lifeline came by. The fellow who found my uncle after he had fallen on the porch stopped by. They didn't know that both my aunt and uncle had passed and were sorry to hear it.

Before the sale, I was cleaning out the bathroom cupboard, pulling out towels and medical stuff. Towel, towel, ...twang. Twang? What goes twang in the bathroom?

Sold a bunch of paints to a little girl who will grow up to be a great artist someday. Shared stories. Saw old neighbors, met new.  Held hard on prices of certain items (the railroad lamp). Sold and sold and sold stuff. Someone wanted to know how much an old empty peanut butter jar was. A plastic one! I told him it was his lucky day, it was free. Next time I saw him, he had found another jar. Told him I had to double the price now that he had two! I was surprised that people wanted what I would have called junk (and I have an idea of the difference between junk and treasure, mind you!) and they paid for it!!! But the beautiful dishes and glassware sat admired but unpurchased.

I love this part. There were parts to this whole ordeal that I hated, but I love the people. Lots of these people love the treasure hunt just as much as I do. We were all from the same planet.
It was a successful sale, one of the most successful sales I have had the privilege to work. But I am just the niece and cousin. It wasn't my stuff. Still, I am pleased that my husband and I were able to help and happy with the way things went. Even though I had to quick buy a bank minutes before the opening of the sale and almost lost my first few customers. Even though we had some rain, even though for all the fun it was, it was hard dang work. Even though some guy got really mad that we wouldn't sell the railroad lamp for two dollars, and he accused me of lying and doing the old bait and switch and you can't trust anyone. Made his wife put down her stuff and left. He is not one of us. Feel bad for him.

The controversial Railroad lantern

Heavy Metal

Yep. I went to a heavy metal music concert.

I was pleasantly surprised tonight by the ability to breathe in a bar where rock bands were performing. The last time I was at a bar with live music was the Tanz Haus, and graphically recall that the smoke was thick enough to have texture. Add in Elmer's traditional cigar and there you have it!


But tonight I went to the old Skate World, with my daughter, specifically to hear Lacuna Coil. Once I got over the shock of the transformation there (yes I know it has been years, but sometimes I cling to the past and Skate World was awesome!) I attempted to levitate myself up onto the very tall stools they had there for seating.

My daughter's boyfriend was working sound for this extravaganza and had actually advised us to purchase earplugs. Alas, we didn't take his advise. There was a bit of me saying "Ear plugs! These kids these days! I never had earplugs at any concerts I went to! I danced in front of the speakers! Wimps!"

Of course, things have changed a bit these days. It was loud. Ear plugs would have been good.

It has been a huge blessing to me that my background in music covers a whole lot of different styles, from old country to new, opera, rock, pop, folk, bluegrass... there isn't much in music that I don't find good. Well, MacArthur Park, but then nobody finds good in that song.

I had listened to a bit of Lacuna Coil, and liked what I heard. The female vocalist drew me. She has a wonderfully strong voice with good tone. I also liked their gimmick, their costume choice. I had forgotten the fundamental difference between studio recordings and live performances. (LOUD)  But I really really enjoyed myself.

There were three bands to open for Lacuna Coil. One was from Gaylord, Becoming Human Nation,  and I really liked their style and energy.  I really enjoyed their music. "Buckle My Shoe" was awesome!  The other two were from California, polar opposites in style and presentation. Painted Wives, the first of the California groups, brought to mind (to me, anyway) the grunge look. Their lyrics are pretty deep, and I am not up on current groups enough to really express what their style is. Good, though! And then, the band that looked what I expected a metal band to look like with major energy, 9 Electric. Now, that group woke up my dancing bones!

Which, really, made me feel a lot younger. Until my feet started to hurt!

Lacuna Coil. I know, if I were young again, that this would be a group I would follow. Although live music seems always distorted, the sound these guys put out vocally was pretty amazing. My daughter has good taste in music! I found the costumes they wear (for want of a better description) interesting, reflecting on the insane asylum they took their name  from. But the fun, the energy and enjoyment they had in performing showed through the drama and dark style.

I know my phone camera stinks. Sorry about that!

This is an excerpt from their web page:
“We’ve fused dark and horror elements with real life situations and have created a metaphor – we are fighting for a kingdom and a crown that is not what it seems, it represents the moment of confusion we’re living in and the very fragile situations we face every day." 

And, yeah, I know some of you all who know me are a bit in shock that I went to this concert and had a blast. It was a good time with my daughter who I do not see near enough these days. We enjoy lots of the same kind of things.

And music, music is the thing that connects people universally. Different kinds of music speaks to different people. But if you listen, the music you don't normally spend your time with may have as much to speak to you as your favorite kind. Maybe even more.

I don't care for the f-bombs and some of the so-called glamor of this genre. But, we all had fun. It was a good night. And that, I will take and run with. 

Remember the Main

I asked Mom during her final stay a the hospital what the house she lived in down in Arkansas was like. Mom said, "Sure! I will never forget that house!" She said it was "L"shaped and had a porch, and she tried to draw it out for me on some paper. After many starts and stops, she was suddenly devastated. "I don't know how to draw it. I don't remember."

Mom had Lewy Body Dementia, which I wrote about in a previous blog.

I wish I had asked earlier.

Years ago, in the days of Friday Night at the Movies on TV, my best friend and I both fell in love with a movie about two women out west. The gals in the film were fierce and strong and determined. The only scene I can recall today is the one woman hiking up her dress and stepping on the plunger
on the detonator, I believe she blew up a train. We said we would never forget, we lived our lives to the theme music of that movie for the summer.

You know, I have never been able to find the title of that movie?

Some people live forward, not hanging on to the little memories. They live for tomorrow and don't grieve on the way for their losses. I am not one of these people. I remember and hang on desperately to memories that make up who I am. From our Siamese Missy chasing off the big dog by simply walking sideways towards it, to the morning Sarge, my brother's beagle, played with a fox in the sunrise. From the whole family crowding in the root cellar during a bad storm to riding my great uncle Ray's shoulders for my first home run ever.

The same way my Mom made her first home run, the same uncle.

I remember the sky on my birthday, the horrible redness of it as a neighbor's house burned down.

I can remember the voices of my aunts and uncles who have passed on, but I don't remember what Dad sounded like other than when he was trying to wake us kids up.

"EEEEYYYUUUUUUUUPPP!!!! Daylight in the swamp!"

Why can't I remember his voice?

Sometimes my memories don't match anyone else's who were there with me. I am the youngest of four siblings, and my point of view is sometimes drastically different from theirs.

Same thing with cousins, they all used to come to our house over the years. Might as well have made this place WemRu's Acres Campsite and Eats! (WemRu, by the way, stands for Ward E Maginity, Wem, and Ruth Maginity, Ru. Clever, right?) Both sides of the family, from Michigan, Chicago, Arkansas, and beyond. When we swap stories these days, I find that they all remember things WRONG. (It can't possibly be me who isn't remembering correctly!)

There have been times in my life where whole time periods are blocked, gone, not to be remembered. I hate that! It is like looking at a painting that has blotches of white canvas interrupting the flow. What happened? Why can't I remember? This is made even more terrifying by the threat of dementia. By the fact that I am not remembering things like I should be.

You would think that with all the digital pictures that are being taken these days, that memory keeping would be improving. Don't think so. Too many people are focused on selfies than on what is around them. It is kind of heartbreaking to see more campgrounds are getting wifi. Will people ever remember to live in the moment?

But I digress. I often do.

It is scary, watching someone go away from us while still alive. Someone remembering years ago with no connection to the here and now. It is scary, and then I start having mental blocks, brain fog, or whatever you call it. These aberrations look like dementia to me, and I have looked dementia int he face a time or two.

So, writing helps to press memories to pages so that they can be found later on. Like pressed flowers and dried corsages. Years past, memories were treated with more respect. Memories could be found between pages of the family bible, or in the big dictionaries. Score cards from past yahtzee games or card games held memories. A piece of petoskey stone. A song, a scent, a texture. Albums of old photos. Stories.

Word by word, I will hold on to the memories. I will remember.

Hoadley House

This is the house I grew up in. It used to be a white farm house with dark green trim. Then it was barn red with a matching log swing in the yard. The siding you see in this photo was done in the 80's, when I was away to college in Allentown, Pennsylvania. I think. That is a while ago. 

Things always changed, but things stayed the same.

The angled roof near the ladder is the dog house, the entry to the basement. It used to be literally shaped like a dog house, attached to the house. I remember the boys used to climb up on it to get to the roof. Or maybe even Dad climbed it. If I climbed on it, it was most likely with a sheet or umprella in hopes of flying like Mary Poppins.

Those big ole pines in the picture? They are about 60 years old. There are some trees missing from my childhood memories of the house: The big willow in the back yard. There are cottonwoods that line the driveway, but two were cut down that would have blocked the view to the house pretty completely.

Everywhere you look when spring comes, there seems to be daffodils and paperwhites. Violets roam the yard all over, remnants from Mom's and Grandmother Maginity's gardens. There is an ancient crabapple tree hidden behind the house that survived a garage burning down and taking the outhouse with it. There are lilac bushes that need to be cleaned up and given some good vitamins to come back to their glory. The big storm in March 2012 knocked trees down on the largest bushes. 

Over the years, the walls have been covered with may different wall papers. I remember the Ivy print best, but this was the paper when my family first moved in in the photo below. In the living room, there was an interesting space-modern print in brown, pink, and gold. We didn't do the harvest gold, burnt orange, and avacado green, but we covered the walls with a dark paneling, and put in dropped ceilings. Which I hate. This, and brand new wooden cabinets, was done just before my big sister's graduation.

The formica table in the picture was with our family for many years. I remember Mom hooking up the old meat grinder to the table to grind the roast beef into hash. I remember so many family gatherings around that table. My favorite memory has to be the suprised blue racer that came in during a family reunion. The ladies were on that table, doing the "creepy-thing-get-it-out-of-here" quick step.

The door in the above photo led to the front porch, which was covered but hasn't been for years. I guess the porch roof and pillars weren't all that stable. There was a side door just behind the chimney; that and the living room and bedroom window are covered up and gone now.

I love the sink and metal cabinets in this picture. Not to mention the linoleum. The phone was a party line for years and years. How my sister hated that! When the kitchen was remodeled, I was climbing on those old white metal cabinets and they fell on me, giving me a broken nose. How I cried! But it was my own fault.

The barn in all its glory. I don't ever remember the silo. All that was standing when I was growing up was the main barn part. Dad let let some neighbors keep their shetland ponies there for a bit. I have lasting memories of those little buggers in the shape of a scar on my rear end.

Over the years, my Dad used lots of the property as income. Any time he tried to have a business here, it would get closed down by the powers that used to be. So, Craig Stoops bought up the hill and back to the river. Grandpa Scobie bought the pines next door, the lot that cornered on Hoadley and the Dam Road. lot by lot, until only five and a half remain, with the house and root cellar, and the garage that Dad build out of reclaimed blocks. He also built up over the root cellar with those cinder blocks. These things have endured, damaged but still here.

All the memories endure even more. This house is where our relatives call "up north" and everyone would come and visit. Some would camp in the yard. Picnics and cook outs, both sides of the family mixed in so much that for years, I didn't know there was a difference.

And now, this is my house again.

And I am glad.

WemRu's Acres: An Introduction

As if having two blogs isn't enough, I have decided do begin a third blog. This one will be more introspective, more personal, than the other two. It is coming about because there are stories I want to share that don't fit in to Persiflage, which is about life, death, health, and inappropriate songs to sing at the workplace. Living in the Pinky is about local history, stories, and this area of Michigan that I love. (If you don't know where "this area" is, hold your left hand  up facing away from you. Then, find the pinky. There ya go.)

No, this blog will be about fixing up the house I grew up in, putting light were dark was, and my growth as a human being as well as a Christian. There will be fun things, mysterious things, a time to cry and a time to smile. I will share battles. Sometimes, I will share very trivial things. It is what it is.

I am connected to my past through touchstones, scents, dreams, memories, photos, lore, and by blood. My husband thinks I live too much in the past, that I let it hold me captive. But, I am a writer. We live in the details, the pages in our minds are full of  details. Important or not, they are all there.

I hope to share encouragement, too. The challenges that came after my old reliable types of jobs started disappearing. The new direction I tried to go in, the difference between failure and making failure into a tool, learning from it to continue to live.

I hope that some of you will find this entertaining at least, and encouraging at most.

Linette