Wasting Joy

You may think this is a metaphor, and it very well could be, but the reference here is purely literal.
The kitchen sink is from 1961, with a mechanism for stopping it up to retain water for dish washing. Aged Parent felt that somehow, no one could really be sure, the water was surreptitiously draining, so she made sure the seal was perfectly watertight by (I kid you not) cleaning the edges of it with her fingernail (as reported in detail to me). She made certain of the hermetic seal, showed me the now-operational sink, and justified this entire project with: "...otherwise we would be wasting Joy." Yup, the detergent. 
See why I am in an existential crisis?

The Eyrie

There may be a variant spelling: aerie. And some difference of opinion about pronunciation. But the effect is the same— a bird's view of the surroundings. It fits for my little white office here on the flat of the block. Office, refuge, eye of the storm. The storm today is the discussion about "Tilex," which I bought in accordance with the cleaning woman's wish. I spoke, ill advisedly, with Aged Parent about the toxicity of said substance, at length, now to my deep regret. I couldn't get to an acceptable non-toxic version on my checkered day of errands, settled for the toxic version (as I suspect many other well-intentioned souls have done also) for the sake of pure expediency. Well...now I have to eat my progressive, green words and justify to AP the acquisition of said toxic substance. Lordy above. Just don't try to phone me for the good 1/2-hour this will take. Probably I will...LIE. Yes, prevaricate, obfuscate, and downright not Tell the Truth. Why bother? Are my ethics compromised? Or is there a clause in the contract that understands the Aged Parent footnote?

Wartime

In the Bay Area during WWII (and immediately after) there was a tremendous housing shortage. There were masses of wartime workers building ships at yards all over the Bay. They needed housing, as did all the others posted here to service the PTO, the Pacific Theater of Operations. One place available for housing was the second floor of this house on 5^th Ave. And this was before my parents built a two-story addition (1961) onto the back. So it was even more cramped then. There were two families (their configurations aren’t known) living on the two floors of this house. Hmmm…sounds familiar.

So for me there is a convenient metaphor: wartime. Am I the counter-intelligence agent/stalwart housewife seeking out those who would damage the war effort and thwart the Free World? Or intrepid journalist waiting to be sent to Hawaii and then farther west to follow the troops in their valiant yet bloody slog to victory? The mother with stars in her window hoping none turn to gold? (If you contact me and know what gold-star mothers were you get a free glass of wine and possibly some more history fun!)

I could channel all three and with luck absorb their strength and vision. After all, wartime is just a metaphor.

AS TIME GOES BY...

...THINGS CHANGE, AS NOW OBSERVED FROM MY CROW'S NEST HERE ON THE BLOCK. BUT REFERENCES OFTEN LINGER LONG AFTER THE ORIGINS ARE GONE. NAMES OF HOUSES ARE ONE OF THOSE SIGNIFICANT REFERENCES: THE SOOYS', THE GORINS', THE KEMPNERS', AND SO ON. NONE OF THOSE PEOPLE ARE HERE ANYMORE. BUT MANY OTHERS ARE, FROM THE EARLY 1960s AND BEFORE. NEW FAMILIES AND RESIDENTS TRICKLE IN OVER THE YEARS AND OTHERS FILTER OUT, SOMETIMES LITTLE BY LITTLE AND OTHER TIMES WITH PLANNED PRECISION. 

WHAT STAYS PRETTY MUCH THE SAME? THE BLOCKNESS OF THE BLOCK. IT REALLY IS A KIND OF ISLAND, MORE OR LESS SELF CONTAINED. NOT LIKE IT WAS, THOUGH. NO ONE PLAYS KICKBALL OR BASEBALL IN THE STREET ANYMORE, AND THE WHITE SQUARES PAINTED AS BASES ARE EITHER PAVED OVER OR COVERED NIGHT AND DAY BY CARS. AND FORGET ABOUT ONE-FOOT-OFF-THE GUTTER.

ONE MORE TIME

AND THAT'S IT. Guess what I'm writing about? The marriage equity drama being replayed(again)in California. I think we've been married twice before...at least? Well, the first time was Domestic Partners -- still kinda radical. The 2d time was dissolved without our say-so by our native state. So this is 3d time lucky, more or less? If this one doesn't maintain its legality we're going for the shacking up for eternity. It's just too exhausting trying to keep track: Are we married? When were we married? When were we unwillingly un-married? We're too old for this, and too boring, really. So please let us be lumpy old moms who tear up at little things and ask for just a little dignity and a big piece of paper.

Painting the House

The scaffolding is down. From the front of The House. It was a challenging time for the denizens: dodging paint and people when having to take dogs out for their "needs"; negotiating the complex schedule of the painters with Aged Parent; translating English to Spanish for AP because, well, you can imagine. But the painters were lovely & apparently have experience of querulous old people. A stellar example.

Grey in My Soul

Grey here. Grey there. Inside and out. But heading over the bridge to the north may brighten things up. On all fronts.