New Jersey

In praise of the bandana.

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Farm chore of the week: spreading fertilizer around 1,600 young Christmas trees. Dad and I did some today and some yesterday. More await us on Friday. Yay.

The late-summer sun felt plenty warm to me, and the humidity had it beat by a couple of percentage points. My bandana got quite a workout; not only did I wipe my face fairly often, I used the blue hanky to mark my spot in a row. When I walked back from the fertilizer cart, I always knew which was the last tree I’d surrounded with 14-7-14 granules.

That bandana cost me a buck several years ago, and has been in my backpack ever since. Who carries a pocket handkerchief any more? I do, and you should, too. It’s incredibly useful for a number of tasks.

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The value of work.

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100_0105I’ve got a nice new divot in my left thumb, worn there by a hoe handle. Earlier this week my father and I spent about 90 minutes grubbing out weeds in a field of Christmas trees.

It’s healing surprisingly fast (thanks, Neosporin!). You should have seen it a couple of days ago. Despite the work gloves, I’d dug a hole deep enough to accommodate a hearing-aid battery.

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Choosing what — and whether — to buy.

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While visiting my dad recently I enjoyed a whole bunch of regional delicacies. Although I get irritated with those who claim it’s my job to uphold the economy by spending lots of money, I do believe in supporting small local businesses.

Or so I said every time I visited a South Jersey custard stand. Rationalization is a wonderful thing.

 

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Think you’re broke? You probably aren’t.

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Recently I linked to Laura Rowley’s excellent column, “Why the rich don’t feel rich,” in which she wrote about University of Chicago law professor Todd Henderson’s struggle to survive on a combined family income of more than $250,000. The column was a stark contrast to something that happened while I was in New Jersey last month.

I frequently stopped by to see my Aunt Dot, who’s 87 and very frail due to several medical issues. She and her son live on Social Security and disability plus her small pension. One evening I discovered that they had exactly one dollar in the house. Her check was due the next day and she planned to walk to the bank to cash it.

The bank is at least a mile from where Dot lives. And did I mention that she’s on oxygen?

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Where did Wednesday go?

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Yesterday I didn’t post at all, and it felt odd. Much of the day was taken up with deadlines: my Living With Less column for MSN Money and a guest post for Get Rich Slowly. I took a two-mile walk. I spent some time with my aunt. I scanned a ton of family photos at Walgreens, and had a plate of ravioli at a pizzeria while I waited for the prints to be ready.

Those photos, particularly the ones of my mother, are generating a lot of melancholy. It’s going to take some time for the emotions to shake down. When they do, I’ll be writing about what I’ve learned – and what I hope to continue to learn – from looking back.

 

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Sour flies, greenheads, ticks: Bug-eyed in South Jersey

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There is a cricket in my dad’s house. Upstairs. I sleep upstairs. I had planned to sleep peacefully upstairs, but three or four times per night the critter tunes up: Eek-eek-eek.

My eyes fly open and my heart starts pounding. The noise isn’t scary, just unfamiliar – and unfamiliar sounds trigger the hyperarousal has been my companion ever since my daughter’s illness. It’s the one part of post-traumatic stress disorder that I haven’t been able to shake.

I’ll calm myself down, finally doze off and it happens again. Eek-eek-eek. My dad’s home has a nice big downstairs and a huge basement, but naturally Cri-Cri just had to choose the penthouse.

I’ve got nothing against crickets – outside.

 

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Deplaned.

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It’s a little after 1 a.m. and I’m writing from my dad’s place in South Jersey. Already sweating, and boy, are those crickets loud. You forget.

Had to rewrite a paragraph for the next “Living With Less” column — didn’t want the editor to have to wait until tomorrow — so as long as I was up I thought I’d let people know what gives here in the land of tomatoes and prisons.

For starters, I had an excellent experience flying on United Airlines. Not a single flight attendant cursed or leaped out of the plane, beer in hand.

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