Umpteen years ago yesterday, when Daughter Number Three was in college, it became incumbent upon her to attend a certain number of concerts. She dutifully selected one that fit her schedule and showed up at the appointed hour, only to find that the first order of business was for all present to sing “Happy Birthday” to someone named Bob.
They all did so, D#3 included, then she whispered to the woman next to her, “Who is this Bob person?” The woman looked blankly at her and then said, “Bach. It’s Bach’s birthday.” I remembered this story fondly yesterday, on the three hundred thirty-ninth anniversary of Johann Sebastian Bach’s birth. No doubt, a lot of people sang him “Happy Birthday,” and perhaps a few of them asked after the honoree.
D#3’s story is dear to her dad and me, and brought me a smile yesterday, as I drove along, gazing down the years and listening to the fourth Brandenberg Concerto. That Bob person certainly cast a long shadow.
It would have been a long, cold shadow on Bach’s birthday this year, as the thermometer had only made it into the teens when I first checked in the morning. Have we reached a point where, no matter the temperature, it’s a source of dread? Will the hard freezes we’ve had this week lose Michigan its cherry crop? Can one enjoy unseasonably warm days in the winter without guilt over climate change? A friend asked, Tuesday, if we’re far enough into spring that we can enjoy nice days. Inches of snow are headed our way.
Nonetheless, I’ve been in a frenzy of spring cleaning of the too-much-stuff persuasion. Some of what we’ve stored for years is old enough that, in at least one instance, we no longer remember what it is. I brought up one box for my husband to look over, with an eye toward whether or not he wishes to continue storing the contents. Most of what was in the box, but not everything, related to the making of wine—something he hasn’t done in the last half century.
Also in the box was a lantern, in the form of a heavy, wrought-iron owl. Now, I’d seen the owl before, but didn’t know we still had it, having stopped looking for it about thirty-five years ago. A number of times, during that span, I’ve thought it would be nice to have it, and regretted giving it away. Now that it’s found again, I’m ready to have it find a new nest. Perhaps Daughter Number Two will want it.
The mystery item in the box is a hand tool, about a foot long and a couple inches wide, made of wood, and having been turned on a lathe. It comes apart and has a long plunger, rather like a nutcracker. But there’s a very deliberate hole in the bottom. What could it be? Some hours after first considering the device, my husband figured it out: it’s for putting corks in bottles. Someone other than us will no doubt enjoy the tool, along with the rest of the wine-making paraphernalia.
Books are also being subjected to the do-we-really-need-this treatment. We have bookcases in the basement that I’d like to empty. Unless I plan to read a book again, or it holds special meaning for me, I’m ready to release it into the world. At least, the books on those bookcases. It is, however, futile to try to bypass my sweetheart’s opinion on the matter.
He is less inclined to let books go, even if we’ve had them for decades and he’s never shown any interest in them. The Shorter Cambridge Medieval History is a case in point. He’s stopped that two-volume work from going out the door just yet, and is well into Volume I, “The later Roman Empire to the Twelfth Century.” He’s been sharing tidbits about the fall of the empire. “When the Roman Empire declined, it really declined. It was terrible.”
He’d be further into the Middle Ages, were it not for all the other books he’s reading. He always has two or three going at once, but the spring cleaning has caused him to expand that number. He’s created a bit of a book nest, centered around his favorite reading chair. Old textbooks. Wood . . . Colors and Kinds—quite nifty, with identifying characteristics and color photographs. A Sunset book on roofing and siding.
So much to examine, so little time. The snow is piling up outside, although the rate at which it’s doing so has slowed some. What perfect weather for a nest of books, both old friends and new.
22 March 2024
*giggles (Bob). There is nothing so nice as a good book nest.
As the third daughter in our lives together, I recently went through all the drawers in our dresser and reorganized things…and purged several items. There are knee socks I have that go back to the middle drawer in the girls bathroom on Windemere where all of our socks were stashed. I also went through lingerie and bagged up several items I’ll never, if ever wear again. Also took inventory of the costume jewelry I’ve had for, well, most of my life. As I work at home, I rarely add earrings, necklaces or bracelets to my in-home attire, unless I’m having a really great hair day and will be going into town for something. Several bags of items ended up at the St. Vincent de Paul shop in Alpena and I remain hopeful that they will be put to good use for someone again. It does feel good to go through the pages of our lives, to see what we’ve accumulated and enjoyed, and editing the volumes in a positive way to pass along to someone else. Letting books go is tough, I will admit. We have many, but not as many as you do. Husband has several vintage leather-bound construction, engineering and architecture tomes that sit in the “lawyer’s cabinet” here in our office. As far as I know, he hasn’t referred to any of them in recent, well, decades! Still, they are reminiscent of his education and vocation and are special to him, like old friends. Those socks I gave away were veeeery old friends, but they’ll be new friends to someone. There are so many family items we’ve respectively accumulated. In my home, I see our mother’s punch bowl in a dust-covered box on top of my pantry cabinets, one of her brass/glass casserole dishes and the family roasting pan used for countless Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter feasts. All old friends…