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OFFICIAL WEBSITE OF
GREENESPEAK PUBLICATIONS
CINDY BAILEY, EDITOR & PUBLISHER
Headquartered
at:
99 S. Washington St., Waynesburg, PA
Greene County
MAILING ADDRESS:
P. O. Box 1003
Waynesburg,
PA 15370
BUSINESS PH: 724-344-7980
E-MAIL: cindy@greenespeak.com
CINDY'S WIND
Hooray for the Christmas list
By Cindy Bailey, GreeneSpeak,
Editor/Publisher
[Reprinted from GreeneSpeak Print Edition, December 2010]
Posted Dec. 10, 2010
Sometimes I find it soothing to make a list, especially at Christmas.
Now, I will admit,
my everyday To-Do Lists don’t soothe me a whole lot; more like gives me tangible evidence of why it is reasonable for
me to be so STRESSED OUT.
On the other hand, when I start crossing off completed items (if I can still find my list
in my junked-up car or on my desk from you-know-where), it is so satisfying. On more thing done! Hooray for me.
But
back to my Christmas list; it’s not like Santa’s–of who gets what or who doesn’t and WHY. No, no,
the list I’m talking about is a device I use to hang onto my sanity when my material world is careening out of control;
to remind myself of what it’s all for.
To wit:
As I’m standing upside down in one of those big red
and green “organizer” tubs, rifling through my amassed collection of the usual tacky Christmas ornaments, it always
brings a smile when I come across the handmade things the kids brought me home from school each year as presents, like Ann’s
styrofoam popcorn wreath with her snaggle-toothed photo in the middle. Despite several thousands in dental work which has
given her not only a dazzling smile but also her career goal, nothing will ever replace that 2nd grade face.
One of
my favorite items is something Julie got inspired to make all by herself when she was 6 or 7 here at home from a pile of rocks
we picked up on a walk. These were not smooth, beautiful beach stones or sparkling pieces of granite; they were angular pieces
of plain old sandstone that farmers are always picking up and tossing out of their fields, and I couldn’t help wondering
what the heck, but she got out the paints and toiled away for several days. When she was done, she had created a complete
Nativity set; most of which were leaning this way and that, but nevertheless stood proudly in their perspective spots in the
scene. I tried to find them to take a photo for this column but my disorganization and deadline got the better of me....
Putting out manger scenes always makes me smile, for obvious reasons, but also because of the memories of each little toddler
in the family who gingerly picked up the Baby Jesus and rocked him before they put him back with his mommy.
Then there
is the inevitable baking of the tried and true sugar cookies, and chuckling at the girls who always find some complicated
new item to try, which we spend several hours decorating. (Ann always gets bored before we’re done which annoys her
sister). I recall shortbread snowmen with gumdrop hats and scarves....which got on my nerves pretty quick.
But there
are other, less tangible things on my list...like singing “Silent Night” with kids and candles...and seeing the
lights on the houses of people who, like me, sometimes forget to let our own lights so shine on behalf of the Light of the
World.
Playing the theme song from “The Snowman” on the piano. I always pull it out first on the day after
Thanksgiving and everyone here knows Christmas is on the way.
Having the whole family together for a change.
Seeing
familiar faces like our 7-year-old dancer who should be good at doing the “Mashed Potato” since she’s from
the Potato State and her dad works in an instant mashed potato factory, and now we’ll see a brand new face: her baby
sister whose chubby cheeks rival Santa’s, if the pictures are doing her justice. No better gift than that.
Drinking
something hot from a Santa head mug. (It’s an embarrassing thing leftover from my childhood).
Recalling unwrapping
things from Santa as I watch my own girls unwrap all the stuff I bought than that they are too kind to take back.
Looking
back at our old Christmas card photos. The one with the girls and dear old Belle, our horse, with the snow coming down is
an all-time favorite that still brings a tear with the smile.
Remembering those who aren’t with us anymore, knowing
they are living on in the next generation. (You can always tell this because when the family is all together, you can see
who inherited which annoying trait. Ok, so I’m kidding. A little bit).
And thinking of all the years Dad has tiptoed
down the stairs like a balding Santa on what the girls call his little ballerina feet to the kitchen to make me coffee and
get out the trash bags and to pick up the room so it’s ready for photos before we all come down because by the time
Christmas morning arrives, all I have strength for is sipping something hot and watching everybody else. Then we coerce Ann
into making Mickey waffles, and we know it will be a good day.
Jesus had a list, too, and although it’s old and
familiar, it helps me to pull it out at this time of year when I’m running on empty and realize that he wasn’t
talking only about apostles and martyrs and missionaries and destitute peoples; in every sentence here, he was talking about
me, too, at different points in my own particular journey. I know this because I really am blessed.
Blessed are
the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who
are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when people insult you,
persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.
May God bless you and yours this Christmas.
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POSTED JULY 2, 2009
Reprinted from the June 2009 GreeneSpeak
********************************************
SECRET'S OUT
I have a dirty little secret.
No, I mean it. It’s hard to say out loud, but it’s something
I’ve been carrying around with me–literally in bags and boxes–ever since I can remember. It occurred to
me after rummaging (of course) around in a brown bag under the table at the library book sale. I think it must have been fate
that caused me to fish out a slim and dusty paperback with my name all over it (and no, I didn’t write it, but I could
have!), The Rummager’s Handbook. It brought tears to my eyes and an involuntary sigh of relief. There is a name for
people like me and now, our very own a handbook!
Through the years I’ve tried to deny who I really am, cleaning
out junk like other people each spring, spending long days organizing my piles of stuff, fretting about my inability to create
domestic order, even generously donating large bags of my treasures to thrift stores in order to help the community, knowing
my stuff will help other people like me feed their addiction. But who can leave a thrift store without checking out the latest
Land of Unwanted Stuff? If you can, alas, you are not one of us!
Who can drive by a flea market sign? Just think of the
possibilities tucked away in each and every flea! Church rummage sales? Anything to help God out!
Okay, so I’m
outed. Spring and summer are the worst; when other people are cleaning out, I’m gathering–all their unwanted stuff.
They make T.V. shows about people like me and I watch them religiously, hoping to learn something about getting it under control,
but mostly I drool over the items they’re putting in their yard sales.
And for me, rummaging really is dirty work,
because I leave no box or bag unopened. I’ll practically stand on my head for as long as it takes, pawing through every
item to see what I can add to my personal arsenal of raw materials from which to create amazing wonders. This is what inspires
me: finding old things and using them in new (okay, maybe bizarre) ways. Because the dustiest, rustiest items hidden in boxes
(because the owners didn’t think they were worth putting on display) are the biggest diamonds in the rough. The true
rummager really never sees the dirt; that’s how we can live in clutter and not really see it as a “mess”
until our husbands somehow injure themselves on our hoard.
Dusty bags of books notwithstanding, I think the dirtiest
thing I bought in recent memory was a pile of old newspaper printer drawers not only covered with ink, but which must have
been sitting next to a coal furnace for the last 50 years. These are the ones with all the little compartments that people
use as shadow boxes. The guy sold the grimy lot to me for $20. To date, I have cleaned only two of them, using straight ammonia
and a toothbrush. I filled one with photos and wedding mementos for a couple who recently married. The bride loved it, but
I was jealous and wanted to keep it for myself.
Although the Rummager’s Handbook recommends establishing your own
personal closet of these items so you have them at hand for quick crafting, I outgrew mine long ago. Somehow, the true treasure
of my life, my husband, puts up with my hoarding, even seems to understand it. We just returned from our anniversary weekend.
The bags and boxes I walked in with were not filled with expensive perfume or jewelry, but scraps of vintage fabrics, old
magazines and cookbooks from 40 years ago, and an old aluminum roaster (makes a great herb garden).
I don’t know
why, but old things, things that had a former life appeal to me...a sewing box still filled with notions...an avocado green
makeup case the white-haired lady said she bought for her honeymoon...a chipped enamel teapot, white with red trim, something
my grandmother would have been proud to have in her kitchen...even an old church pew from a church I attended sometimes as
a child...things that remind me of home, of who I am and where I came from. Imperfect, but salvageable things that still have
a use and a certain alluring patina.
Likewise, I may not be the fresh young girl I was when I walked down the aisle
29 years ago, but, yes, I am definitely noticing a patina lately....
************************
POSTED MAY 10,
2008
*************************
[Selected from the May 2008 print edition of GreeneSpeak]
Going in many
directions out on the ridge
By Cindy Bailey
GreeneSpeak Editor & Publisher
So anyway, we pulled in
the driveway and the greeting committee that showed up was 1,000 pounds of horse flesh who had been gorging on the never-ending-salad-bar-that-is-my-yard.
“How’d she get out again?” I asked.
Now, it doesn’t happen very often, but every once in awhile,
Belle, Annie’s equine wonder, manages to outwit us all and find a new technique for squashing herself through our overpriced
fencing and find freedom.
One time, I awoke to an early morning knock at the door which was Belle who apparently sniffed
the oats Daddy was preparing for the girls’ breakfast. Annie just led her back to the barn and that was the end of that.
We figured she had slipped on the ice and slid under the fence that time.
This episode, however, was more complicated.
In my haste to heed nature’s call , I skipped to the front door to let myself in the basement door–where Belle
obviously smelled her feed supply and came tearing across the painted cement.
“Oh man! Keep her off the por–”
my husband croaked, but I thought it was sort of cute that she was following me and wondered what the fuss was about.
Poor
Belle. Her hooves just couldn’t get any traction. One by one they slipped out from under her and she went down, looking
as startled as I did I’m sure.
Now if you have never had a half-ton animal crash at your feet, you may not understand
what a traumatizing sight it is. Although we soon knew she was unhurt, at first you figure the worst. As she sort of groaned
and wallowed around and Rob came over to try to get her up, I flew inside to do you know what. The excitement was too much.
When I came back out they were both out of breath, wide-eyed, and in huge states of puzzlement.. Seems she had gone down
a couple of more times as he tried to help her, but now he was cooing, “Whoa, Belle...whoa Belle...” (And I’m
thinking, geeze, she’s already “whoaed” what we need here is a giddyUP). She was facing the block wall of
the house, with her back to the world, sort of like she was embarrassed.... “Maybe I AM allowing my appetite to control
my life....”
However, my husband, due to his more than three decades of associations with me and another 20 years
with his daughters, has managed to hone his skills among the females, and to my amazement, that horse just lay there with
her starry big eyes locked on him, just waiting because she knew he would take care of her and get it figured out. I was not
quite so convinced yet.
So I was ordered to do the “Whoa, Belle” thing as he searched for some implement
to address this situation. Now it doesn’t really work as well when your voice is more like a primal scream, but I did
try....
You may already know my husband has a knack for turning anything into a useful and practical tool which is the
exact item you need for your problem at this exact moment.. It’s a bizarre talent, really, but I’ll admit, I’ve
taken advantage of it on numerous occasions.
So he grabs a strap of some sort and wraps it around her upper ribcage and
I’m thinking more like a crowbar or board to pry her up. So he pulls and she budges a few inches toward the yard behind
her and he repeats this about four times. And she jerks up her head and sees the grass again and starts to get up and I shriek
and Rob looks at me with eyes that are paring knives and I pipe down. And she gets up on all four feet on the same slippery
cement and struts off to the free buffet once again. I think I heard her hiss, “So, why didn’t YOU think of that?”
And my adorable husband put her safely away and is still puzzling over her Houdini-esque tendencies. And all I wanted to
know was, “Okay, Rob, so how’d you do that?”
And he said, “I just needed to get her pointed in
the right direction. When she was facing the wall she was trying to get up AND turn around at the same time and that’s
why she kept falling down. Once she saw the grass, she knew where she was headed.”
And you know where this is going.
The moral is: When you hit a brick wall, maybe all you really need to do is trust the Big Guy with all the tools to get you
turned around in the right direction.
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