Howard Carter discovers Mr. Coffee

Mr. Coffee bit the dust today. It's heating component just gave up after what the obituary writers would call a long battle with caffeine. The deterioration was almost imperceptible at first. I figured it had something to do with my hot flashes that the coffee never seemed piping.

I don't build personal relationships with small appliances, nor do I consider them a relic to be preserved. I rarely save their receipts or read their instructions. When they are done for, I throw them in the dumpster without a eulogy, and get a replacement at Walmart.

This was not the way I was raised, and that's okay! Cleaning out my parents' house we found four coffee makers packed in their original boxes with receipts and instructions. Taped on the boxes were notes that said, "broken". Why were my parents saving broken appliances?

Tut, tut. What would the ancient Egyptians do with boxed broken Mr. Coffees? Would they put one at each corner of the sarcophagus along with a shabti servant statue to brew the coffee for waking up in the afterlife? Maybe those tomb inscriptions covering the walls in horror vacui style contain the receipts and instructions for the tomb contents. Down at the bottom there's the legal fine print reminding the deceased that coffee is hot.

© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder

Perfectionism

There's a fine line between careful attention to detail and paralyzing perfectionism. I grew up in a family teetering a bit over that line. I'm grateful that I learned the maxim, "Anything worth doing is worth doing right," at a very young age. I strive to do my job and conduct my life by that motto. I'm equally grateful that I learned the expression, "It will never be seen from a galloping horse," when I was a young, frazzled mother.

Everybody else is galloping through their own lives giving scarcely a glance back over their shoulders at my efforts. In my mind, they are galloping on beautiful dark horses along the top of the Great Wall of China, if not along the Noble Eightfold Path of Buddhism. Don't quite know why they are in China, but they must be holding back the fourfold psychic invaders of Disorder, Depression, Diarrhea, and Dr. Pepper.

My mom taught me every way she could to do every task of life to perfection so that she and I could never be judged inadequate. She taught me to match plaids and sew them together with microscopic perfection. The cost in time and anxiety was great, but the fear of being judged lacking was greater.

It was such a revelation to learn that everyone else was galloping along the Great Wall of China on their own plaid-matching missions. Even if the gallopers gave a diddly-do about my plaid matches, they were moving far too fast to see my results. I was the only person giving a diddly-do about my personal plaids! Most of my life was being marked Pass/Fail based solely on my attendance, and next to none of it was being marked in permanent Sharpie on my Permanent Record.

I am reminded of a mind-boggling green plaid double-knit outfit my mom sewed for me to wear to high school awards ceremonies--battle jacket and wide pants with giant cuffs. It was perfect, but I was still a smart and nearly invisible nerd. Everyone was silently evaluating me, I was sure.

Although I still don't know what I want to be if I grow up, I have gravitated to people and jobs requiring attention to detail mixed with extreme perfectionism. This is on my mind because today's papier mache project was a major league disaster. The powdered glue/goop/slime didn't set up when I mixed it, and the paper slid off the balloon forms. Sloppy globs of newspaper slid to the floor. It was a bit like walking through the stable! Don't step on that road apple!

Somedays you're Best of Show. Somedays it's good to know that nobody else really notices.

Window boxes

Breathing. It's all about breathing. My dad sent me a birthday card last month with words of wisdom from the great guru on the mountaintop. The key to a long life, according to the guru, is to keep breathing. The key to living through loss and grief is the same. So is the key to birthin' babies, enjoying symphonies, waiting for the next call of a hidden owl, and, I swear, the only way to match plaids perfectly when cutting fabric for a garment. Keep breathing.

Butterfly McQueen has been voicing my thoughts for a year and a quarter--"I don't know nuthin' 'bout grieving my mama." Most of the time I needed a slap to the cheek and a direct order to fetch hot water. Tell me what short steps to take on this new journey.

My parents took me to see the rerelease of "Gone With the Wind" at the Cooper Theater on Lincoln's O Street in 1967. It was an official acknowledgement that I was a Big Girl Now, and able to behave myself at a grown-up movie and handle the mature content. I'm thankful my parents kept wise control over my viewing, although I resented it at the time. I wish my students would all have such wise parents.

Fritzi has been a presence at several occasions in the last couple weeks. I could have sworn she was sitting with us around the table at the Albuquerque Outback restaurant two weeks ago to this minute. Her enjoyment of well-behaved young people sharing a delicious meal encircled us as much as the ABQ sunset.

This morning an unidentified owl called about eight times close to my condo. The calls were several minutes apart, in a range similar to a mourning dove's, and about eight notes in length. I had binoculars, but I was in my PJs, and couldn't venture too far out into the parking lot. Remembering Fritzi's excitement when owls were nesting in the maple tree by her patio swept me into the moment, even if I never saw the owl! It was a good day for birds as a cardinal sang alleluia by the front door after the lawn maintenance workers pruned, mowed, and edged.

Living with my mother was not without aggravations. She was a perfectionist extraordinaire. Her standards and expectations were non-negotiable, and controlled her own choices most of all. Last week my sons and I picked out a sofa at IKEA in under an hour. It isn't a perfect sofa, but it is comfortable, affordable, and the covers are washable. Plus, the sofa doesn't have to be perfect, and it doesn't have to last for the next century. Fritzi purchased three sofas in her entire adult life. I was along for the ride on two of those shopping missions (1966 and 1981+ or minus a year), so I know what it means to evaluate sofas for perfection. Bert Parks could not sing about a vision of loveliness so carefully selected. Keep breathing.

I'm more receptive to Fritzi's occasional presence and everyday influence in my life. I'm able to enjoy memories that I would have blocked a year ago. I'm able to channel some of this into my art.

One of the most profound experiences in the time after Fritzi's death was opening her box of costume jewelry with my sister and reminiscing about the pins and earrings. This sense of memory and surprise, compartment and opening, sharing and marvel showed up in my work in unpremeditated fashion.