reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

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making the cut. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

before she had her ears pierced, my sweet momma had a collection of beautiful old-fashioned screw-back earrings dangling on this display on her dresser. i don’t know if i have any of those earrings but somehow i have this chrome and acrylic display that i think she and my poppo used back-in-the-day when they owned a small jewelry store.

i don’t have a specific use for this. it sits empty on my dresser. every time i look at it i think of my mom, so maybe that’s its use (though thoughts of my momma are prompted by many things and moments in my days.)

in this time, in the going-through of the stored stuff – things in boxes and bins and closets – there have been a few treasures. the crèche from a well-loved christmas house in a little town in florida that i passed on to a dear friend who has significant connections to that town. the painting we sent to the family of the painter. the hand-painted collector plates – painted by ancestors – i’m sending to family members so that they, too, might have a piece of this history.

other things? well, not so much.

it will be a slow process and last night – before we went to sleep – we were talking about how we might have missed so much had we just quickly given everything away. i’m grateful we are taking our time. the gifts are in the time-taking.

now, i would be remiss if i didn’t mention how hard some of these things are to part with. despite no real driving imperative for banana curls, i am reticent to part with the pink sponge curlers. despite no current (or impending) babies in the family, it is a tiny bit difficult to give up the sesame street baby play gym. despite a lack of counter space for it, the 1970s roll top breadbox is a tough giveaway. despite never having used it – and frankly, not even knowing i had it – finding the Betty Crocker plug-in warming tray seems a splendid idea for entertaining. despite not wearing them for – like – ever, the sweatshirt collection – and yes, it is a collection – has a zillion memories, each one its own reason for purchase. how can i give up montauk or galena or northwestern university or long island or nyc or seattle or lawrence or the university of minnesota or the high school tennis team? despite zero talent for woodworking, my brother’s scrollsaw templates…were my brother’s. despite, despite, despite. despite no real need for them, i will struggle as i photograph and ponder the fate of these things…remembering always that they are simply things and that any memory is still a memory, cued up and ready for my heart to wander through or linger in.

it’s gonna take a while. likely, a long while. but each day something is given away or sold or sent to someone or – in some cases, when appropriate, thrown out. little by little we are making headway. and, now, david – who used to be much more ruthless about culling possessions – is finding himself also relishing the process. well, relishing might be a tiny exaggeration. but definitely appreciating the process.

i’m not sure about this vintage earring holder piece. it has no function on my dresser, but it doesn’t take up a lot of room. there is a gingham stuffed heart hanging on it right now.

maybe that’s all it needs.

when the play gym and the warming tray and the sweatshirts and the scrollsaw templates and all the other things i will unearth and unbox and unbin and photograph and ponder actually move on, maybe it’s the small seemingly meaningless that will remain. to someone else, those things might look extraneous. but my heart connects the dots. and this time through, well, the chrome and acrylic stand might make the cut.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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bins and boxes. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the list keeps getting longer. more items to offer to others, more to sell, more to simply dispose of.

i have been the recipient of many hand-me-downs. now, mind you, we use – or repurpose – many of these hand-me-downs….remember, we are the people with the almond 1970s sears kenmore range in our kitchen. still.

because i love numbers, i recently realized that when you add the ages of our three vehicles up right now – this year – in the year 2025 – they add up to 100 years. now, that’s pretty doggone amazing. granted, our little vw bug is included, but if you take that one out, the other two still add up to a whopping 46 years. eh. i digress.

i keep referring back to my sentimental-people-trying-to-divest-of-their-stufffff book. it’s essential self-help material, particularly at a time when we are truly paring down. it helps to read that you don’t have to keep a gift forever – you are not indebted to the gifter in a forever way. and, even if you give some gift away, the sentiment remains. common sense stuff, but not when you are lost in the memories and angst of what to do with the antique relics in a bin or a box.

and so – the box with decorator hanging plates.

i am most definitely not a hanging-plate girl. though they are beautiful, their self-actualization of hanging-on-the-wall will never occur because of me.

we photographed them all the other day, carefully placing them on a black cloth on the table, taking care to avoid glare, turning them over for markings on the back, photographing any written certificates of authenticity that accompany them.

we got through the marketed plates and i have no reticence about listing those for sale – granted, at a low selling price, for the time of hanging-plate-popularity is well past. then we got to the family-handed-down ones. the ones with initials on the back or years (like 1917 or 1930). the ones with sticky notes that my sweet momma wrote, describing the origin of the plate or how it had been passed down. ugh. these are the ones that invoke guilt.

there is one that i will keep. it’s hand-painted, floral, dated 1930, with a hand-threaded wire for hanging, leaving the delicious mystery of who initially placed it there. other plates, however, would only be stored – and that is what i am trying to avoid: long-term storage. and so, i suspect i will offer them to others, perhaps sell the ones that are not family-member-painted or have distinct family connections. it’s a bit stressful. but i keep reminding myself…they are plates, for goodness sake. it isn’t actual DNA strands i am giving away or selling. sheesh. (back to the book!!!! stat!!!)

and then i’ll be moving on to the punchbowl and the old spinning wheel, a plethora of milk glass vases, too many hobnail pieces to ever use, 1970s-1990s sewing patterns.

the thing about all this going-through that is helpful? the fact that i don’t think much about the state of THINGS while i open bins and boxes and sort and photograph and ponder what to do.

the history of these objects – such treasured items in their day and even now – is forefront in my mind.

it is often the handwritten note by my mom that is more difficult than the object itself. everyone has their own line – i’ll never forget when a sibling threw away years and years of my momma’s calendars. as a calendar-girl, i was devastated to hear this. i would so prefer to read my sweet mom’s calendars and notes she jotted on them than have any piece of furniture or jewelry or painted plate. like i said, we all have different value sets.

and so i puzzle how to properly respect these artifacts i am unearthing – particularly some more obviously family-connected – but dates like 1917 on the back of a plate – a scalloped limoges porcelain plate handpainted in soft blue and green hues – forget-me-nots – in the same year as the united states entered the First World War – in order that the world would be made safe for democracy – these dates, the history of such pieces fast-forwards my thinking to today, catapults me back into what is happening now. i cannot help but travel through the history of this country as i unwrap that which is in the plastic bin.

THE BOOK reminds me that no longer having an object does not disconnect one from its meaning, its emotional value, its gifter or pass-it-down-er. all of that – the true worth – is still valid, still present. nevertheless, i take my time and consider carefully the options of parting with something.

which makes me think: what if this country would stand by its values, its rights and freedoms, its constitution with the same level of respectful restraint? what if this country – and its leaders – would consider carefully the options of parting with the very somethings that have made it a republic, a democracy? what if this country would value handing down to our children and their children and so forth the best of what we can all be?

what will the trinkets and artifacts of this very era conjure up in future generations as they open the bins and boxes left for them?

*****

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in the overlook. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i pulled off quickly – into a small lot overlooking the lake – because i knew that it would soon cease to be there – this striping of snowy beach, lake, storm, clouds and sky. soon it would disappear – maybe in moments – this differentiation of color – this horizon – soon it would become mostly gray. soon the textures would blend and it would become flat.

i am – we are – in the middle – once again – of a big attempt to clean out. thirty-five plus years of accumulation is a lot to go through and re-organize, donate, discard. every single thing takes longer than you might think. and, frankly, i am not anxious to go through it faster, to flatten it all out into neat-and-tidy in as short a time as possible.

i actually want to see all the textures of all this time. i am – figuratively – pulling off into the overlook so that i might gaze and reflect, remember and feel.

already, i’ve come upon surprises. already, i’ve been given a chance to remember tiny details i had forgotten. already, i’ve danced through children’s books and old vcr tapes, cassettes from the 70s and scraps of lyrics tucked deep in desk drawers. there is much to be done, but i’m in no rush. our focus will mostly be right here – in this era of national upheaval – and we will take our sweet time.

“everything takes so much longer than you think,” stating the obvious, i looked over at d, immersed in his own tasks of our cleaning-out.

“that’s ok,” he replied.

“yeah,” i sighed. “no need to rush,” a promise to go slow.

there’s plenty of time for neat and tidy, organized and pared down.

in the meanwhile, the textures of decades are on the horizon. in closets. in the basement. in the attic.

and i am in the overlook.

*****

THE WAY HOME © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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it’s that way. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“do you know where you’re going to

do you like the things that life is showing you

where are you going to

do you know?”

(theme from mahogany – do you know where you’re going to? – gerry goffin / michael masser)

we’ve spent days now – so far – going through, organizing, cleaning out. it is – in every way – an adventure. the items of life – in retrospect. stuff that tells stories, emotions wrapped around a piece of jewelry, a note, an old flannel shirt. 

it’s a slow go. this time – of looking back – is not to be rushed. some things require lingering a bit. i have sat with many a ‘thing’ in my hand, telling d a tale of its arrival in my life, its meaning, where it came from, where it took me, prompts of life lived. some of it is astonishing – things i’d forgotten. some of it is astonishing – things i still remember. some things elicit the “if i only knew then what i know now” response. some things move into the keep category, while others are making their way to join the do-not-keeps. some things i just stare at, wondering what on earth to do with them. 

and in some parallel plane – as i pick up each piece o’ life – touching it, feeling it – and then lay it back down – it is as if somewhere i am also picking up each piece of life – touching it, feeling it, laying it back down. this sorting is powerful, not merely tidying up.

and it is gaining momentum. 

as we look at the difference it makes, it invites us to keep going and going. deep into the bins and boxes. into the storage room and the attic, the kitchen cabinets, the back of the closet, the file drawers, the desks, the studio. it seems this is the time. this time the cleaning-out will take; the purge won’t simply be a great idea that dissipates into thin air. even with all the hard work – physically and emotionally – this time i can see it.

it’s that way → → →

and while we have no clue what might be out that way – the amorphous – waiting – we move in that direction. we are giving our home, our lives – all of it – the cleanse it all needs – to breathe and to invite in the new. 

we are awake. and we’re making space.

for whatever.

“ever forward,” d’s mom says.

*****

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homemade chicken soup. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

ahhhhhh…..so many questions….so few answers….

though we take turns with the existential questions of life, he is the one who asks most of the ones – aloud – that are -sometimes annoyingly – foggy. the kinds of questions that require lengthy, long-winded, circular, pondering dissertations, steeped-in-wisdom-devoid-of-wisdom yada-yada, first-person-experience tales, prolonged dialogue, yin-yanging polar opinions, all the reddiwip of solid answers.

i find myself – in these moments – thinking of the practical, the reassuringly tactile, the basic. the homemade chicken soup.

*****

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the réview mirror. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

in the cutest of mispronunciations, my son, when he was little, called the mirror in the car the “réview” mirror. to this day, i still hear him saying it and it always makes me smile. it was an existential wisdom and so i credit him with the thoughtfulness it brings. the réview mirror…showing that which is behind us.

in the middle of the night we ate a banana and talked about huckapoo shirts. we described specific clothing pieces…my little-house-on-the-prairie dress, his brown western shirt with quilting on the chest, my skinniest stretchy gold metal belts, his blue denim shirts, my gauchos, his cords, my prom gowns, his purple suspenders, our earth shoes. i was in the mecca of discos; he was in the foothills. but those huckapoo shirts…a both-and…we could vividly remember the prints, the colors, the polyester, the fit, the collars. we laughed and it kept us up for a couple hours, but it was a weekend night and all was well. we could sleep after. we moved on by decades…to dockers and button-downs (but never short-sleeved) and aigner pumps with suits and scarves. i talked about this light blue dress – it was a splurge and i still remember it cost $35. i wore it “for good” and it had puffy juliet sleeves and a tiny belt at the waistline. we kept going, through colors and fabrics, eventually arriving at black and jeans and boots, twinsies. the réview mirror had served our wakefulness well. had we followed my poppo’s advice – “build a barn out back and put it all out there because it will all come back” – we could visit and touch our huckapoos and chukka boots and bell-bottoms and moccasins-with-no-soles and pleated high-waisted jeans-with-suspenders. no doubt my current going-through of all the drawers and closets and bins in the house (ala marie kondo) will produce an item or two with hysterical shock-value.

the réview mirror of life and decisions and paths taken is not as hilarious. it is a roiling sea of emotions, up, down, up down. i imagine marie saying “thank it. appreciate its value. discard or donate it.” it – regardless of what “it” is, is in the rearview mirror, the sideview mirror, miles back on the highway where nothing we can do will change its appearance, its happening, its consequences. it just was. and it informed the next. though it may not be what we would have decided now, were we to be faced with the same set of circumstances, we have no going-back, no takebacks, no do-overs. we can only stand in grace alongside all the others standing in grace and move forward.

really…i’m not sure i would have ever worn the periwinkle-blue-black-polkadots-tiny-capped-ruffle-sleeve-skinny-self-belt-flounce-bottom-dress were i to do it again.

n’importe quoi. whatever.

*****

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bubbles, lace, crystal and tulle. [d.r. thursday]

on hangers festooning the basement laundry room, ballerina tutus of leotard and tulle challenge my drive to go through, sort, clean out, organize. tiny costumes and pink slippers that held fifth position and twirled pirouettes taunt me. i stand and gaze. and stare, lost in thought. they are the stuff of dearest memories, of watching my daughter dance, of sitting on the wood floor in the back hallway of the ballet studio, of heartbreakingly sweet recitals and pink roses and light smudges of blushy rouge on softest four-year-old smiling cheeks. how, then, do i sort these, i wonder. how, then, do i clean them out, i wonder.

though i am mostly not a fancy-schmancy, the bubbles and the bits of lace and tiny crystals will get me along with the art and the twinkling lights. there is that piece of lace of my wedding gown from 39 years ago held in an embroidery hoop. there is that first bubble nightlight that my son loved when he was little-little. there is that delicate crystal bracelet my sweet momma wore. there are those handkerchiefs my grandmother crocheted, colorful scalloped edges on tiny cloths of linen. and artwork circa 1990s: glittery tissue-paper poofed trees of construction paper, crayon and pencil drawings of me, of family, of flowers, of cars and trucks. stories on pa-pads-paper cut with kindergarten scissors and stapled, stories in notebooks, stories on looseleaf. the cursive script of my mom’s handwritten letters. sugary white ornaments i can still see on our long island christmas trees. the signed fine crystal stemware of my grandparents. the tiniest-tiny graceful bud vase with a handwritten scrap-of-paper note my mom wrote indicating it had been her grandmother’s. the 1943 floral-etched bell my parents got as a wedding gift. what does one do, i wonder.

on rare days i didn’t feel well – you may skip this part if you wish, dear gentlemen – when i had horribly yucky cramps, my sweet momma would pour the tiniest amount of manischewitz into the tiniest green beautifully etched vaseline glass. we’d sit and talk on the couch by the front window and the tiny bubbles of elderberry, a blanket and momma’s care would soothe me. there are six of these vintage glasses and a tray to match. i have no doubt what one does.

one keeps the bubbles and the lace and the crystal and the tulle and art-in-all-its-forms. isn’t that what basements and attics, treasure chests and the old corner cabinet in the dining room are for?

there’s plenty of other stuff that can go.

*****

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not so ruthless. [two artists tuesday]

i dare not hang them inside (or even on the actual front of the house, for that matter). but they will find their place. my mom and dad’s old christmas lights were in the bottom christmas bin in the storage room in the front of the basement. all bins had to be moved for the water utility folks to replace our water line so it seemed a decided task to go through the bins and, maybe – if i could find any ruthlessness – pare it all down a bit.

this is not a task for the nostalgic.

my digging and sorting and organizing and paring-notparing-paring-notparing down was like listening to all the old christmas record albums at once. it was frank sinatra and the carpenters and jim nabors and the firestone orchestra and chorus and herb alpert and the tijuana brass and dean martin and john denver and bing crosby and julie andrews and burl ives and doris day. it was old glass ornaments sprinkled liberally with glitter and felt cut into homemade trees with elmer’s-glue-laden-decorations. it was golden angels and hardened flour-water wreaths and crocheted bells and plastic poinsettia corsages and thick red yarn for stringing. it was cloves and pomegranate seeds and macaroni and tinsel and sugar-coating and silver sleighbells and styrofoam snowmen. it was crayon-printed “kirsten” and “craig” signatures, old red stockings-to-hang and fuzzy santa hats. tree skirts and tablecloths. rogers’ christmas house treasures and andrea’s christmas candle bubble nightlights. gift tags with long stories in a simple “from”.

as i was standing over those bins on thursday and friday, half my body buried deep into the bottom of the piles, i came upon a snowman ornament. “to kerie, from patrick” read the gift tag i had saved in the box from circa 1982, a gift from a piano student to me, his teacher. i took a picture and sent it to patrick, now my friend across the country on instagram. instantly, i had one of those heart rushes you get when you stumble across something tiny yet just simply precious. reaching out and letting him know seemed obvious. (not to mention a distraction when i needed one.)

i pulled my sweet parent’s vintage lights out and, because of that way that wires entangle even in the best of circumstances, i took my time detangling. i plugged each strand in, tightening the bulbs and removing the ones that had burned out. on the dining room table, i put together one long strand with working bulbs and made a decision. this year – as opposed to most all other years – i would wrap our front porch rail with memories. i would carefully place each old bulb so everyone passing could revisit a time long ago, decades in fact, a simpler time. i would succumb to the multi-colored-lights this year. on purpose. and after the new year, i will gently place them back in one of the bins, next to the painted-glass ornaments and the trees made of construction paper and paste.

and though next year we’ll likely go back to white twinkling happy lights out front, i will always remember the multi-colored lights and the enormity of love-filled stories and i will – just-as-always – know they will be a treasured part of my heart.

there were three overstuffed bins when i started. with a few things to donate and much in bags to dispose of, there are neater, tidier, more organized bins now. but there are still three.

*****

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momma’s 100th birthday. [merely-a-thought monday]

i hope there is chocolate ganache cake and asti spumante. today is my sweet momma’s 100th birthday and, wherever she is roaming in that other plane of existence, i want there to be an enormous celebration of this day she was born back in 1921. there is not a moment i don’t miss her. there is not a moment that i am unaware of her presence.

the dining room table is piled with all kinds of finnish glassware and etched crystal and scandinavian birchwood as i empty bins that have been packed for years. i carefully unwrap the end-of-roll-clean-newsprint that layers between these and i’m immediately reminiscent. every here and there there is a tiny note, written by my mom, to explain the origins of this vase or that kissing-couple-wine-stopper. i have many questions and know that they will now go unanswered. i find myself researching and researching, a google-fest of information about these items, some of which have no story i can access.

i am drawn to pieces and carefully clean them. we poured chilled white wine into a pair of chunky goblets, ittala ultima thule glass designed by tapio wirkkala, inspired by melting ice in lapland. yesterday i made strawberry rose sangria and poured it into glasses from a heavy crystal etched pitcher, which i remember was a gift to my parents early in their marriage. the other day we had happy hour snacks out on the deck, olives and crackers and goat cheese on hand-painted japanese china, a post-world-war-two-origin lost to me, served on a glass mid-century hazel atlas boopie berwick party platter (which is actually called a ‘smoke and snack tray’ but i can’t bring myself to call it that.)

the history gathers in our dining room and i can almost feel the cheers of my momma and my dad, my grandmother mama dear and grandfather gramps. they encourage my googling and they also encourage me to sort through and find the things that really resonate with me. i can hear my momma telling me, “pass it on to someone” or “sell it!” as i unpack more bins of things, things, things that would otherwise remain packed. although i still abide by the unspoken ‘beaky rule’ to saaave new things for a bit before using them, keeping all these things packed in bins for years, no, decades – unused – is silliness and it is rewarding time spent opening it all up, seeing what’s there, going through, incorporating these jewels into our daily life. i know that is making my momma smile.

today we will lift our glasses to my momma, our beaky, and celebrate her. her spirit and spunk live on. her stink eye penetrating look, her raised eyebrow “oh?”, her ‘write-a-lettuh’, her sisu, her new-yorkishness. her kindness, her storytelling, her love.

today i will light a candle and gently ring the delicate glass bell she and my dad received as a wedding gift and i will be grateful that this day – 100 years ago – my momma was born on this earth. for that, this world is better.

*****

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chaos. [flawed wednesday]

1000 pieces. we finished it in two days. two blustering cold, freezing rain, pallid grey days. we moved the tiny pine tree forest to the end of the dining room table and turned on all the twinkling lights. we had snacks early and glasses of wine later in the day. we’d leave the table and then return to it. there is something deeply satisfying about piecing together the outer edges of a puzzle and then, slowly but surely, gaining on the whole image, tiny sections of the picture emerging.

if only life were quite that easy.

the puzzle of our lives is in pieces. though i suspect we can pull the ones with straight edges and fashion them together into a frame of sorts, it is the rest of it that will prove challenging. we are upended. there is no picture on the front of the box to follow. it is disarray. chaos.

a friend recently chided me on my distraught emotions. “you were plucked out of a snake pit,” he texted. although i mightily disagreed at the time, i am beginning to see the wisdom of his words. people are not what they seem, sometimes, and communities can easily become poisoned by the actions of a very few. i don’t know when i will rest easily again. every night i am awake, reviewing, wondering, trying to figure it all out with little to no information. i am appalled time and again by ruthlessness. our friend may be right. it’s beginning to look more and more like a snake pit. and his words of reassurance and encouragement may be spot on. but it is chaos for us right now.

this week is pivotal in our country and in our own town. between a president psychologically and constitutionally off the charts, congressional leadership following along nose-tail-nose-tail in his feverish and fraudulent election-fraud wake, a senate run-off of significant proportion, a deadly pandemic spiraling out of control, our country, its democracy, and its constituents’ health are in peril. it is chaos in this country.

in our own town, they are erecting concrete barricades, blocking roads, re-attaching window boards, putting a potential curfew in place. the boy-with-the-big-automatic-gun who blithely killed two people on the street a few streets away is being arraigned. the district attorney is announcing his decision on whether or not to criminally charge the officer who shot a young black man seven times in the back in the line of duty earlier this summer. there will be unrest. there will likely be violence. it will be chaos in this town. again.

we have a couple other puzzles in the closet ready to be tackled. i’m thinking it is entirely possible that we will clear the table of this one we completed, stashing the pieces in a ziplock bag inside the box with the picture on the cover. we might choose another. empty the pieces onto the table, turning the cardboard pieces over to see the colors on the other side, placing the box-with-the-picture so we can work from it. in the moments we feel the most chaos we may walk over to the table, pick up a piece or two and, because we have a post-chaos-pieces-in-the-box picture, begin to sort and put it together. it will feel like a little bit of accomplishment in the middle of real chaos.

if only life were quite that easy.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY