Someone asked me recently why I was dressed all in black. "Who died?" they asked. I gave them my grimmest look and replied with one eyebrow raised slightly, "I haven't decided yet." I really need to stop doing that. I am a writer after all. My search engine would show lots of research that would indict me in a heartbeat were I ever actually suspected of murder. Not that there is anyone I really want to murder. Lot of people I'd like to torture, I admit. Animal abusers. Child abusers. Litterers. People who chew with their mouths open. And breathe. But murder? Don't be silly. Of course I was joking.
Why was I in black? The pants were on sale. Black pants go with everything. They are the blue jeans of the older generation. They have an elastic waist. They have pockets. The t-shirt was clean. Period. That's the extent of my fashion statement. I dress like a ten year old boy that is in a hurry to get down to the creek to fish. No matter where I'm going. If it requires heels and makeup somebody had better be dead. Or I'd better be getting a very big check.
I wore a white t-shirt the other day. I was so impressed when I put it on. It was brand new and sparkling white. I figured when I bought it that surely I had reached the age where I could wear white without getting it stained and soiled beyond redemption. I figured wrong. By the time I got out to the car I had a smudge where I brushed against the hose when I stopped to water the chickens. Then I picked up one of the girls to say goodbye and there was another dusty spot. By the time I got to my appointment I had a drop of mustard on the front (my boobs make a great shelf, even now that they've started their journey south for the winter of my life) and I looked like I had slept in it. Trust me. If you know someone who wears a lot of white and always looks fresh and clean and neat, stake them. Drive a stake through their cold dead heart. They are not human.
My life has gotten even weirder than the "normal" weird. I moved off my family farm for the first time ever in my life. I'm well into my fifth decade, so this was a major deal. I still am not unpacked. If you know someone who moved into a house and had company over the next week for a house warming party in their immaculate and organized kitchen, get their stake ready. They aren't human either. I know taking a year to unpack is a little past the norm, but I still had everything I had ever owned, or that anyone in my departed family had owned and I managed to bring quite an amazing lot of it with me, even after having a huge living estate sale that hauled off several trailer loads of "stuff." I'm still going through and tossing stuff.
Part of the reason that there's so much stuff is that my mother instilled in me the love of "things." Of the history in "things." You never threw something away if someone could "get some good out of it." One of the boxes I unpacked recently had my brother's christening gown (he died a few years ago, in his seventies) and a passel of my baby clothes, hand sewn with love by our mother. How do you just throw those away? What do you do with them? I don't have children. My niece's kids are already grown and not showing the inclination to reproduce any time soon.
I also have unpacked a lot of valuable stuff that I threw away, feeling the hiss of displeasure from the great beyond. I am sure that someone could have "gotten some good" out of the dozens of scrapbooks of bits and pieces of lovingly arranged cards and letters that my mother pieced together. The notes she wrote were such a lovely glimpse into a childhood that I remember quite clearly, but sometimes need a reminder of the details. Once I'd read through them. Pulled the few really poignant pieces, they went up in a blaze of glory.
I am trying to unpack and either put away or toss everything in it one box per day. I'm behind about 7 months. I guess I need to get to it...
THAT'S MY STORY
I've never been normal. I've never tried to be. I can't imagine anything more boring.
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