The Mountains of Romania

Calin and I tooled around in his brother's
Dacia on our honeymoon in Romania,
but it didn't take long to see everything
in his parents' neck of the woods.

We had no hotel reserved for our honeymoon.

Because his parents in Romania didn't attend our stateside wedding, Calin and I visited them afterward. Codlea, Transylvania, isn't exactly a tourist mecca, unless you count Dracula's castle about an hour away and the towering Bucegi mountains we traversed between the airport and Calin's boyhood home. But, poking around the family attic stands in for sight-seeing, when you're desperate enough--especially for someone in my line of work.

Cutsi's Stassfurt TV is like this,
courtesy: www.radiomuseum.org

In the front closet we discovered a derelict East German Stassfurt TV. People in less prosperous countries repair everything. Somehow, though, the Stassfurt never got fixed, defied resuscitation, or simply seemed too outdated to bother with (even my mother-in-law, Cutsi, wanted color television, eventually).

Cutsi has difficulty parting with unused items. Since Romania has no thrift stores, and a garage sale would elicit strange looks from neighbors unfamiliar with the concept, decluttering means giving to people you know, or to Gypsies passing in horse-drawn carts.

Decluttering, Gypsy-style. courtesy: wwwimage.cbs.com

In a society devoid of thrift stores and garage sales, a household's detritus should overwhelm. Wouldn't someone who won't toss anything even marginally useful--and who doesn't have a charity store to dump on--be awash in stuff? Yet, with the surplus interspersed throughout the home's pair of closets and attic, it didn't appear remotely excessive, despite being a whole life's worth of cast-offs.

Cutsi fixes. She gardens. She raises poultry. She uses everything when she cooks, even the turkey feet. She doesn't shop much. She doesn't concern herself with fashion. She gets everywhere on foot. When asked what she'd like us to bring her from the States, she requests a garden hose, and dental floss. When she receives gifts, believing them too good to use, she passes them along to friend or neighbor.

Cutsi's nearly empty walk-up attic.

One could argue Cutsi's frugality a necessity, but I disagree. After the fall of Communism, she didn't go on a buying spree, procuring the wonders newly available through capitalism; instead, she socked away retirement checks, sharing with those who desired to further their education, start a modest business, or see to needs in a country thin on social safety nets. And every time we visit, she presses money into our hands; despite our protests, she wants to share the cost of our son's autism therapy. Cutsi's a saver; Cutsi's a giver.

Cutsi tends her tomato seedlings.

In wealthier countries--the presence of thrift stores is a symptom of excess, after all--we jettison possessions little by little, hardly realizing how much we've discarded. The thoughtful donate, the shamelessly wasteful take the landfill shortcut. Either way, we squander by purchasing goods we don't appreciate enough to keep, or to repair, or to use when they're no longer the latest and greatest. And we choose inferior-quality goods unworthy of the resources used to produce them. Imagine your whole life's cast-offs in one heap. I feel ashamed by my personal Everest.

Mount Magura, from Cutsi's back yard.

Atop Cutsi's imaginary pile--modest, like Mount Magura outside her back window, indeed hardly worthy of the "Mount" moniker at all--sits the Stassfurt TV. Even she didn't appreciate it enough to fix.

We brought our wedding clothes to
Romania so Calin's parents could see.

Cutsi has one major life regret: missing her son's wedding. The cost of tickets would've been dear, the trip grueling, the plane changes confusing for a pair of pensioners accustomed to the confines of sleepy Codlea, Romania. Now, all she can do is watch the wedding video, on her color television. Even if she were to fix it, the Stassfurt lacks a VCR hookup.

Some waste is inevitable--even frugal, resourceful Cutsi can't find a use, or a home, for everything. But the biggest waste of all is a life selfishly lived. On this count, Cutsi has no regrets. Imagine your life's acts of giving all on one pile. 

Would it equal Cutsi's Everest?

Matthew 6:19-21



Next: A vintage engineering certificate found at a thrift store leads me on a Google search, and to tears: Treasures on Earth, Treasures in Heaven

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Treasures on Earth, Treasures in Heaven

Engineering certificate of William Charles Nilges.

I visit so many thrift stores, it's hard to keep them straight. But NuWay in Kalamazoo, Michigan stands out--because on my initial visit it reaked of urine; because of the prices written in wax crayon directly on the merchandise; because of a presentation so unappealing even I, a hardened thrift store junkie, consider fleeing.

I return, though, whenever I'm in Kalamazoo, because I manage to unearth a treasure on each visit. Yesterday it was a framed certificate. Issued in 1953, it declared William Charles Nilges a mechanical engineer in the State of Ohio. Its Machine Age design delights me. Though I suspect the anonymity of its recipient will hurt its prospects at Laura's Last Ditch, with a no-risk price of $3.98, I rolled the dice.

This evening, Googling "William Charles Nilges," I discovered his obituary. It took a mere month from the day he died at the age of 93 for his certificate to find its way into the shopping cart that I, with difficulty, wended through NuWay's disorganized aisles. "Bill" came from a family of ten. His wife died in '94. He held several patents for hydraulic pumps and owned a Volkswagen dealership. He served in World War II, and built steam-powered toys for nieces and nephews.

Survived by only two elderly brothers and dying childless, no niece or nephew--steam-powered toys notwithstanding--bothered to claim his mechanical engineering certificate. Feeling a sort of connection to him, I cried. Yet, there was light in one line of his obituary: "Ministering to Bill for many years have been Cathy and Jim Seiser, neighbors with huge hearts and much love." Maybe the detritus of his life went to NuWay, but he was not without friends.

Our dear neighbor, Walter.

Our nonagenarian neighbor, Walter, moved to a nursing home this past June. Walter, like William Charles Nilges, never had children. Having a speech impediment, neither did he marry. He always gave our son extra attention; because George is different, he has had a special place in Walter's heart. Every month when George's gift subscription of Highlights for Children arrives in the mail, we remember that we really should visit dear Walter.

With my only child having autism, I am likely to have no grandchildren, no descendants. Some day when I die, though few may remain to mourn my passing, I want written in my obituary, "She was a neighbor with a huge heart and much love." One who ministered. One who visited neighbors in the nursing home.

My earthly treasures may end up in a heap at the worst secondhand store in town, but my life will have mattered.

Matthew 25:34-40
Matthew 6:19-21

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Sonnet to a Sewer

I'm selling this toilet in my shop.

I have a vintage toilet for sale at Laura's Last Ditch, which reminds me of a poem I wrote in college:

Sonnet to a Sewer 

O sewer, sewer, sewer, sewer, PEW! 

Our waste to you flows ever deep within--

The poop, the pee, the barf, dead goldfish, too.

You take for us what's vile and sick as sin.

 Each time above a toilet fills with waste, 

With pools of numbers one or two, yea, three, 

One needs but flush, the deed will be erased. 

We are so glad you're here for us, you see.

Without a sewer all would surely drown

Amidst the flowing rivers made of dung. 

Without a sewer, stench would fill the town. 

Your praises e'er will stay on ev'ry tongue.

By taking waste that you made not yourself, 
Long life you grant us, sparing precious health.   

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Organ Grind

"Ornate" is not a favored
adjective when describing
 furniture that needs dusting.
I'd never want a monstrosity
like this in my house.

I hated it. Our rotating chore calendar boasted a healthy roster of 15 jobs--one for each weekday, multiplied by three children in the family. My obedient older siblings quickly nabbed the more desirable duties, so Tuesday evenings usually found me vacuuming and dusting the living room--following Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch, and a healthy dose of procrastination.

My mom's beloved Victorian parlor organ stretched floor to ceiling on the north wall. With its spindles, mirrors, and shelves buried in doilies and knickknacks, dusting presented a formidable challenge. Maddeningly, it lacked the satisfaction of a job well-done. A week's dust accumulation wouldn't make a convincing "before" and "after" photo diptych, yet, Mom wanted it spotless, so I dutifully removed and wiped down each knickknack, and carried every doily outside for a good shaking. Once the organ shone, back they went onto the shelves.

Unsurprisingly, I birthed the idea that, as an adult, I wouldn't have knickknacks; surprisingly, perhaps, I've stuck to it. Hence, our home lacks useless decoration, save a handful of framed photos, and a trio of plates hung in the enclosed--and virtually dust-free--built-in china cabinets. At an open house at our former abode, one potential buyer asked, "Is this house vacant?" (It wasn't).

I don't count this photo of my
mother-in-law as a knickknack.

Hubby and I both strongly support a no knickknack policy. Even so, when he visits family in Romania, I compulsively remind him not to allow anything into his suitcase that we might feel compelled to keep forever. Heirloom or not, if it's not useful, we don't want it, though we gladly make an exception for family photos. What he does take home, though, are things his mom no longer needs that I can sell in my online shop. Last year it was a Soviet Photo Sniper camera ($175) and a distressed hand-tooled leather belt ($40). This year, he scored an antique handwoven towel, a primitive pepper mill, another Soviet Chaika camera, and a carved African ashtray from a favorite uncle.

Sorry, hubby, but I don't want
this in my living room.

But this time, hubby thinks he needs to keep the ashtray. Despite my pleas that things are not people, that, if you want to remember someone, just hang a photo, for some reason he insists we keep this ghastly ashtray. An ashtray!

When I nixed the living room, he proposed the music studio. He'd even settle for the closet. But, I have a better idea:

How about on my mom's parlor organ?

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100 Thing Challenge Book Giveaway

Here's my first-ever giveaway.

Riddle: What's so good, you have to get rid of it?

Answer: The 100 Thing Challenge book.

Oh, the irony! This giveaway encourages people to visit my Etsy shop, by offering a book about getting rid of stuff. Here's my rationale: Dave Bruno, in The 100 Thing Challenge: How I Got Rid of Almost Everything, Remade My Life, and Regained My Soul doesn't count things that benefit the entire household as part of his 100 items; moreover, he writes that, when you have so few things, quality counts. Since I specialize in quality vintage kitchenwares, I suppose I can do this giveaway with a squeaky-clean conscience.

Click "read more" below for the giveaway entry. 

Mao's Last Blender

Being uber-frugal and anticipating the release of a new movie causes angst: bypassing the theatrical release, not wanting to buy a ticket; finding the DVD online, but choosing to save the $15; regretting my status as one of the few lacking Netflix, yet unwilling to impose upon a friend who does; waiting, waiting for the library to procure a copy, then three more interminable months in a long hold queue.

With my public library's copy of the Australian film, Mao's Last Dancer, finally in the DVD player, I lean into the screen, awaiting the scene I've rehearsed in my mind since reading the book: Li Cunxin, on a cultural exchange from China to Houston in the early 1980s, steps into the kitchen of his host's home. He sees a countertop full of small appliances and gadgets he can't even identify. It's culture shock, kitchen-style.

I received these flowers, along with a book and chocolate,
from the art department for Mao's Last Dancer. 

A couple of years ago, Marian Murray, working set design, asked me to find vintage small appliances, kitchen towels, electrical outlets, and office supplies for the film. I spent days scouring thrift stores all over the city, one by one ticking items off the list. Marian is, to date, the best customer I've had on either my eBay or Etsy sites. With sales of over $1000, I suspect I profited more than some of the bit actors; additional compensation came in the form of a book, kangaroo-shaped chocolates from Down Under, and a visit from Teleflora.

As Li approaches the kitchen, I wait to see my "babies" in at least a supporting role. But, like a soccer mom jealous of the star player, I am a bit miffed to see a blender acquired elsewhere whirr into action, while my small appliances languish in an invisible corner on a crowded countertop, mere extras. At one point, my husband says, "I think that's your outlet!" We back up the DVD a few times, but I never see it; even if I had, it would be small consolation.

I'll never again look at a period film the same way. Every vintage piece onscreen likely cost the studio dearly. And for each prop seen, fifty may go unused or unnoticed, their only legacy, conspiring to raise admission enough, a frugal person would have to sell $1000 in vintage small appliances, outlets, kitchen towels, and office supplies to rationalize the purchase of a single ticket.

A kitchen utensil
sold to Martha
Stewart Living.

Now that I've seen Mao's Last Dancer, as much as I enjoyed it, I'm glad I waited in the hold queue at the library. I saved enough money to subscribe to a magazine.

You see, I'm eagerly anticipating the centerfold featuring the kitchen utensils I sold to Martha Stewart Living.


Next: It's a sad day when I realize I can no longer get away with wearing my favorite dress: When I am Old, I Shall Wear Vintage
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