Calendar and Curmudgeon

Calendar and Curmudgeon

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My friends roll their eyes and tell me they think I am nuts. I don’t argue. Every year I draw out a calendar by hand, a page for each month, an empty box for each day, in which I can note in cryptic form those things which I wish to remember, such as CBD80 (Crin’s birthday-80) or Lola-rabies or annual water bill due.

When I draw my new pages, I review the old, plug in necessary annual items and leave blank the other boxes to be filled in as each day passes. My year-end review is bittersweet. I note the day we went up to La Mesa. I note the day Al died. The day I moved my bed and stove and dog into my new casita.

And so it goes. Ah, yes, that was a good book that came in June. Oh, do I ever recall the day my rotary clothesline finally arrived. Mundane, yes. Some days stay blank. But most days bring up memories.

I grew up on a farm with the kind of calendar, free from the Farmer’s Coop or State Farm, each page with a pocket into which one stuffed monthly bills, also with space on each day to write important notices. Few of my notices are important. My calendar marks time.

My friends have all their information on their I-phones. I watch them scroll through hundreds of apps. I prefer my piece of paper in its stand next to my computer. We each use what works for us.

Usually I dread Calendar Day, in which I gather pencil, papers and ruler, ready to draw lines, horizontal and vertical. I generally look for distractions, ways to procrastinate prior to and during the process. Some years my calendar-making stretches over two or three days. This year I found it sweet, done Christmas afternoon, a gift of memories.

One year my cousin Nancie brought me a beautiful calendar, big blank boxes for each date, just the trick. You must realize that Nancie does love a good bargain. I used that calendar three days before I realized it was for the two years previous. The laugh was on me and I never told Nancie.

Today I am marking in the first blank boxes of my new year, hoping for the sweet to continue.  

The Curmudgeon I speak of is me. I’ve crashed bang against the wall. Surely, I am simply tired from months of packing, purging, making decisions, changing purposes of various furnishings, making the actual move, unpacking, more purging, more decisions, more painting, more building, more, more, more of seemingly everything!

I’m almost to the end of work, almost done, almost. Unless, I have one more storage cabinet built for my bedroom. Unless I re-arrange my under-stairway storage—which I suspect will be necessary before the rainy season.

This entire grouping of holiday days has been filled with friends visiting, pot-lucking, dinners, picnics, nearly every single day. Fun, yes, and I love it. But, whew!

Never have I been so popular. Certainly, I saw my friends frequently at the rancho, five minutes here, ten minutes there, sometimes an hour over cups of tea. I’m still the same me, not prettier nor richer nor more powerful. Older. Yes. Older.

Ah, the alure of change. My new setting. No longer a neighbor next door, now I’m the hostess. I’ll best be the hostess with the moistest while it lasts. Soon I’ll be old-hat again, rumpled and crumpled and comfortable.

Today, however, I am a curmudgeon and turn away all comers.

Happy New Year.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

January 2 in the New Year

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