Remembering My Childhood Home

The reality of my mother's death didn't really sink in until I saw the Remax Realty property sign on the lawn of my childhood home in last August.  I knew selling the white-sided ranch would make me cry for days and even weeks.  I felt so safe and comfortable amidst the pillows and fluff in my old bedroom when I visited my mother in Central New York. Now, my visits will either be cut down to a few hours or require that I wake up to the sound of cars and trucks passing my hotel on the boulevard.

I sat in the house alone Thanksgiving morning, remembering the buzz and laughter that came from the kitchen on Christmas Eve. The 8 x 10" room would be taken over by a large oblong table laden with several fish dishes, a large antipasto, my father's spaghetti with anchovy sauce, Aunt Sonja's macaroni and cheese, and a tray piled with my mother's Christmas cookies--chocolate and cherry bon bons, pecan meltaways, soft Italians, sugar candy canes, and many more.

I also remember the sight of my father standing in a trench that he dug to extend the back patio as my mother cooked and baked to Simon and Garfunkel tunes.

The house sold at the height of the Christmas season and I stressed about having to empty the contents of it by January 15. I brought back carloads of vestiges of the past--including mom's World War II-era Homer Laughlin china, myriad doylys, photo albums, and recipes. I also took the Oneida Silver and other things I didn't need for fear that I would lose them forever to the estate sale crowd. 

Selling my childhood home has led me to a greater appreciation for the sweet snapshots of time -- my husband teasing our eight-year-old cat and talking to the canary.  Our apartment, which looks like a Pier One showcase, buzzes with friends and well-wishers during our annual holiday party and provides moments of solitude on lazy Sunday afternoons. The living room fills with light from the east that fades beautifully over an ornate, gray church steeple in the west.  One door closes, another opens.  And that makes me smile.

Nickled and Dimed at 49

Losing a job in your late 40's creates a great sense of loss--of identity, of security, and of purpose that is compounded by worries about the ability to save for retirement.  Loss of income is especially stressful because unemployment benefits barely cover the bills let alone the costs of looking for a job.  A career coach or counselor can cost  $50 to $500 per hour and networking events in my area cost $5 -$40.This is not to mention the reams of paper, business card stock and Inkjet cartridges that I have had to purchase for snail mail responses.

I write grant proposals as a contractor but I lose a day of unemployment for each day I work and my work is taxed at 15 percent by Uncle Sam. I

Appeal letters from local and national charities pour through the mail slot and I have received several calls from the Fraternal Order of Police. Even though I explain that I'm unemployed and can't give right now, some callers quickly brush past my response and back into their "but you'll be helping the families" appeal.

Obama was on the mark when he said, "It's every man for himself" when he was campaigning. The rich want tax breaks; charities want more donors; and the retailers want us to spend what we don't have on stuff we don't need to support shareholder demands for more profit. Meanwhile, my husband just asked if we're going to give each other three presents for Christmas this year. 

Maybe we need to take a deep breath and consider how the global economic meltdown has changed our reality and look to a different model of economics because the current one is clearly unsustainable.  How can anyone hope for more profits and more money while unemployment rate hovers at 10 percent?  If I can't afford to bake cookies, how can I afford to pay $50 to attend a gala to support cancer research?

I don't want to be the Grinch who stole Christmas but I'm beginning to feel like Jimmy Stuart in "It's a Wonderful Life" and could use a little charity myself.