3-12-19 STRING

Every respectable kitchen pantry will have, tucked somewhere in a reachable spot, a bit of string at the ready. Thin cotton string; more mature than thread, but basically still an adolescent form of rope. Twine has its place in the garage, but it isn’t well suited for tying chicken legs, or securing a piece of muslin or gauze around Herbs De Provence. You need string for that.

I was blessed to be the child of someone who had created a designated spot where string and scissors were kept. There in the bin with masking, scotch and duct tapes and a stapler with extra staples. Also, a little divided box of picture hanging supplies, a small wood handled hammer, a pair of needle nose pliers, a spool of wire and some thumb tacks. As I ponder that little bin of dutifully kept supplies, I kind of yearn for that kind of order. When you know where to find the string, it frees up the brain space for the project that needs the string in the first place. I should live by this, but sadly, I don’t. I try, but things often end up finding a new home after they are used around here.

That bin of goods was in the first closet in the entry of our apartment on East Bruceton Road, the one where the old Singer sewing machine hid out in the dark. If you walked into the apartment, past the two large closets on one side and the entry table on the other, and you went right on through past the dining table and the old white rocker, the bathroom on the left and Ann Marie’s room on the right, you came to the end of the hall. Mom’s room was on the left, and on the right was the room Libby and I shared. One year, for Libby’s birthday, I cleaned our bedroom for her birthday. (That’s how rare and awesome such an event was.) But seriously, I really did deep clean it. We bought new bedspreads and curtains with petite flowers printed on them. We moved all the furniture, and painted the dresser. I vacuumed every nook and cranny, washed the windows with Windex and crumpled newspaper, and tucked our feather pillows into freshly washed flowery pillowcases. I felt an intense sense of pride and ownership in that sweet, calm space. I was so excited when Lib came home from camp to our new room, and she responded just perfectly. What a great birthday that was! At that point I had moved my bed over against the wall where the door was. The light switch was on the wall by the door. My pillow, however, was at the other end of the wall, so when it was time to put out the light, I had to get up and flip the switch. I have always had a hard time falling asleep, at least at bedtime. I’m pretty good at dozing off any other random time, but making myself turn off my brain and drift into LaLa Land has always caused a certain mysterious portion of anxiety.

I am always amazed at how quickly my husband, Dave, can go down. I mean, we say Amen in our nightly prayers and I roll over and he is sawing logs before I can finish my personal prayers. I have always been jealous of this aspect of him. I have to read, or try to focus on one thought or a new song lyric, anything to keep my mind from wandering into the massive forest of my imagination. It’s dark in there, with all sorts of emotional and intellectual options, and as often as not I end up actually getting out of bed and going out into the easy chair in the family room to get myself out of the trying-to-get-to-sleep funk.

Back on East Bruceton, when I finally got sleepy, the last thing I needed to do was get up to turn out the light. Once my mind was finally slipping down into the deep end it was easily jostled up to the surface. So, I did what any intelligent girl would do, I rigged a system to flip the light switch without getting out of bed. Now, I know, any normal person would have saved up her money and bought a nightstand and a lamp, but that must not have crossed my mind at the time. Instead, I drew up a plan, and that trusty bin with string and pins accommodated the execution of it. I wound string around the light switch, taping it in place with the duct tape. Then I used picture hanging screws above it and below it, through which I strung opposite sides of the string, ending with a ring on each piece down by my pillow. The rings hung from a nail. When sleep had almost overcome me, I could pull the sting that flipped the switch down, and viola, it was dark.

You know, my mom never did reprimand me for that contraption, which did the trick wonderfully up until the time Ann Marie left for college and I got her room. I mean, the holes in the wall, the tape on the switch; it all went with the tasteful decor of the single ski that I hung on the wall as well as random cool sticks I dragged in on various walks home. Poor Libby. She actually has really good taste, and is much more tidy than anyone would have guessed from the time we shared bedrooms, which was basically most of our childhood. I don’t remember her ever being irritated with my messes. She was just the best roommate, going along with the junk I dragged in. Her bedroom now is quite tidy and well decorated. I’m so sorry she had to spend all those years swirling in my messes. 

Libby’s house has bins just like our mom’s. She actually has Mom’s bins, come to think of it. It’s a good thing she lives one house away from me, because, quite honestly, it is easier to shuffle up to her place to borrow stuff than to try to remember where I might have put it around here. I just have to remember to get it back to her. Ugh!