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.

Handcrafted

I’m knitting from a pattern I’ve used before, so I know what I’m doing. It’s got a more complex pattern than some; each section is created separately and finally joined together. I look down and realize something has gone terribly wrong.

Unlike other projects that I could knit merrily while watching TV, I’ve had to examine each row of stitches to ensure the pattern was correct. A few times, I discovered I’d gone off the rails and had to remove three or four rows from the needles and try again. The overall effect is pleasing – a pebbly texture – but there are some mysterious gaps that I will chalk up to “handcrafted.” 

This child’s sweater is relatively small, so it doesn’t take that long to see results. After completing the back and the two front panels of the cardigan, I make a smooth connection of these parts at the shoulder. Now it’s time to work on the sleeves. I’m concerned that I won’t have enough yarn to finish, and run a mental inventory of other yarn I have on hand that could be pressed into service (make the sleeves multi-colored!). One sleeve is complete and I’m excited to be so close to finishing.

The second sleeve goes faster than the first. Fewer errors, and though the ball of yarn is shrinking, there seems to be plenty. I count and recount the stitches as I taper the sleeve to the wrist. Binding off the stitches, I give a little whoop of celebration. While working, I’ve had the sweater balled up in my lap so I can focus on the sleeve. Now I lay it flat – splayed out like a skinned animal since the seams have not yet been sewn together. 

That’s when I see that the second sleeve is backwards, attached to the body on the wrong side. For a moment I speculate that a small child won’t detect the difference, but I know this will never do. I hear my mother’s voice: “when I sewed I tore out as many stitches as I put in.” So, with all the maturity of a teen, I storm off in a huff. 

This mess haunts my dreams, as my brain considers different solutions to the dilemma. Though fantasy is appealing, I know I just need to start over. Soon both sleeves will get crusted with food or dirt, snagged on a swing set, or gnawed by a pet, but at least I’ll know it started out as a beautiful, symmetrical garment, done right.

Street Art

On any walk around town you see amazing murals. Some are sanctioned installations by the city or the neighborhood association, some are random graffiti that pop-up overnight. Either way they are exuberant, surprising, and ever-changing. 

A near-by mural depicts a stylized woman peering through binoculars to see the lake (it might actually require a telescope from that location). The clean lines and bright colors make this a lovely emblem of the neighborhood. Its location in a bank parking lot may be the reason it has stood unmolested for years, unlike a mural near the train. 

From the platform, we watched the artist spray his playful characters over the brick wall for days. The result was striking and a few days later it was completely covered with a coat of white paint. Although the city had commissioned the artwork, it was mistaken for vandalism by another city office, and “cleaned up.” After an outcry, the artist was invited back to recreate his work. No city crew has bothered the second attempt, but in time, true vandals added their tags, some in the same palette as the mural (a tip of the hat?). The worst blow was when the building owners allowed billboard signs to be hung over the mural. I guess the rent they could earn was too appealing.

Many Chicago public schools have added fabulous murals overlooking their playgrounds including ceramic and mirrored tiles. Depicting nature and children, they convey a personality that belies the staid architecture. Some tunnels under Lake Shore Drive connecting the park to the lakefront are similarly embellished with mirrored and tiled mosaics: flocks of birds and butterflies swooping in an eternal summer.

From the bus, I see an entire building front transformed into a Bulls basketball player; an abstract of blue and green triangles; a two-story tall duck with a bright orange beak. A building in Wrigleyville is wrapped with a giant Kraken’s coiling black tentacles. A family of brown bears ambles down an alley by the Mexican restaurant. The mezzanine level in my office building is the perfect place to view a mural of local flora and fauna.

The Army Navy store is a drab building, even with a side mural of two military women. This morning we found the addition of a color explosion – a welcome palette as we climb out of winter. It’s too soon to say whether this was commissioned or just a street artist’s bid to brighten the space, if only temporarily, but we will enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

Flowering

It’s exciting to find the first flowers of spring. Green sprouts poke out of the frozen dirt, and while you’re looking the other way, buds unfurl and bits of yellow, white or pink peek out. They emerge cautiously so as not to awaken the snow gods, and we all hold our breath for the change in the season.

Morning walks are still chilly, with salt on some sidewalks and the remnants of leaves in the gutter. To counter the mostly dull landscape, houses we pass have green shamrock decorations, bushes hung with pastel eggs, or a small inflatable leprechaun. It all seems like a vain attempt to declare the end of winter, but here and there nature is playing along.

That bush now has small green leaves on the tips of its bare branches. Mini daffodils have sprung up between the basement windows and sidewalk of the tavern. One yard has two clumps of snowbells peeking under the fence. A forsythia bush, trimmed into an impossible globe shape has the faintest yellow outline. Bags of mulch are stacked by the steps, awaiting a slightly warmer day to be disbursed.

Turning the corner, we find an audacious crocus, not afraid to flaunt its deep purple petals. Eventually it will be overshadowed by tulips, flowering cherry and tulip trees, but for now it is the star, the brightest spot on the block. Purple is regal, commanding much more attention than white or pale pink. The trees aren’t casting any shade yet as this small pioneer is fairly shouting “Spring!” 

A few unseasonably warm days have filled us with cautious hope. We ache to believe that groundhog’s prediction while knowing that Chicago can hang onto winter till deep into May. But we’ll take a balmy afternoon, some sun, and the opportunity to try a lighter-weight coat. We know it’s coming, in all its floral glory.

And Again

Repetition is comforting. You’ve seen it before so you mostly know what will happen. An encore or rerun of your favorite show. The earth turns, seasons change, and though it is a man-made device, we give up a hour to lunge forward into what we desperately hope will be spring. Walking into a decidedly chilly wind this morning, I had my doubts.

My own deja vu, I know I’ve written about the time change before. It’s like banging the “change is coming” gong. But a recurring framework doesn’t mean that things will be the same every time. A simple repetitive task like the grocery trip has some new elements: A little boy who chirps an apology when he thinks he’s blocking my path down the aisle. The shopper in front of me who is writing a check much to everyone’s surprise. Malted robin’s egg candy somehow finding its way into my cart (to feigned surprise).

The leaves of tulips, daffodils and crocus have popped up after some warm days, and now seem in suspended animation while they wait out the cold. I know a riot of color is coming, but for now I hold my breath and hope snow won’t bury everything first.

There’s some comfort in knowing the Chicago River will be dyed green next weekend; revelers will line up outside the bars before 8am in their shamrock finery; corned beef and cabbage will be in sudden, yet temporary, abundance.

Filing taxes, the Derby, summer blockbuster movies, outdoor dining. It’s all coming back again with shifts in the kaleidoscope to alter the picture a bit. We might not welcome every birthday (you can’t put that many candles on a cake without warning the fire department first!) but we still mark it.

The sun is at an odd angle for this time of day and it will stay up during dinner for the first time in a while. It will be dark when I go to the gym tomorrow. Days will lengthen and everything will feel normal again. Now I just have to remember to change the clock in the car.

Armchair Traveler

I like to explore new places, but obligations keep me close to home. Fortunately, there are ways to see the world without actually packing a suitcase until such time that the trips can become a reality.

Our world has been figuratively shrinking ever since the introduction of transit to cover long distances (ships, trains, airplanes, cars), but the internet provided new ways to travel. I can view any far-flung place with Google Earth (my childhood home, a western mountain range), tap into live camera feeds to see who’s walking on an east coast beach, or “see” what stars are overhead even if it’s not dark enough for me to find them with the naked eye.

A long-time reader of National Geographic, I’ve had a view of glaciers, caves, jungles, and the bottom of the sea. Animals both fierce and endangered, peoples in remote villages, satellites in space. Even though maps are included, I doubt I will have to explore the Mariana Trench, or follow the path to summit Mt. Everest, but reading can sometimes be even better than being there in person.

When I studied French, the materials spent a lot of time showing us Paris – the city map, the different arrondissements, landmarks, museums. When I finally visited, I was surprised to feel that I knew my way around. From the top of the Arc de Triomphe everything was where I expected it to be – I could gaze down the expanse of the Champs Elysses to the Obelisk, and farther away, pick out the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and Sacre Coeur. Of course at ground level, it was a lot more complex.

After the fire at Notre Dame, National Geographic provided a view I’d never get in person: photos of the wreckage and restoration underway. Certainly too dangerous to allow any tourists, I got to see the scaffolding and skilled craftsmen bringing the cathedral back to life. Perhaps I’ll be able to visit again and see their marvelous work.

Some travel is vicarious, following others’ social media posts of places near and far. Everything from a local festival (I didn’t know there was a Ferris Wheel!), to outstanding dishes from a restaurant where we honeymooned long ago, to volcanos in Central America.

I hope you don’t imagine me as the James Stewart character in Hitchcock’s Rear Window, immobilized, unable to go out, using binoculars to locate life and excitement outside the window. While I have contemplated the merits of a telescope and our western view, that’s not how I want to see the world. I’m just saving up good ideas of the places we can go this year. I may need a new suitcase, but my passport is up to date.

Orange is the New Favorite

I love fruit of all types and in all seasons, but in the winter, citrus seems a special treat. It looks warm and tastes like sunshine, so a perfect antidote for gray, cold days. And to fend off what ails you.

We were lucky to receive a shipment of oranges and grapefruit from Texas and have been lapping up every delicious drop. Though we can buy citrus at the grocery year-round, this reminded me of the days when winter citrus shipments from warmer climates were a special holiday delivery. Maybe that’s how getting an orange in the toe of your Christmas stocking became such a treat.

Feeling a bit under the weather, I turned to grapefruit, lemon and honey in tea, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. They soothed and evoked the times I had these before. Growing up a half grapefruit was a special breakfast item, sectioned using a slender serrated knife that could easily slip between the membranes to free the fruit. A fancy maraschino cherry on top would be the last bite.

Tea with lemon and honey is not how I usually take it, but it’s the best soother for a sore throat. Swallowing the liquid as hot as possible and breathing in the citrusy steam was so much more pleasant than a sticky coat of Vicks VapoRub. And when older, the addition of bourbon was quite nice as well.

Frozen orange juice was what we had most often. Digging the sticky goo out of the can and finally getting it to dissolve with the water was a morning triumph. On camping trips, the frozen version was problematic because we couldn’t keep it frozen, so we went all space age and got powdered orange drink. I was a fan of this easy to mix and much sweeter version, but it was in no way juice. 

On a trip to Spain, we found that every cafe had an orange juicer so you could get the most marvelous fresh-squeezed juice. Paired with an omelet, toast, and coffee, it was a perfect meal that did not remind me of camping at all. 

Fortified with juice and lounging to regain my strength, I binged a series where an orange had a mysterious recurring role. It rolled out of the dark to land at a character’s feet, emerged from under a bed, and was both an eerie childhood memory and an oracle. Or maybe I was just drifting in and out of sleep, imagining the power of this marvelous fruit.