Ann Shields on Letting Go

Wading Through the Albums

Decluttering continues at our house.  But compared to photo albums, the books were a snap.  I tackled a book shelf in one room that I thought just had cook books.  Turned out they were full of all the old photo albums that became mine when my mother died in 1989.  Tons of old photos, with people I no longer knew without her input.  Now what to do with them. Who are these stiff looking people in sepia tones with side burns and mustaches, a foot resting on a pillow?  My father, I was told, at his confirmation ceremony. How weird is that? 

Sitting on the floor as I go through some of these albums, I get caught up in memories and find myself stuck in another era.  See my skinny, balding paternal grandfather and remember how he said I had eyes like a bug.  Oh, and there is my old girlfriend Dinah, who's parents tried to bribe me to get Dinah to go to the synagogue.  She rebelled, while I was rebelling against going to Catholic Mass.  The age of rebellion.  Later grade school pictures caught my daughter with braids and a black eye.  I can't remember how she got it now.    My son's picture with a crew cut and a bow tie, his arm around his sister.  A sweet picture.

When grandchildren enlarged our family, we followed them around like thirsty papparazzi.   Digital cameras made picture taking a snap.  Now, besides the albums, we have CD's of pictures piling up in every nook and cranny.  At my granddaughter's house, a slide show of photos captivates me. How do they do that, I wonder, but don't dare ask.  Since I am already in line to get my new computer up and running by grandson by marriage when he finds the time from his busy life.  Moving photos are low priority.  I still need instructions on getting my blue tooth operational, after all. 

As a young mother, I used to love to visit my mother in Van Nuys, pull out her old albums and reminisce.  Added to my own collection of photos now, the collection is overwhelming.   When the family comes over mid June, I think I'll add the photo albums to the books spread out on tables up for grabs in the back yards,

First, I have to quit waltzing through memory lane among the albums.  Besides, there's a box of old letters begging for attention.  I spotted a post card written in Italian to my maternal grandmother, postmaked 1906.  How cool is that?

I hear a voice in the wilderness as I write this.  It is Des  asking me to help him plant some corn in the back yard.  Reality wins over fantasy every time. 

So says Sassy

Books 'R Us

My name is Ann aka Sassy and I am a book-aholic.  What is more, I seem to be powerless over this addiction.  Every room has books on shelves, against the wall, on top of side tables.  Well, you get the picture.  It must stop. 

So far,  I am avoiding Barnes and Noble, deleting all email offers from Borders and Amazon and ignore the supermarket aisles that have added books to tempt me.  Now I have to reduce my collection of books.  My daughter will be down from northern California in June for grandson Matt's graduation at UCSB.  Her daughter, Elle, will be around then too.  They are book lovers.  Of course.

What's more, my thrifty daughter has a library card and uses it.  She, unlike her mother, is not drowning in books. 

So here's the deal.  Daughter and granddaughter will browse my books and take some away.  I told this to my son who lives in our town and he confessed that he might like some of my books, too.  Yes!

Where to start gathering up the books.  Surely, I can't give away the books that are signed by the authors.  I have many of those, collected over the years while I attended the Santa Barbara Writers Conference every third week in June.More than the signatures are the memories attached to them.

When Joan Collins signed one of her novels I told her I was a handwriting analyst and couldn't wait to check out her strokes.  She stared me down and said, "You little sneak." 

I loved meeting columnists at the conference.  My favorite Los Angeles Times columnist was Jack Smith.  When I told him I read him every morning in bed, he wrote in his book "Jack Smith's L.A., "For Ann Shields, Hope You Still love me in the mornings,  Jack Smith.    The next year, San Francisco columnist Herb Caen signed "One Man's San Francisco, " to me by writing, "For Ann--A memorable night in old Santa Barbara! Warm regards, Herb Caen.  I could make up a great story about these guys, being the fiction writer that I am.

Then there are books signed by Charles Schulz, a couple of them with a heart drawn by his very own hand.  The very hand that created a world of round headed kids, plus Snoopy.  Nope.  Can't let those go.

How can I ever get rid of these book? 

Okay, I quit reading the signed books in one room and now have to hit the other shelves.  Maybe, I will spread them all out on a table in the back yard with a huge sign that says, "Take Me, I'm Yours."  It will pain me to get rid of favorite authors, such as Jody Picoult, Elizabeth Berg, Anita Shreve, and Ann Lamott.   Maybe I'll browse through some of them and if they don't strike my memory bank I'll hang on for another read.  See how sick I am?

I haven't even mentioned the memoirs that I am becoming infatuated with.  Got Julie Andrews, Barbara Walters, Frankie Laine, Charles Champlin, Barack Obama,  and on and on.  In fact, I want to get Larry King's memoir just out.  Oh, right.  Can't.  Well I'll just put it on my wish list.

Well, I have a couple of weeks to traumatize myself by paring down the book shelves.  Meanwhile, my Ventura son better get a head start on the northern congregation coming in June.  Maybe there is something here for Lucas, the center of our universe,  too.  Can't start him too soon on his great grandmother's addiction.

So says Sassy

Cats and Commandos

Our cats brought in a baby possum yesterday, sneaking it through the porch, past the kitchen and into the garage where they studied it with suspicion.  I noticed this intense scrutiny and freaked out.  Grabbed the broom and dust pan, yelled for Des and hopped around while the possume curled up into a lifeless ball.  Playing possum, I deduced cleverly.

Des came galloping into the scene, grabbed the broom and dust pan and scooped the baby up while our cats looked deflated.  I know I am supposed to praise them for this present, but just muttered - good cat - while Des disposed of the body.  By now he was breathless and asking for a nitro to dump under his tongue. 

Today, the cats brought in a baby bird and managed to pull off the feathers in the garage before I caught them in the act, grabbed the broom and dustpan and took care of the disposal myself.  Didn't wake Des.  He gets too excited, especially when I am squealing.

This is not the first time the cats caused the breathless, fast heart rate for Des.  It often happens at night when we try to round them up from the back yard after dark.  Mitzi saunters in and Murphy hangs back to hide.  Sometimes we get one in and the other one sneaks back out.  Des stumbles around the back yard with flashlight and the cats laugh at him.  No, I don't hear them, but I can tell by the twitching of their whiskers.  Once in the house, the goal is to coax them into the garage where Des has made elaborate bedding for them on top of Sassafras, my Toyota Corolla.

I entice Mizie with sliced turkey meat from Von's deli because Mitzie lives to eat. The ritual begins when I enter the kitchen around 9, assuming they are already indoors, whereupon Mitzie saunters in behind me to rub against the backs of my legs while I slice up her meat.  Murphy has already disappeared with the foolhardy assumption that she will spend the night on our bed and has staked her corner.  Murphy lives for comfort, naps and her insatiable need to be carressed.

Get ready, I yell to Des who is surfing the Tube with the remote.  Now, He yells back?  Affirmative, I say, thinking I should respond military-like and say 'copy.'  So he heads for the bedroom to get Murphy whereupon he gathers her limp body into his arms while she plays possum and he heads for the garage door yelling at me to 'get ready, Murph is on the way.'  Mitzi follows me into the garage salivating for her treat, and we have a wild last minute struggle at the door because Murphy balks and hide under the table where  a brief struggle ensues.  Des is breathless and we shut the garage door with a sigh of relief.  I get the nitro and game is over.  Ocassionaly, there is no struggle and they wander into the garage together, not even looking back.

  Speaking of our military maneuvers, I learned something new the other morning at water aerobics.  As I came out of the shower and grabbed my clothes out of the locker, I noticed I had forgotten to bring underwear.  Gads, I gasped.  Well off with the wet suit and on with my jeans and blouse minus underwear,  As I walked past my fitness trainer I confessed that I didn't have on underwear.  She said, so you are going Commando and laughed.  Never heard that expression before.  Asked someone 40 years young than I am and they just laughed too. Clearly I am out of the loop.  Come to think of it, someone I know who used to be in the Green Beret said the other day that he never wears underwear.  A casual comment but whoda thunk it.  Now I am mulling over all our military guys traipsing through the desert and jungle,commando style.

Or are they putting me on?  Well, the cats outsmart us, so who knows?

So says Sassy