Cursive is not my strong suit. My printing suffers from sever bouts of illegibility as well. This is the “lost” book today, as homely as when I originally “lost” it.
I once, accidentally-on-purpose, “lost” a book I had checked out from the Delta City Library because I wanted it for myself—and I wanted it right that minute. I checked it out knowing I had no intention of bringing it back. I know kids do things like that sometimes, but I must confess I was 36 at the time. It was in the year 2000, and I had just moved back to Delta from Maryland. I hadn’t bought my Hombre truck yet, so I couldn’t drive out of Delta to find a bookstore where I could try to get my own copy of the book. I couldn’t order it online because I needed it NOW. And I probably wouldn’t have been able to find a copy anyway since the book was not in print at the time. Two weeks later, I out-and-out lied when I confessed to the librarian I had “lost” the book. I paid the fine for losing it, which meant I paid the cost of the book—something like $26. Thus, I can truthfully say I bought the book, even though we all know I “lost” it with purpose and with glee.
And just what was this extraordinary book which so caused me to confiscate it for my eyes only? What book did I decide Delta library patrons could be deprived of, for my selfish benefit? It was a book about taxidermy—a field I couldn’t care less about. Its title was HOME BOOK OF TAXIDERMY AND TANNING, written by Gerald J. Grantz, published in 1969. I have no idea what specifically caused me to even pick it up and start thumbing through it s pages when I first encountered it on its library shelf. I could see from its check-out card that the book hadn’t been checked out for almost a decade before I borrowed it, so I didn’t feel too guilty for wanting to “lose” it. All I know is that when I opened up the pages of the smelly, misshapen, ugly book about taxidermy, I was inspired by sentences like these: “Spread the scalp out, flesh side up.” and, “Fold the skin once, flesh-to-flesh, roll it up and place it on a sloping surface to drain.” and, “Now fill the shell with chopped excelsior, tamping with a dowel.” I was intrigued by its jargon, and I simply had to have that book right then and there. Its pages immediately sparked in me this brilliant idea to write a book-length series of poems using taxidermy processes and terminology as metaphors for life and love.
Yes, folks, it is creativity like that which keeps me raiding my piggy bank as I approach my 60’s. I am rolling in the coinage. I have distinguished myself as a writer who has ideas about writing the absolutely least marketable books I possibly can. I live for the thrill of finding the perfect words to write the things most people don’t want to read. I’ve got a knack for it, coupled with all the wasted skills. Bearing this in mind, please be assured I’m perfectly content to know that an old book about taxidermy made me a minor thief of public resources, sort of. I got a groovy idea for writing a book of poems out of it—a book which nobody will ever publish or read. And that’s good enough for me. 😆 📄 📝 🖋 📖 🤓
In college and graduate school, whenever I was down to my last few bucks before payday, I often chose to buy a book instead of buying more practical things like socks and bacon. I’m not talking about buying textbooks that were required for my classes. This went beyond necessary books. I’m talking about buying books that could live on my own bookshelves for all time, but were irrelevant to my immediate academic or practical pursuits. It was common knowledge among my peers at that time that I would choose a book over food in almost every instance. For me, it was a no-brainer to buy a book. It wasn’t difficult to skip a meal or two, every once in a while. Yes, I had access to plenty of libraries, but one of my book-reading eccentricities involves my propensity for making notes in the book margins and underlining or bracketing a magnificent word, or a smart point, or a lovely sentence as I read. Libraries tend to frown on the type of collateral graffiti I perpetrate on books as I read, so I learned young that it was better for me—and everyone else involved—if I have my own copy of a book to read.
So how did I acquire food to keep me alive and passing my college courses when I was broke because I bought books instead of groceries? Trust me when I tell you this: Saturdays are a veritable feast of free food at the grocery store. Saturday is the day I could count on there being free samples of food products being offered to—even thrust upon—customers as they made their way up and down the grocery aisles. Of course, technically, I wasn’t shopping. But I assured myself it was okay for me to sample because I was there browsing for items I would be buying when my paycheck hit the bank and I could return to the store with check that wouldn’t bounce. The key to making this food sampling strategy work was to alternate the stores where I grazed. I didn’t want to become “that suspicious customer” who eats all the samples at the same store every Saturday, and who then ends up being trespassed from the premises forever, with the aid of a kindly police officer. On any given Saturday, I’d browse and sample at 1 or 2 grocery stores—whatever it took to get a not-so-balanced meal. The other days o’ the week were trickier. I discovered that pastry shops and delis always had free samples, so they were good targets, though their offerings were meager and not very filling. At least once a week, somebody in my circle invited me to a bbq or party of some kind, and it was okay to just show up empty-handed and leave with some leftovers. It was okay that I couldn’t contribute to the party-at-hand because when I was flush with cash I could be counted on to repay the meal by hosting the bbq or party myself. We were starving students together, but mostly—thankfully—not all at the same time.
The best how-to-get-food-because-I’m-hungry-and-I-bought-a-book-with-my-last-10-dollars-instead-of-food scheme was the funnest for me to carry out. I only had to use it when I was in college. I’d invoke the pretense of a game of scavenger hunt, for which I was the only participant. I’d write out a list of food items to be scavenged. I stuck with the basics, so as to not make it hard for the strangers I would encounter: a piece of bread, an egg, a slice of cheese, an apple, and so forth. I conspicuously carried my list with me to a stranger’s front door, so I looked legit. I’d knock or ring and the innocent soul would open the door. At which time, I’d inform the stranger that as part of a party game, I’d been sent on a scavenger hunt, and I wondered if they might have—and could give me—one or more of the items on my list. I have to say this about the Weber State University-area communities where I lived while getting my degree: nobody ever sent me away empty-handed. And then I’d take my scavenged treasures home to whatever sketchy house or apartment I was living in at the time, and I would build myself a meal—which I would eat while reading a book.
See what I did right there in that last sentence? I organically ended up right back at books, which is exactly where my higher education food trouble originated. (That’s a writer’s trick.)
BTW Keyboard keys Tie o’ the Day reminds us that books have to be written before they can be read.
In this selfie, book-y Tie o’ the Day displays the shelves its library. Honestly, there are material objects I value more than my ties and bow ties, and those things are undoubtedly books. More specifically, I have a truly-madly-deeply, beyond-reason kind of love for reading books. Books have always been a bigly part of my life, and not just as a reader. Because they have been so omnipresent throughout the whole of my life, I blame books for everything—for allowing me to survive every wild mis-step and humble triumph in my life. I also blame books for making me a writer.
I remember writing my first “book” when I was in 2nd grade, on half-sheets of blue-lined notebook paper which I meticulously “bound” with Scotch tape after I had completed writing my “manuscript.” I wrote the book in memory of my dog, Dum Dum, who had recently died. If I’m remembering correctly, one page of the book was simply empty space surrounding a solitary riddle in the center of the page. The touching riddle went something like this: What’s furry, and short, and yellow, and has a tail, and has only one eye, and died? Answer: Dum Dum. I worked dang kid-hard to make up that detailed riddle. It was worth all the effort my seven-year-old self could muster, because I was writing a “real” book. Bound together with Scotch tape.
I hope I run onto my first book one day soon. I know I would never have thrown away such a career-beginning piece of literature, so it’s got to be around here somewhere—even though I haven’t seen it for years. I’m sure I stuck it in a file folder, so it’s safe, wherever it is. Who could have known that a mere six years after I penciled that “book” about my dead dog, I would sell my first poem—for $7.00, to The New Era magazine? But I did. And reading—as much as the actual writing itself—is indubitably to blame. I make no apologies about it. To paraphrase Shakespeare, by way of ROMEO AND JULIET: If reading be my sin, give me my sin again! 📝 📖 📚
BTW Shakespeare’s plays are—and have been throughout history—often included on lists of books busybodies want to ban. Why, you ask, would anyone be threatened by those wonderful plays? Well, my theory is simple: the plays speak some uncomfortable truths and complexities about our all-too human existence, and some people—particularly those people who have never actually read or seen the plays—have a problem with facing reality. And why do some people have a problem with facing reality? Because it’s real. 🎭
This FB memory from August 2018 is the follow-up to the one I re-posted yesterday, but check back later this afternoon for a fresh TIE O’ THE DAY post. It will be the first in a series I’ll be posting about me and my lifelong relationship with books. That topic might not sound exciting enough to be worthy of even one post—let alone a series of posts—but I think you’ll be sufficiently entertained when you read about my myriad o’ book ramblings.
But for now, check out the following re-post, written a few weeks after my very first Cranky Hanky Panky surgery:
AND THEN THE SCHOOL YEAR STARTED
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I got approved and educated in Farmington today. At my doc appointment, I got the okey-dokey to take my torso with me on vacation in a couple of weeks. It’s allowed to fly with me on an airplane. The little piece of my pancreas that’s left in me was so excited about being able to go that it clapped. Really, it did. I heard it and felt it. And I know what my Hanky Panky’s capable of, better than anyone else does. (I’ve gotta change Panky’s name since what’s left of it seems to be working sufficiently. Hmmm.)
I learned a new word while the doc was pushing and poking at my belly with his hands: “crepitus.” Doc said he was checking to see if he could feel or hear any of this crepitus thing. And then I said, “That word sounds captivating. What is it?” I so much wanted him to tell me I have crepitus, so I could tell everybody I have crepitus, so I could have an excuse to say crepitus over and over. Crepitus, crepitus, crepitus. And even after the doc defined “crepitus” and told me it isn’t something anyone wants to have, I still wished I had some of it.
Doc told me the short version. Crepitus is air bubbles under your skin or in subcutaneous tissues. It’s a sign of air leaking from/to somewhere it shouldn’t. (After surgery, it can occur on rare occasions.) What he said next is what made me want it. Apparently, the crepitus bubbles feel like Rice Krispies when you’re feeling around, and they sound like Rice Crispies doing their snap, crackle, pop. Sometimes the sound can be heard with the naked ear– or in my case, the naked hearing aid. No stethoscope necessary. Who in their daring, right mind wouldn’t want to be full of crepitation? Alas, I have no Rice Krispies traveling in my innards. Looking at and listening to a bowl of the cereal can’t be the same as having the things move around under your skin. Dang.
After being educated about this new word, I felt compelled to honor public education. To do it, I drove past Farmington High School on my way home. It is FHS’s inaugural year. Brand spanking new. Bow Tie and I stopped to snap a photo of the place, and I’m sure you can guess the reason. A pop-out, grab-ya color. Yellow-orange. Now that’s a building that says HERE I AM! COME IN AND LEARN!
I also drove past Canyon Creek Elementary, which is about a mile from FHS. Its colors are not pop-y in the least. The earthy colors are fine, but match-y. I almost didn’t include this second photo on the post because it didn’t look very interesting. But then I saw IT. And I knew you had to see IT too: my hair in the wind. I’m wearing Trump hair!
HERE’S A P.S. FROM THE PREVIOUS RE- POST: The “allergy bee” —the bee whose sting indicated I had developed an allergy to bee stings—stung me in my hand. My entire hand and forearm swelled up like Popeye’s. To ease the throbbing pain of the swelling, I had to hold my hand up and my fingers pointed to the ceiling. The allergy incident occurred on a Saturday, and I was scheduled to give a talk in Sacrament Meeting the next day. It was too painful to let my arm hang down naturally for even the few minutes of my talk. So there I stood on the Sabbath, pontificating from the podium— my engorged Popeye forearm pointed straight up. It appeared as if I was sustaining myself for the entire ten minutes of my talk. Ward members didn’t act like anything weird was going on. I’m sure they thought I was just expressing another one of my eccentricities.
Folks, I forgot to wake up this morning. Technically, I got out of bed and went downstairs to the recliner, but I immediately fell asleep and slept for 3 more hours. I never do this sort of thing. And even when I finally did wake up, I can’t say that I felt like I was fully awake. A few minutes before 3 this afternoon, I suddenly felt like my eyes finally opened wide enough to qualify me as actually being awake. That was my good luck, because Judge Judy begins at 3 and I do not miss it. Perfect timing.
Check out this repeat from August 2018.
BEES GOTTA BE WHO THEY BE
Before Bow Tie o’ the Day and I can wreak havoc on Davis County today, we’re jumping in the car to go visit my regular doctor. You see—I am in dire need of re-upping my EpiPen supply. In all the hub-bub of selling the Delta house last year, I didn’t take time to get my yearly EpiPen prescription. My current injectors expired months ago.
The irony of my needing to carry EpiPens is that I am allergic to bee stings, which is not the best allergy to have when your father is a beekeeper and the bee warehouse is in your backyard. Bees around your house can make for some tense times. Oddly, my allergy didn’t kick in until I was 16. Getting stung was a somewhat regular occurrence in my childhood. I considered the bees my siblings, and sometimes we fought. It was really no big deal. I even worked in the warehouse sometimes and hung around with Dad in bee yards.
But the summer I was 16, I was wrangling some hollyhocks growing up against our house, and I got stung by a bee who was enjoying the ‘hocks. A couple of minutes later, I couldn’t stop sneezing. I decided to settle my sneezing by lying down on the couch with a cold rag on my forehead. I had a hard time catching my breath, and when Mom saw me she asked why I was turning blue. That’s when I connected how I was feeling to the bee sting. I hadn’t even considered a sting being the cause of how I felt because I’d been stung a thousand times before without any problems.
So off we went to the old Delta Hospital. I was not breathing well at all. My appendages were swelling up. My eyelids swelled up to the point I couldn’t open them. But I did get four shoes—sort of—out of my bee sting hospital visit. Apparently, when I got into the ER, the nurses needed to take off my shoes. When they couldn’t get my Nike’s off my swollen feet, they cut them off me. Thus, two shoes became four partial shoes. I’ve been armed with EpiPens, all of the time from that point onward.
I was officially excused from helping Dad in the warehouse or in bee yards ever again. And that was kinda sad.
I figured that would get y’all’s attention, but I assure you this is a clean and family-friendly post. It does have its serious moments, though. For the past few weeks, I’ve been cogitating about the idea of “bodily autonomy”: the idea that your body is your own, and that you are the ultimate decider of what you do or do not do with it. Personally, I’m all-in with bodily autonomy. If I’m not the one in charge of my body, please tell me who or what my body belongs to and I will kindly buy it back from its enslaved state of being. Also, I think whoever owns my body needs to pay the bills for its care and feeding, and for the mortgage on where it dwells. Seriously, I am quite certain the only “owner” of my body is me.
It was while contemplating bodily autonomy this afternoon that I remembered one of the many times I got sent to the principal at dear old Delta High School, and it had to do with my breasts. Let me say this at the outset: in my entire DHS career, I never got sent to the principal for doing anything even vaguely considered wrong—except maybe for the time I mooned a trucker while on the volleyball team bus, on our way home from Grand County. I got invited to the principal’s office somewhat regularly because I was simply—but constantly—outspoken about the issues of the times, and my ideas didn’t always sit well with the powers-that-be. I think I made certain people uncomfortable by giving them something to think about. (Story of my life.)
Anyhoo… Back to the breasticles tale. At the time I attended DHS, grades 1-6 were in Delta Elementary and grades 7-12 were in the high school. My cups started to overfloweth beginning in the 5th grade, so by the time my chest and I walked through the DHS doors and into the 7th grade, I was—as Mom would say—”quite busty.” It wasn’t so bad in 5th and 6th grade, probably because some of the guys my age had seen me punch a kid in the face on the playground one day in 5th grade when—I’ll say it this way—he encroached upon my body’s personal space. By the time the kid and I were finished slugging it out, I had him pinned up against the side of the school. I was even wearing a dress at the time! Our fists flew until the playground monitor dragged me away. The guys my age knew I could handle myself. But the older guys in DHS were a whole different experience for me. I learned quickly that the testosterone runs amok in high school boys, if you know what I mean.
The result of the older boys’ hormones included a near-daily regimen of bra-snapping. I saw it happened to other girls, too. It happened in class. It happened in the halls. It happened in the gym at sports events. Bra-snapping occurred in the auditorium and lunch room. Adults were usually around and seemed to see no problem with the practice. I am here to tell you: it was never fun to have my bra snapped or undone. It was never fun to be groped in the process. But from what I could tell, it was a fact of high school life. It was a constant reminder that puberty had somehow magically made my body accessible to boys in this way. They seemed to have permission to do these things. Nobody tried to stop it. It was a daily reminder that my community thought it was perfectly normal for my body to be touched in a sexualized way by someone else, whether or not I invited that touch. I learned my body was not completely mine, but was meant to be used in certain ways by whatever guy on his demand, even in public. Indeed, whenever the bra got snapped, laughter filled the area. Some male teachers laughed too. It never seemed to get boring to the guys who did it. It was like they had just then thought it up and did it for the first time. Every time.
The messages girls are sent through our tolerating this kind of unwanted behavior is not innocent. The more it happened, the less I felt like I could say anything about it. Every bra-snap, every grope, every time someone undid my bra—each unwanted touch took a tiny piece of me away. And when it happens so many times, the smallest of things can add up to something monolithic. That’s how it works. Just because an occurrence seems minor, it doesn’t mean it’s okay. Sometimes, it takes a lifetime to un-learn the idea that you are not your own. I am 58, and I still have to remind myself it is not my job to make everybody else happy, at the expense of my own happiness. This idea extends to my body.
So here’s the story I’ve been leading up to telling. One day in my 9th grade year, I was walking down the hall to class. You can guess what happened. SNAP! It happened once, and I girded up my loins and calmly walked on. Then it almost immediately happened a second time. Yup, a second guy snapped my bra when I was about 10 feet past the first bra-snapper. That was it! This had gone on for over two years, and I had had enough! I had reached my limit, and then some. I threw down my books and stood silently in the middle of the hall, amidst a bunch of older students. I pulled both arms inside the sleeves of the t-shirt I was wearing. Whereupon, I unhooked my bra and I wriggled out of it. I did the Bra’s-Coming-Off-Right-Now-Squirm that bosomy women especially know how to do with such finesse. I stuck my arms back out my sleeves and reached down my shirt to yank my bra out the collar of my shirt. I threw the bra on the floor of the hall, picked up my books, and went wherever I had been going. There was silence as I walked away. When I turned a corner into another hall, the laughter began. I did not care one bit. Note that Delta is a small town, so I had known these guys and their families all my life. I considered most of them friends and still do. They clearly saw nothing wrong with what they did, which means they literally did not pay attention to my expression or hear my words whenever they behaved this way. To them, I wasn’t the point, or a person—but an object. I learned a lesson from that, too, as all girls do to some extent from the accumulation of all these tiny infringements: how a guy’s actions made me feel did not matter as much as what a guy wants to do to a girl to show-off for his friends—to get a laugh and an “attaboy” at a girl’s expense.
Fast forward 20 minutes to the loudspeaker calling me from class to the principal’s office. My bra was sitting on the principal’s desk when I walked in. He left his office to give me privacy in which to put it back on. And then, when he came back in, I got read the riot act, albeit only half-heartedly. He understood what I was about, for the most part. A phone call to Mom ensued, during which she told the principal she thought I was completely in the right to make my point in a dramatic way. She also said that if I was ever touched again, she would bring the ladies from her book club to DHS to patrol the halls to ensure girls could walk the halls in safety. The principal did not disagree that the bra-snapping was inappropriate and needed to end. In fact, he usually agreed with my take on things, but he also usually felt compelled to punish me for my unorthodox methods to make my points. I was then written-up for my “disruptive and inappropriate behavior.” I’m sure the write-up still sits somewhere in the file that is my permanent record. Of course, no bra-snappers were talked to or disciplined in any way. I can remember saying, as I left his office, “I’m not the problem. You need to be having a talk with the fine gentlemen in this school.” He replied, “You’re right.” But no such meeting ever happened. This simplest definition of feminism, shown here on my t-shirt, apparently hadn’t reached Delta yet in 1979: feminism is the radical notion that women are people.
My bras continued to be snapped for the duration of my high school days, but it happened significantly less often after my silent striptease meltdown in the hall. The killer irony for me was when I went to church the Sunday after I had met with the principal, the second dude who snapped my bra in the hall the day I’d had enough was the one who passed the Sacrament to my row. I’m not going to lie: I felt sick to my stomach. ⛪️
Wow! In the 4 years since TIE O’ THE DAY originally posted what is today’s FB memory, the Total Tie Tally of my all-things-tie collection has increased bigly. I estimate the current tabulation is somewhere around 2,000 neckties and 2,500 bow ties. That’s a lot o’ ties. And don’t forget: I also have ascots, cravats, and bolo ties, too. Hey, it sounds crazy even to me. But they make me so very happy. Read the re-post from 2018 below.
I’VE WONDERED ABOUT IT MYSELF
A couple of days ago, I wrote about how important asking questions is in our lives. Wendy Lowery promptly asked me a few. I will answer them all, but only one in this post.
Wendy made a query about how I got into the tie/bow tie thing. She wondered what big life experience got me hooked. Ties o’ the Day also wonder how this all came to be. What’s the origin of the burgeoning Tie Room and its inhabitants?
The honest answer to the totality of Wendy’s question is that I don’t know exactly how I got here. I know that as a kid, I was fascinated by ties. I looked forward to Sunday every week because church meetings offered up what seemed like an infinite number of ties for me to behold. (An occasional bow tie showed up in the pews, but only rarely.) Plus, it was the late 60’s and early 70’s, so the necktie designs were varied and often as wide as paperbacks. The fabrics were richly soft. They absolutely looked hip. And then at some point in my kidhood, I created a Halloween costume that required a bow tie. I don’t remember what the costume was, but I remember I liked wearing the bow tie. It felt like me. It felt like home. And I am serious about that.
Over the decades, I picked up a swell tie/bow tie here or there in my travels, if I felt like I could not live a fulfilled and clever life without it. About four years ago, I looked at my neckwear as it was doing absolutely nothing in the closet, and I thought, “Why the heck am I not wearing these grooverrific pieces all the time?” I had only twenty or so, but I began wearing them. They completed something in my soul, so I wanted others to see and appreciate their characteristics. People who saw me wearing them seemed to appreciate how they popped out from the norm. Bow ties, especially, really do make people smile. That’s when neckwear became my regular uniform—my trademark.
Of course, I had to expand my collection if I was going to wear neckwear each day. And then after I started writing the website/tblog/Facebook posts, a few folks requested I wear and post at least two per day. (BTW I call you faithful readers “tbloglodytes” since this is a “t”ie “blog”.) Gee, I was in Heaven when I realized I had to acquire even more neckwear to properly post twice per day. Although I yammer on and on about my adventures, the tblog really is all about sharing the ties.
As far as an actual count of my neckwear bodies goes, I refuse to count them. If I did, I would feel compelled to tell Suzanne the exact number, and that could cause me trouble. Even though she probably owns as many yards of fabric as I own ties/bow ties, I have determined it’s best for me to remain in the dark about the total tie tabulation, so I can keep her in the dark about it. Some things just sound all wrong when they are said out loud.
Since Suzanne’s currently where there is no internet/phone service and can’t see this post, I will tell you—if you promise to not tell her that I estimate the necktie count to be around 200. And the bow tie count is somewhere in the range of 900. I have an old wood library card catalog, where the bow ties sleep in the drawers, each dreaming mighty dreams of their turn starring in the tblog. Each morning, I hear them yell out,”ME! PICK ME!” as I enter the Tie Room to select my attire.
Some people fish. Some people craft. Some people restore classic cars. I show off ties of all ilks. In my opinion, it should be an Olympic sport. I win.
Wow! The same camo Bow Tie o’ the Day, posted twice in one week. This old post is from August 2019. Good anecdotes—and bow ties— can always be repeated. Please read it with joy, as always. 🌵 👔 💻
SOUNDS CRAZY, I KNOW
Camo Bow Tie o’ the Day is one of my faves. Its size is referred to by Beau Ties Ltd. of Vermont as “butterfly jumbo.” Here, I am waiting in line at DICK’S Pharmacy. Of course, as a fashion maven, I know my cactus-print shirt needs to be ironed, especially down the front. Suzanne is as picky about ironing as Mom and Peggy always were. That’s one of the Top 10 reasons they’ve always liked Suzanne. Those three gals were born to be Wrinkle Whisperers. All Suzanne will see when she looks at this photo is the bigly wrinkle by the buttons. I didn’t iron my shirt, but on purpose.
Okay, so I’m in a minor snit at Suzanne today, and knowing how she feels about pressed shirts and ironing, I know this wrinkle biz will get under her skin mightily. It will bug her. That’s my goal. This is how I’m being passive-aggressive in a way that is tiny, but irritating enough to get her attention. She’ll know exactly what I’m up to when she sees this photo’s shirt needs pressing, then she’ll think about what she could have done which might possibly be upsetting me. She’s smart, so she’ll figure it out and fix the wrong. I will then notice she fixed the problem, and I’ll say, “Hey, will you please iron a couple of shirts for me?” That will signal to her that she’s forgiven, and all’s right with us. The whole routine saves us a squabble over some crumb of an issue that amounts to nothing, without either of us ever having to bring up the real topic.
Weird? Yes. It’s a kind of shorthand that lets us both save face. If you’ve been attached to someone for a long period of time, you know darn well you do similar dances with each other about certain things. The dance’s strange footwork is part of what helps you stay with your person long-term. You have to choreograph your own “happy family” groove. Sometimes you both have to just pipe down and dance a jig together no one else in the galaxy could possibly understand.
Here at TIE O’ THE DAY, we recommend a reasonable amount of looking back on one’s life. One should occasionally revisit where one has been, if only to appreciate the fineness of where one is now. The important thing to remember while engaging in the act of looking back on one’s past is that it’s a nice place to visit, but nobody can live there.
Here’s a re-post from 2018, about just that kind of thing:
IT WAS FUN, THEN IT WAS NOT FUN
Hey, Bow Tie o’ the Day’s wearing its neon green animal print for our dinkin’-around afternoon. We played around with the mirror and the camera for a few minutes, and we snapped this blurred shot.
Have you ever had a day when you felt a touch blurry? I occasionally feel blurry. And raggedy. And generally out of focus in the details. Those days happen because we’re tired, or upset, or confused, or have too many bills to pay—you name it. Blurry days are normal. It’s a human being thing.
Back in the day, when I drank, I felt blurry more often than not. I’d like to be able to say I hated the buzzy beer blur, but I was smitten with the feeling. I liked it waaaay too much, though. I finally figured out that my life—like anyone’s life—wasn’t all about me. What I did affected the people around me more than I realized. I had no idea how blurry I was to the people who seemed to care for me. I’m lucky I had enough awareness to do what I needed to do, so I wouldn’t lose Suzanne and other people who gave a damn about me.
Don’t misunderstand me. I enjoyed my time with a near-constant beer in my hand. Pub-hopping all across Ireland. Lots of get-togethers with friends in backyards. Hangin’ at beaches along the Atlantic Ocean. 4th of July fireworks on The Mall in front of the U.S. Capitol. Sittin’ on porches. Canoeing on the Potomac River. Picnics all over creation. And always a cooler full of brewskis nearby. Even now, if you name a brand of beer, I can remember the precise taste of that particular brew. And I tell you honestly that I cannot barbecue as skillfully without a beer in my hand. A can of Diet Coke doesn’t have the same heft or magic to it.
At some point in my life, it was clearly time to dissolve my relationship with beer, no matter how much I liked it. (I miss no other version of alcohol.) After I knew I needed to choose a new beverage, it took me a couple of years to get completely sober. But I finally managed to do it. I don’t regret picking up my first beer, and I don’t regret putting down my last one. I’ve found that it’s impossible to completely regret doing things that taught you bigly lessons—lessons that make you a better person. At least, that’s how it’s always worked for me.
Purple-striped Bow Tie o’ the Day was on display when we had a second appointment at the attorney’s office, to help us get our when-we-die concerns in order. The process is somewhat lengthy, which seems weird since our “estate” is straightforward except for a couple of things. We don’t have more than one house anymore, and we don’t collect cars or yachts, or stamps or coins. We do not have a fortune in cash locked away in a secret safe hidden behind a picture on the wall—or anywhere else, for that matter. We do have books, but there’s no money in having them. There is value in books, but not money. I doubt anybody we know has the space to adopt the whole bigly herd of slender volumes and bigly tomes we have acquired over the decades. It’s a huge job to look after thousands of books under one roof. We’ll have to do some deep thinking to divvy up the books. We know a ton of readers and I think we have a pretty fair idea of who might be interested in what. Still, it’s sad to think of our books living with other people in the not-too-near future. Yes, it’s the circle of life, but it kind of sucks anyway—to not be alive and reading, in the thick of things on the planet.
And then there is my neckwear circus. Exactly who will inherit the thousands of ties and bow ties I’ve amassed over the decades is an entirely different story. It’ll be challenging to divide them and/or designate them to go anywhere, because I can’t think of anyone who shares my adoration of the critters. Maybe I can get the Guinness Book of World Records people to send somebody to declare my neckwear collection to be the bigliest tie/bow tie menagerie in existence. That could increase the collection’s value, making it worth a tidy bit of pocket change. Rowan could then sell my collection on ebay and make enough money to buy himself a gallon of almond milk and a vegan Slim Jim to eat. Or he could just decide to open up the Tie Room as a museum and charge admission. That ought to be a negligibly lucrative money pit venture. Of course, Suzanne and I will be dead when anything happens to our belongings, so it really won’t be any of our business anymore. And that’s probably a good thing. All we can do is love the stuff we love for as long as we’re here. 📖 👔
