Be Not Idle

“Pinch pennies, spend dollars!”

That was my maternal grandmother’s saying, my mother’s saying… and so on to me. They both could squeeze a nickel until it screamed. However, when it came to cars, furniture and things built to last – such as others in need – they didn’t mind spending a little more for something.

When my parents visited, my dad made me laugh by assuring me, “You know, you CAN spend money.” My comparison shopping at the hardware store was getting to him, I guess. And then my mother commented about the number of cleaning products under my sink. (I have two of everything because I brought home my school supplies.)

So am I hoarder? Is my frugality crossing the line into being miserly? If I own very little, does that mean I’m living simply? Continue Reading »

Today I came across the ugly, handmade box that once belonged to my maternal grandparents. Just a few whiffs of its musty contents – old letters and brittle copies of the Michigan Catholic - is enough to set off my allergies. But after they died, no one pitched it. It represents their charity. The carefully type-written letters, often dating back to the Depression years of my mother’s toddler-hood, convey thanks and prayers. 

My grandfather was a farmer and my grandmother a farmer’s wife who, in the tradition of the family, was the one who handled the pocketbook. She could squeeze a nickel until it screamed. There were children to feed and clothe, but they wanted to help out others. 

When my Aunt Alice passed the box to me, she showed the dates of the letters.  They had had no money to spare, yet they had managed to make donations. I was reminded of the Widow’s Mite. 

It’s odd I should come across the box again now.

Like most Americans who still have jobs, I have grown cautious with my money. However, I’m also aware of the growing need for food, shelter, and financial support. So how to be generous without being reckless and to save without being  stingy? 

Here are just a few ways that members of my community have given with what they have:

1. The charity rummage sale.   A few young mothers held a 50/50 yard sale, with 50% of their profits going to a local charity.  They didn’t have disposable income or time to volunteer outside the home, but they had some stuff to sell. Organizations also do this; e.g. this week my parish is accepting donations for their annual rummage sale. 

2. Scrip. My parish sells this and, now that I understand how it works, it looks like a painless way to give. In a nutshell, you buy a gift card for your usual goods and services. The seller of the card (the church or school) keeps 5-15% of the sale. For example, you buy a $100 gift card for the grocery store. The church or school keeps $5-15 and the store gets the rest. Your wallet doesn’t feel pinched, since you still buy $100 worth of groceries with the card.

3. BOGO Giving.  A couple told me about this last spring. Their children’s school had a can drive for the local food pantry. They found an easy way to contribute: When there was a Buy One, Get One Free sale, one time went into their cupboard and the other went into a box for the food pantry.

4. The Change Jar. (Or the ”Hope-and-Change Jar”, if you like.) This works well for guys who hate carrying change. Or fed-up moms who are tired of family members who don’t empty their pockets before throwing clothes into the laundry.  Every time you have a coin, drop it in a jar. Once every month or two, donate the money.  

5. Curb-side Refurbs. If you’re handy and see something on the curb that you can fix up, then you have a gift to share. So many people do this out of necessity, but it can also be charity. Years ago in Ann Arbor, I bought a 10-speed bike for $60 from a man who rebuilt and refurbished bikes salvaged from the garbage. A cancer survivor, he donated the proceeds to help the families of cancer patients who traveled to the University of Michigan hospital system. 

I’m sure you can think of other ways to give, even when it seems you have nothing to spare.

Behold the man of the eight beatitudes who bears in himself the grace of the Gospel, the Good News, the joy of salvation offered to us by Christ…”- Pope John Paul II

Today is not just Independence Day for the United States of America. It also marks the death of Pier Giorgio Frassati, a young man of Turin, Italy, who died of polio on this day in 1925. He loved mountain-climbing and the  camaraderie of friends (but hated dancing**). He was also an independent young man who led a double life.  Continue Reading »

• The cookie jar is chipped.
• The toilet seat is cracked clean through. I suspected the involvement of circus animals, such as elephants – a charge the smallest fry vehemently denied.
• There are footprints on the walls.
• A sore throat lozenge, placed on the white bureau for safe-keeping, has stained the surface pink.
• Kernels of buttered popcorn littered the bottom of my purse, evidentally deposited during the Movie Theatre Fiasco a few days ago.
• Butterfly-patterned panties mysteriously appeared in the laundry hamper. 
• Theme music from Avatar: The Last Airbender is stuck in my head.
• My heart aches from child-deprivation.

• Every day is like a party – but no one wants to clean up the mess.
• He who showers last, showers coldest.
• Chores at home are work; chores at Auntie’s house are fun.
• Even in the House of Nonsense, the wise child takes off his shoes.

1. Embarrassment is relative: The same boy who is embarrassed by hugs and kisses has NO qualms about dancing in the aisle of a grocery store.
2. Anything marked “unbreakable” or “tear-resistant” must be tested.
3. Everything can be a toy – including a folding chair and a backscratcher – but the best are a plain wooden yo-yo and a ribbon-and-block Jacob’s ladder. (I based the popularity on the number of fights over the toy.)
4. Birdseed + squirrels > Saturday morning cartoons
5. Possession might be 3/4 the law, but once you’ve convinced auntie to lend you a cute purse, it’s yours.

I fell off the face of the Earth. But with a long rope,  a powerful winch, and a well-placed pogostick, I returned.

Work is winding down. Other than a couple projects due in August, it looks like I’ll have some free time this summer. Except for the week the sobrinos invade.

Yesterday Brother the Elder came to retrieve furniture and to accept his birthday dinner. He brought along a couple of his minions children. The youngest took one look at my calendar and cackled diabolically because her school gets out this week. She immediately planned a weeklong vacation for herself and two siblings, courtesy of me. 

Brother the Elder had no problem with it, of course. She actually started writing it on the calendar before consulting me! What nerve! I’m so very proud to see that, despite his best efforts, he’s raising a social butterfly just like his dear ol’ Sis.

However, I’ve warned them: Child labor laws mean nothing during their soujourn. I’ve got a shed that needs painting, beds that need weeding, and windows that need scrubbing.  If the weather cooperates, the girls will learn to cook some of my favorite dishes (I already have aprons for them).

And the Young Master has announced that he is allowed to work with wood, provided he doesn’t use powertools without permission. (Insert manly grunt here.) Maybe he can build me a bookshelf or a garden bench from the scrap I have.  

In the meantime, of course, I’ve got to figure out what to feed them and where to store them they’ll sleep at night. The Young Master declared dibs on the inflatable mattress, so my only concern is how to keep the girls from sleeping in my bed. Particularly the youngest, whom I’ve dubbed “Ninja Sleeper” for her accurate strikes on my neck and back.

The whole endeavor reminds me of that old puzzle about moving a wolf, a sheep and a cabbage across the Nile.

My guardian angel is Phred, a name I came up with in the fourth grade or so. It was shortly after a babysitter asked me for help with her homework, coming up with words that had a “ph” in them, like “dolphin” and  ”Delphine” (my aunt) and “phunky chicken” (there was a dance, you know…)

I used to pray the old Guardian Angel prayer every day when I was a kid. In the first grade classroom, Sister Agnesita had a print of an angel watching over two children crossing over a rickety bridge.  The angel was female and dressed very prettily. However, I thought of my Phred as male – a nice young fellow who wasn’t ready to clobber me like my brothers.  I also figured Phred was kind of plainly dressed and silent, ready to jump into action. Except when I was taking a bath. Then I thought he waited outside the bathroom door (with the dog) and I’d have to holler for Mom if I got my big toe stuck in the faucet or something.

But for many years (decades) I completely neglected to talk to or even think about Phred.  There was also a New Agey “angel movement”  which seemed to infiltrate even retreats. It marketed guardian angels as subservient beings, at worst a tool for getting one’s desire and at best a Jeeves-like personal assistant, constantly pulling his master out of a scrapes. I felt sort of embarrassed to be talking to him, as if I’d catch some  sort of cosmic cooties.

But I began to rediscover what angels are and how blessed I am to have Phred. And I’ve been thinking a lot about angels, especially since I started making clay sculptures that incorporate Christian symbols. (More on that later.)

And so, for old time’s sake, Phred…

Angel of God,
my guardian dear,
to whom God’s love commits me here,
ever this day,
be at my side
to light and guard,
to rule and guide.

I was reading about Palinsanity – a term coined by Althouse to describe the vicious attacks on Gov. Sarah Palin, Sen. John McCain’s pick for vice-president. The Anchoress (see my blogroll) has a good round-up of stories and opinion.

Personally, I went from flabberghasted to incensed in less than a day. Yesterday I read the sick rumors that Gov. Palin’s youngest child was secretly her grandson (some people need to lay off the romance novels). Now that the Palin family has revealed their oldest daughter is pregnant – and therefore can’t be her brother’s mother - the pundits and opinionated cranks have a whole new bag. The gist of these comments seems to be that 1) because the youngest child has Down’s Syndrome, the Gov. needs to go home and be a mother; and 2) because the 17-year-old is pregnant and preparing to marry the father of the baby, the Gov. needs to go home and be a grandmother.  

Oh, irony!

This weekend I enjoyed visiting with my niece and her husband. They are happy about moving into their first home and are expecting their first child. And they’re 19.  Are they children? No.

Today after school, I ran into a former student who was married this spring. She’s expecting her first child this coming winter. She’s 16 and her husband is 24. Are they children? Heck, no!

The irony is that if Gov. Palin’s daughter had chosen to abort the baby, our society would consider her grown-up enough to make that choice. She needn’t have consulted with her mother, either. A 17-year-old is considered old enough to have sex and deal with the consequences on her own.  Parental consent laws are debated endlessly as a controversial limits on “choice”, aren’t they?

But when it comes to politics, suddenly the lip-service feminists (including the men) have become reactionaries who know that the governor’s ovaries dictate that she must step down.

Bernie and Diane are humble, unpretentious people…. They had everything they ever wanted, they said. Except for a daughter. But the more they asked about Danielle, the more they didn’t want to know.

She was 8, but functioned as a 2-year-old. She had been left alone in a dank room, ignored for most of her life.

There have been some truly horrific stories about children in the news this summer. This story is about a neglectful mother and child abuse investigators who ignored signs, but it’s also hopeful.

http://www.tampabay.com/features/humaninterest/article750838 .ece