The Book of Form and Emptiness, by Cynthia Ozeki, considers the nature of the stuff we surround ourselves with--- what if it could speak? What stories would it tell us? Do we really need all of this stuff—and the stories it holds—around us all the time? Or does it drive us crazy? Because I have been working my way through it for a week or so—trading off with Regime Change—I have been hearing the stories of my own stuff.
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Over ten years ago, Mark bought me an android tablet with a seven inch screen. I loved—still love—it. It connects to Wi-Fi, so I could check email and post photographs easily. I could read the news, search up information, and download podcasts for long car rides. It allowed both of us to go online at home in the evening (we have one computer). It was great for traveling. It did not, however, tether me to a cell tower and constant connections, so there were clear boundaries built in. It was perfect. Over the years, though, its use has faded. It is too old to take some upgrades, so functions have faded. First, no photos with the newspaper, then no newspaper, then no searching at all. It takes much longer to charge the battery. It is going to stop working completely someday soon. But, when I went to replace it—it is no longer being made. That niche product, hovering between a tablet and a phone, is gone. Like the perfect pair of pants, it is no longer there.
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Confession—I am a dish hoarder. I can resist the call of everything else, but not a vintage dish. We could feed sixty people and not run out of plates…
When I was in my twenties, I was wandering around Bar Harbor Maine one day and stopped to peer into a Fancy Kitchen store window. There was a new line of dishes displayed: Lindt-Stymiest Colorways. I fell in love. But, in a Fancy Kitchen store, items are not cheap, so I moved on that day. Later that year, I bought the butter dish which is featured in Still Life with Menu from the same era. My boyfriend bought me the large teapot to replace the one of a different design that he broke dropping by a cast iron pan on it. Years later, I found the mugs in a fancy used kitchen store in San Francisco; the plates about ten years ago here in thrift shop. Mark bought the yellow oil cruet online. They are beautiful on the outdoor table. If they could speak, they would talk about food and friendship and everyday life.
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Finally, a friend died this week. She lived a full and rich life—one of the generation that went to college, married, raised children, traveled all over and then said—this is not enough, so they joined the League of Women Voters to spend countless hours tracking local and federal elections and ballot measures, writing and applying position statements, and testifying at all levels of government. They gathered around kitchen tables, drank far more coffee than anyone should, and talked. Brilliant women with time to work for change. She will be missed.
I loved meeting at her house. It felt like stepping back in time. They bought their furniture when they married—mid century modern, beautiful wood—and then moved into one of the ranch houses that abound here in the Pacific Northwest, clinging to the side of a hill, surrounded by trees, with a deck, rather than a yard, birdfeeders and a daylight basement, with another possible entire house down below. The furniture, the house, the dishes, the coffee and conversation, were all of a piece and evoked that mid century time when we felt like there could be profound change and we, as local citizens, could bring it forth.
