Category Archives: do-good-ery

Kick My Heels Up And

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The Fair Fifi, all of five.

I.
Pete turned the corner and found me locked in a life and death struggle with insulated pants. He stood there for a few seconds, chewing over the idea that his lovely wife could be outwitted by textiles, then asked, “So…what’re ya doin’?” I quit struggling. There was nothing to do but pants myself and start over.

II.
People are so interesting!

III.
Yesterday, Miss Sasha posted on Facebook that she was dashing off to a taco meeting. Suddenly the problem with all meetings I’d ever attended was clear to me.

IV.
Three boxes arrived the other day from a friend in Trenton who knew me when I was Me. My friend had lost a friend who crocheted lap blankets for people in wheelchairs and this yarn was just sitting in my friend’s house for a year and a half. I put away two of the boxes to protect the contents from yarn predators who might be people who are cats, but the third box contained very large granny squares for the cat blanket project. I was speechless. Later, when I could speak, I told my friend I wouldn’t let her or her friend down.

The Water Where You Came From

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1. People ask me a lot of the same crazy questions over and over at the family store, but my favorite is, “Do you think this will look good in my living room?”

2. She rang the doorbell an hour ago in tonight’s snow storm. Apparently, the Sierra Club works rain or shine. I let her in so she could thaw for a minute and I would have made her a cup of tea if we hadn’t just lost water. Snow in pots and bowls was melting on radiators and knitted squares Darla had left for me were piled everywhere. I’d reached a miserable crossroads in trying to join them for cat blankets when the girl said, “I’m interning at this shelter for orphaned wild animals in Blairstown, where the woman uses pockets like those for the baby possums.” She wrote down the name of the shelter and its phone number. I stared at the squares, then I looked back at her. “Are you allergic to chocolate?” She said no. I brought her a plastic container from the kitchen. “It’s homemade cocoa granola,” I said. “I’m not joining the Sierra Club, but you’ve really helped me. Please take it.”

Think About the Sun

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Jon Stewart, once again, shows us how it’s done.

There is one detail we must observe. When the towers came down, an unmistakable cloud of debris, smoke and human remains rolled away from Ground Zero. We saw it. We lived under it. We could smell everything about it and knew what it meant. I’m sitting 35 miles from Manhattan and almost everyone I knew was sick and we knew it was from that cloud. At some point I can no longer recall, Christie Whitman told the media the air was safe to breathe. I didn’t believe that. I don’t see how anyone could have, but you will never hear one of the first responders say anything about this. The lie was ridiculous and transparent. In a legal sense, admitting they knew what everyone knew might invalidate health insurance claims. It shouldn’t.

The exact opposite should be true. We should see that knowledge and the first responders’ going on anyway for what it was: greater courage than most of us possess. We owe them a greater debt than we can repay and the least we can do is take care of them.

Pretty People Nervous People

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Working tonight on a donation inventory for the anti-hunger project. My hands don’t work so it’s all chicken scratch. My hip hated the hours of opening boxes and frenzied jotting. For hours, I categorized and counted everything one group of my co-workers donated for a family consisting of four children and one woman. The generosity was unbelievable, not to mention the wild imagination. Finding four tiny samples of my father’s obscure, expensive, favorite French soap, I burst into tears. My faith in humanity is fucking restored.

Wishing I had my own union elves.

Jump Into A Brand New Skin

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You would not think so, but this tower of cat blankets is so athletic this is my only no-action photo.

Weeks ago, I volunteered for a task at work: acting as liaison between the library system and a hunger project at the unnamed university. The very moment I agreed to do it, the old pointless stage fright kicked in. I’d send out an email to a hundred people I’ve known for 20 years and try not to hork up lunch. I called a meeting and wore clogs in case I needed a quick place to yak. When a group of my co-workers refused to work and play well with others, I went full-metal queasy YOU BITCHES ARE NOT MY FRIENDS. As of today, the project is launched and the donation process has begun. The angry phone calls are so last week. Peace has come in our time. I’m so relieved I could toss my waffles.

I used to wonder why biographies of great thinkers and artists almost always start with an adult period of inspired productivity followed by one of wandering in the wilderness and another of mature work that isn’t flashy and feels dull compared with all that fiery, youthful noise, but I understand it now. I think about the same things, but I think a whole lot less about myself. Yesterday, I sashayed out of the house without makeup and even moisturizer because I forgot about me, which is fine because as art critics go I am a stone bitch and embarrassed to be seen with me.

These cat blankets are Topaz Approved!

The town we live in is so small that one’s presence or absence may be easily observed. Last spring, I marched over to the senior/youth center to volunteer at the food pantry. Sometimes lots of people turned out; sometimes there were three adults and three toddlers to do the shelving. When the weather cooled off recently I had some trouble being on my feet and missed a Wednesday night, which did not go unnoticed. Ah well. If I were stable, you and I would never have met in that bar in Singapore.

I’ve been knitting cat blankets since April. These are just about ready to send out, hopefully early next week. I’m knitting Pete a little wool scarf with the exciting footnote that I am allergic to wool. Part of the hunger project is giving families assigned to our departments winter warmth. I am thinking about making a rather dull but reasonably warm baby blanket, though thinking about it makes me want to hork.

Cartwheels Turn To Car Wheels

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Tonight, a herd of volunteers turned up to work for the food pantry – and thank Vishnu. There was a whole lot of work to do, a new coordinator and a stranger who decided to tell me what to do. I put down my holey double bag of USDA items and found something else to do. She was not the boss of me! Plus: her wife could’ve dropped me like a bad habit. But everything turned out okay, dozens of bags were prepared and stacked neatly in bins and the shelves were neatly stocked. Every task was completed with an almost balletic precision. Then someone opened a donation bag filled with socks. We all stared for a bit, then tied them up for donation to the church thrift store because they were socks and almost no one eats those.

Three Little Birds Pitch By

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It's like a postcard from Ta's Brain Works Again Camp.

As soon as I’m done writing, I’m going to don my glad rags and throw a jar labeling party. Woohoo! Pete jarred marinara; I jarred peppers in oil and Minstrel Boy’s Canned Peaches, spiced with Ras el Hanout. Sure, we’re having an adventure in playing with our food, but for me this is something more: after the dismal fog of depression, medication and brain damage, it feels fantastic to be able to learn again.

Smart is sexy.

Seems like most folks learn jarring and canning at Grandma’s elbow, and, sure, I recall being impressed into peeling and dicing service as a young teenager, but I didn’t really learn anything except that you really, really don’t want hot wax making contact with your youthful epidermis. One also learned that food preservation is an investment into a secure future based on past privation: my step-grandmother, who grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania, jarred watermelon rinds. For a kid from the middle of New Jersey in the seventies, this is the beginning of examining a plate of food for meaning and not knowing enough to put on gloves.

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Should you have occasion to buy me a present, this offers a lovely selection of yarns terrific for cat blankets that benefit the people who are cats, and the people who recycle silk or grow alpacas, via the Greater Good store. That kind of gift rocks: it passes through my hands on its way back into the world.

Like the Sun’s Coming Out

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Tata: Sean, I’m listening to Atlrok and one of the songs is driving me nuts.

Sean: Which one?

Tata: I don’t know. It doesn’t have any words.

Sean: What’s it sound like?

Tata: I don’t know. I’m working at my desk and suddenly I’m dancing and bagpipers are taking flight.

Sean: What?

Tata: I swear they’re flying around in formation. Duck!

Turns out I was eerily close.

Also in black and white: monsoons have flooded remote provinces of Pakistan, killing over 1000 people and displacing millions. You can help.

Who Was the New Authority

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What? You don't have a vintage Spice Girls gift bag?

Our housemate is moving out a little at a time between last weekend and the end of this month, so our quiet casa is in chaos. He’s complaining, which makes his impending absence a cheery thought. For our parts, Pete and I are looking forward to being able to work on the house again without worrying about our resident worrywart. We have a bunch of summer projects lined up, like fixing up a downstairs wrecked room, putting up a ceiling and repainting what is soon to be empty. When these projects came up, our hopes for going to rowing camp flew out the window, but that’s okay. Effort invested now will make our winter wonderful. And speaking of winter, stray cats will need blankets so I’ve started knitting. On Facebook, I asked friends to give or send spare yarn and I’d knit it into blankets for cats, which I’ve done before. Within days, a friend brought me a bag of yarn and fabric scraps, and as you can see, this project is a go. I expect to knit all summer, because no matter how balmy this day, cold nights are coming.