Paper

I love paper. Notebooks, scratch pads, bank statements. I never opt to “go paperless” because a physical bill in the mailbox is less likely than an email to be ignored. But lately, paper is turning on me, and I need to do something.

My downfall appears to be the result of my consistent (some would say anal) approach to retaining “important” paperwork. I keep every statement for bank accounts, loans, utility bills, pay stubs, donations, prescriptions, car emission inspections, and magazine subscriptions. After a year I gather it all up to do taxes, then store in manila envelopes. While it’s important to keep seven years of records in the event of an IRS audit, I never really cull the collection unless forced. Moving makes you face things you need to discard rather than pay to move, but failing that, I would just keep stuffing things into the closet.

Gone are the halcyon days when we had a giant attic in which to retain everything. Now with limited space, the reckoning comes sooner than you’d expect. The closet where I put tax papers was full. I suspected there were some old papers up there and we realized we’d have to start the painful task of emptying the high shelf to see what could come out.

And bingo, I found five years of envelopes old enough to be shredded. Good news! I could clear a bunch out and make room for the 2023 stack. Going through the envelopes to shred, I saw how much of it would be worthless to the IRS (and honestly to me). These same worthless things were still in the envelopes of the years of papers I was going to retain. Then it finally hit me. Why am I keeping these things?!  

So I did what would have, up to now, been unthinkable: I pulled out the bank statements, phone bills, and other ephemera. For each of the seven years I would retain, I only kept the really important stuff. Now seven years of tax papers fits in a single box. 

Can I sustain this discipline? Not sure. Am I ready to change my settings to “paperless”? Not yet. But I think I will need to invest in a commercial grade shredder.

Mania

Sometimes I feel an “excessive or unreasonable enthusiasm” and I wonder, it is just what the social media algorithim is serving me? It may be something rare, or something that appears in abundance. Whatever it is, I’ve latched onto it.

I’m obsessed with the clothes some people find at Aldi, though I’ve never bought them: warm-ups, sequined pants, espadrilles. I watch every Harry Potter movie clip that is served up. It’s not new content, but a fond memory to see the young trio. Videos of dogs or cats doing astonishing things are always a draw. I’m shocked at how many times I’m drawn into these rabbit holes.

Spring in Chicago is so exciting when the trees bloom, hosta spikes push out of the ground, and tulips are everywhere. I practically swoon as I pass the gardens filled with red, yellow, purple, orange, and white tulips. Large and small petals, some frilly, some tapered to points – there are so many kinds! I’m reminded of the tulip mania of 1636-1637 when the price of tulip bulbs had bubbled up to an astonishing peak. A single bulb could cost 10 times the annual salary of a skilled craftsman, but this proved to be unsustainable (surprise?!) and the market crashed. While not approaching my neighbors to buy their bulbs, I do enjoy the many photos I capture.

Recently we’ve paired our long Sunday walks with a reward: doughnuts. We want to believe that we are burning off the calories so it all evens out. We eschew the Krispy Kremes at the grocery and bypass the Dunkins in favor of other purveyors. In a two-mile radius, there are so many options that it may take us weeks to explore. Paired with hot tea or coffee, the doughnuts are a throw-back to sleep-over breakfasts, or after church treats. 

So, what will be the next shiny object to fixate on? It is the season for all things Derby: I feel the pull of the twin spires, hats, and jockey silks.

Amazing Events

Hubris often causes us to think at all amazing events are made by humans. But as the cosmos turns, it’s hard to ignore the things over which we have no control: weather, the movement of the planets, and creatures.

On a day I’ve forgotten an umbrella, I shake my fist at the sky, but that doesn’t keep me dry. As I keep reopening my weather app that told me there was no chance of rain, my pants are getting soaked with the sideways precipitation. The wind kicks up and, though seemingly undifferentiated, manages to peel the cover off our terrace furniture as if outfitted with many agile fingers. The on-again, off-again start of spring coaxes shoots from the ground, dusts them with snow, and then turns the heat up to 78 degrees. As a result tulips are blooming much sooner than other years. Some trees and bushes have already unfurled their leaves, while other keep the skeleton profile of winter.

Last week’s eclipse wasn’t my first, so maybe I was feeling indifferent about it. But the lead-up was so exciting, we were scrambling to find the right glasses that morning. We wouldn’t be in the path of totality, and couldn’t drive south at this point, so we resigned ourselves to a view from our building’s common roof deck. We regularly watch the sunset and are surprised at how we can see the sun move as it slips down beneath the horizon. Peering through the cardboard glasses, the shrinking crescent shape of the sun didn’t change quite as quickly, but it did move inexorably to the thinnest sliver, the temperature dropped and the day dimmed. It was like tossing a cloth over a lamp. No window shade or pair of sunglasses makes the light change this way. We were awestruck.

I understand that some animals did unusual things during the eclipse, fooled by the sudden darkness and acting as if it were night. Spiders dismantled their webs, birds returned to their nests, and dogs cowered. In a city dominated by the sounds of cars and trains, I did not notice any of these subtle changes, but I have a theory. The somewhat supernatural blotting out of the sun, paired with earthquakes showing up in the weirdest place (New York City), are omens of an event we’ve been dreading: not just one, but two broods of cicadas (13 year and 17 year) are projected to emerge this summer. Just when all the trees have leafed out and we’ve put away our protective winter clothing. Other-worldly creatures – you may even say invaders – will crawl from the ground, up tree trunks to bust out of their shells revealing red eyes and wings, mate, lay eggs, and die. 

I know I should marvel at all these events that I cannot control. I may greet the cicadas with an umbrella and protective eclipse glasses.

Clean Sweep

I won’t fool you – I did not do spring cleaning this weekend. At least not the thorough kind that involves a vacuum and moving furniture. But I’ve managed a few tasks that give some of the same satisfaction.

Dear reader, if you’ve been wringing your hands all week about the sweater with the backwards sleeve, rejoice! After some dismantling, I started over, and while not perfect, I am satisfied. I visited a fascinating store that carries nothing but buttons and ribbon and found some colorful, fun buttons to add that finishing touch. Now I could liberate the sofa where I worked: the bits of yarn and thread, extra knitting needles, a measuring tape and notebook. How nice to see the cushions again!

I took an old toaster oven to be recycled and was almost turned away. “Is that a microwave?” the man said. Fortunately not, so my car was finally rid of the rattling backseat passenger. My other “car task” was to update my city sticker, an adhesive rectangle each Chicagoan must display on the windshield to prove that we’ve paid the fee to have a car in Chicago. While some folks just slap the new sticker on till they have a series running up the side of the glass, I like to remove the old one before putting on the new one. Goo Gone and a razor blade are the tools for the job, and in no time, voila! I am now good till 2026.

A neighbor in our building is moving and has put the word out that she needs boxes. I can hardly believe my luck. We happen to have three large empty boxes that have somehow escaped being flattened for recycling. Removing them from the teetering stack where I have studiously ignored them, opens up space in the room that I hadn’t realized I missed.

Admittedly, these are baby steps in the cleaning I need to undertake. Window washing, floor scrubbing, and other activities involving elbow grease. Some sore muscles are in my future, but for now, it’s time to finish a book, have some tea and listen to the rain on the skylight.