Sounds

The sweltering days of summer are slowly releasing their oppressive grip on the upper Midwest. Blessed relief is blowing in from the north and I, for one, am doing cartwheels of joy (figuratively, of course...old ladies struggle with fancy tumbling). Gravity is tugging on colorful leaves, birds are gorging themselves for upcoming journeys and warm pots of soup burble away on the stove. Beleaguered air conditioners gasp a sigh of relief as their time of rest approaches and apples crisply adorn produce aisles. And, finally, windows are thrown open and fresh prairie air dislodges three months of trapped staleness.

One perk of open windows is the flow of sounds added to the usual mix of daily life. Chickadees chitter and chatter at bird feeding stations. Trees clap their leaves in response to the demanding winds. Trucks lumber down the street. Trains whistle and rattle along the tracks and dogs yap like town criers. Muffled conversations of neighbors float in the breeze. The sound of playing children fills the air with hope.

Our backyard neighbors have a trampoline for their three young, boisterous boys. Their conversations of play stream through my windows and make me smile. The sibling dynamics of my youth are obviously alive and well today. The oldest boy is usually the boss, calling the shots on whatever game they are developing. The youngest tearily protests the injustices of said games and the middle child tries to work out a compromise for all parties involved. All the while, the squeak of the trampoline keeps a steady beat.

Recently, the boys were playing a devised game of throw-the-ball-at-each-other-as-hard-as-you-can while bouncing on the trampoline. The game came dangerously close to collapsing with shouts of "Not fair" and "That hurts" when a neighborhood girl, pulling a wagon filled with house playing props, stopped by and joined the brothers. The oldest boy bailed out immediately, sensing an imminent imbalance in power. The wagon was loaded onto the trampoline and suddenly, the dynamics of play took a drastic turn. The young lady stated that they were going to play house. With that she proceeded to explain the roles and parameters of the next activity. From there, the play acting unfolded as the boys followed the lead of their neighborhood friend. The three children continued their pseudo-family re-enactment until the boys' mother called for them to come in the house.

My husband remarked that a psychologist would have a heyday analyzing the spontaneous dynamics of play that changed with the arrival of the girl. There were no adults orchestrating how things should be done. There were no video games demanding instant, prescribed reactions. There were no politically correct agendas forcing certain actions. The kids were just being kids, making up things as they went along. The girl wanted to feather the castle's nest and the boys wanted to slay dragons.

The best part of all was the sound of authentic play. It is sweet music to my ears, even if some of the notes are a little flat with discord.

Soon enough the frigid winds of winter will force me to close my windows again. Until then, let the music play.

Simple

This summer I drank deeply from the nectar of simplification. Due to life's circumstances, my family and my husband's family have been involved in various stages of cleaning, sorting and dumping the detritus of others. Such activity gave me pause and was the impetus for evaluating my own shelves, closets and drawers. I am a tosser by nature and my sentimental muscle has always been willing to let go. That being said, I still managed to accumulate more stuff than I really need. Boxes of "treasures" that have not been looked at in years taunted me with their excess and mystery. Ziploc bags of cords, adapters and unidentified electronic gizmos begged for usage or death. Drawers of sad little items waited to be claimed or called into action.

Here are a few of my simplification stats so far.

400 pounds (not a typo, folks) of treasure filled boxes were sent to my daughter across the country. Little Pooky, the well-loved stuffed bear, clearly belongs in her house, not in my basement. The Anne of Green Gables series we read together also needed to be in the hands that held them the first time around.

10 trips to Goodwill with goodie-laden boxes. Dishes, knick-knacks, clothes, blankets, pans, sheets and shoes continued their journey of usefulness. The gentlemen who always assist me at the drop-off station knew my vehicle well.

4 bookshelves are sporting newly cleared looks. Many books are now nestled in with new friends at Goodwill or resting in library heaven. Sorting books was a bit painful for me but I saved enough of them to keep me company until the itch to toss needs to be scratched again.

12 weeks of bulging trash cans for the dump truck drivers. I am sure they are waiting for the "For Sale" sign to pop up on my lawn. Surely, someone who throws away high school yearbooks is preparing for a move to lands afar.  Sorry, Mr. Trashman, I am hunkered down for the long haul.

Probably the best advice for keeping things simple came from a service repairman. My dryer went on strike just before back-to-school week and a service call was necessary. I paced the floor while I listened to the technician trying to wrestle the dryer into submission. I added up the minutes times the dollars for a new machine in the event the prognosis was terminal. Finally, I heard a call, "Ma'am, can you come here a minute?" My mind conjured up the worst as I approached the ailing machine. The technician handed me a small fuse and said, "It was just a blown thermal fuse. An easy fix and it's all taken care of."

I sighed with relief and thanked him for his time and help. As I was paying the bill, he continued to impart laundry machine wisdom.

"You know, most folks go through 2-3 washers for every dryer. Washers have water pumps, detergent dispensers, drain hoses, agitators and so forth. Lots of things to go wrong. But a dryer, it's a simple machine with two main functions, tumble clothes and add heat. Not too complicated."

I handed him the check and as he left my driveway, I realized I want to be a dryer, not a washing machine. When life's curveballs come my way, I prefer not to have a lot of stuff around me that needs to be cleaned, organized and moved around.

Tumble and heat. That should be enough.