The Bering Blog

Goodbye To A Real Character

The world became a little less interesting yesterday when Bill Schruers died, but I’m sure heaven is a better place for it.

I know it sounds cliché, but I’m sincere when I tell you that Bill was one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. He was one of those guys you’d describe as a “real character,” someone less generic than the rest of us, the kind of person who enriches our ordinary lives because their entire persona is unique and makes us glad to know them.

I met Bill in 2002 after I bought an antique store in the tiny town of Nickleville. Bill and his son Craig owned the building in the 1980s before moving their antique business to their farm down the road. He was born in Oil City but lived around Nickleville as an adult. His wife was from the area. She grew up in a house near the store and was related to the store’s original owners, if my memory serves me right. That’s one thing Bill was much better at than me: remembering details. He was a walking history of the area. Whenever I had a question about who did what to whom and when as it pertained to Nickleville, I always talked to Bill first.

Bill loved old furniture as much as he loved a bargain, and trust me, he usually got both. Sometimes, when he was buying furniture from people downsizing their homes or liquidating Grandma’s house, he’d get smaller items thrown in with the deal – dishes, toys, books, other smalls – and he’d bring them to me to buy.

“How much do you want for it?” I’d ask.

“Oh…” he’d say and ponder for a minute like he wasn’t sure, but I learned quickly that Bill knew exactly what something should “fetch” and was playing the old antique dealer game with me.  “I don’t know. Whatever you think it’s worth.”

Bill taught me the fine art of negotiating a price for a collectible. What you do is hand the item or box of items to the potential buyer, give them a little (sometimes sympathetic) history (enhance if necessary), distract the buyer for a few minutes by inquiring about their kids or by asking “How’s business?” and then compliment them on their eye for quality antiques. By golly if Bill didn’t do that to me every time. By the time we got around to talking price, I was willing to pay him almost anything he asked because he made me feel like the most knowledgeable dealer in the world, which I wasn’t. I was a total newbie and he knew that, but he never took advantage of me.

Bowlegged, Bill walked with a limp because of a bum hip, but he was strong. I saw Bill move heavy oak tables and dressers like they were on wheels. He had a loud, jovial, high-pitched laugh, and he slapped his knee when he told a good story. “Let me tell you something, young lady…” he’d say in sharp, snappy fashion just before he’d tell me a story or offer a word of advice. When he was serious, he’d point his index finger at me and narrow his eyes, look right at me and not remove his gaze until he’d made his point. It was like God himself was teaching me something.

Bill adored his family and Bill loved God. He was always seated in the same spot in the same pew every Sunday at the Nickleville Presbyterian Church. When I lived above the store, he often invited me to church. He never pestered, never pontificated or evangelized and he never said, “Yeah right, you say that all the time” when I answered him, “Well, maybe one of these weeks.”

The last time I saw Bill was right before my store was auctioned off to a mean old man who said he was going to tear the place down, which he did. While I had no choice but let that man buy the place (it was an absolute auction meaning we had to take whatever was the highest price from whomever placed the bid), I always worried that I’d made Bill really sad. The store wasn’t just a building. It was a deep and abiding part of his history. When he lost his wife, Pauline, in 2001, he soldiered on, but once in awhile he’d wipe away a tear when he talked about her. When I’d see him mowing the massive yard of his farm or disking the field for another year of hay, I imagined he was lost in thought of her and their life. He never let on how lonely he was, but there was always a cloud of sadness that hung over him, even when he was slapping his knee and remembering “the time when…”

When Mean Old Man torn down the store in 2007, I never went back to see the gaping hole that once was a grand old general store full of memories for so many people. I didn’t go back (and never will) because to me, that store is still there. But Bill lived just down the road. He drove past it every day. He even talked to Mean Old Man because he hung out at many of the same places Bill did. Today, as I read Bill’s obituary in the paper, I felt a deep remorse for not contacting him and telling him I was sorry. Bill made me a better antique dealer, a better person, and I never told him thank you. Shame on me.

I will go to the funeral home tomorrow to pay my respects and maybe get a chance to silently say my peace, posthumously, to one of the real characters in my life to whom I owe a great deal. I’ll see his son, his daughter, his grandsons and great-grandsons, and his granddaughter Amy, a woman I haven't seen in two years but who was a dear friend to me when I lived in Nickleville, hiding from the rest of the world. I think of her every time I walk in my dining room. She painted flowers on an old window that I have hanging in there. I will see these people with a bit of hesitancy, wondering if they'll remember me or even care. I, in essence, ran away from all of them when I sold the store and moved back to town. I didn’t want to open that wound, but you know and I know that when you ignore something, it always comes back to bite you.

But Bill being Bill, I know he never blamed me or hated me or ever wished me ill. I did all that to myself. Besides, right now, Bill’s too busy catching up with Pauline to care what I think. And that’s the way it should be.

Rest in peace, Bill Schruers. I will never forget you.  

My Life In Furniture

There’s a reason why I don’t sleep on a chair and ottoman all night like I did Sunday night. My body woke up on Monday saying, “What the hell, Lynn?” Crack, crack, pop. My back sounded like a fireworks display.

I was in Pittsburgh to meet a friend for a few drinks at Station Square. Afterwards, I stayed at my daughter’s apartment. Her former boyfriend took his bed when he moved out, so she’s sleeping on her childhood double bed these days. I could have crawled in next to her and slept somewhat more comfortably, but me and the chair have a great history and so I thought I’d sleep on an old friend instead.

My life history in furniture is on display at both my children’s homes. Along with the chair and ottoman, Carlene has another one of my large ottomans, a dresser, a vanity I got at an auction for a few bucks, and some of my mother’s end tables. Cassie has my old couch, a rocking chair and ottoman, an armoire, a few book shelves and the plaster ducks my mother used to keep in her living room. I think Cass has my roaster and folding chairs, too.

The chair and ottoman I slept on the other night had a matching couch, but it went to the big furniture store in the sky after her last move. There were holes in the fabric so large that her cats would crawl inside and get stuck in the springs. The wood frame was visible and little fabric staples poked out along the seams. It was its time to go, but it was sad to see it sticking out of the Dumpster at the apartment complex.

I bought the couch, chair and ottoman with husband #3 in 1990. It was long and black with overstuffed pillows that served as the back rest. The seat was so wide, almost like a twin bed, that my feet didn’t reach the floor when I sat back against the pillows. It could seat four adults or several small children comfortably. I had no problem offering it to guests as a place to sleep because it was more comfortable than any bed I’d ever owned.

We played board games on it – Monopoly, Life, backgammon – and watched movies huddled together under blankets. I spent many nights doing my college homework there, papers and books spread out everywhere. It’s a good thing it was black because it took its share of grape juice, orange juice, milk and wine spills. The Scotchgard wore off years ago, but the stains were never apparent.

The couch saw a lot of action, too, over the years, but I’ll just leave that to your imagination.

When Carlene and I went to Minnesota last year, we drove through Chicago and stayed with our friend, Heather. We’d never been to Heather’s before so imagine our excitment when we went into her living room and saw our black couch! Same design, same fabric, same overstuffed pillows. Only this one was completely in tact. No holes, no stains, and the fabric hadn’t starting pilling. That’s because Heather only had one child at the time who was still really little. Heather had another baby recently so now there are two and I’m sure very soon that couch will start aging the way a good parent ages – with patience and tolerance of the sweet abuse of children.

Carlene starts grad school next month and so will be moving into a studio apartment on campus. She asked me if I wanted the chair and ottoman back and before she could get the words out I said, “Absolutely!” I have the perfect place for it, too. And I will sit on it faithfully, probably even spill some wine on it and more than a few crumbs. It might also get some action. Who know?

I do know I won’t be sleeping on it, at least not a full night. Like its counterpart, the old couch, I am frayed and torn and aging not-so-gracefully. I just hope I don’t find myself head first in a Dumpster some day!

A Guest Blog From My Sister About Meeting Anna

Happy Sunday morning to you all. My sister wrote a blog on her MySpace page the other day and I’m confiscating it for my own blog because I liked it and because I’m laughing so hard reading “Such A Pretty Fat: One Narcissist’s Quest To Discover If Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big” by Jen Lancaster that I’m hardly able to breathe, let alone type coherently.

So without further ado, here’s a guest blog by my sister, Emily Haraldson. I hope you’ll share a comment about someone you met who touched your life in some small, odd or fun way, and will probably never see again.

“While waiting in cashier line at the car wash today, an older woman behind me asked me if they took credit cards there. I told her that they did and that she could also get cash back for a tip if she didn't have cash. She thanked me and then gave me a tiny clothes pin with a little wooden ladybug on it. She said she buys them by the hundreds and gives them out to practically everyone she meets. I thanked her and thought the gesture was kind.

As I made my way to the cashier to pay for my car wash, she was saying that God was testing us to see if we could live in hell with how hot it has been lately. Actually, it wasn't that hot this morning, low 70s, but it has been rather humid, more than we're used to here in the desert anyway. I thought the comment was funny. I paid for my car wash and she said, "See you on the other side" (the other side meaning the other end of the car wash where you wait for your car).

She came and sat down next to me and commenced to dabbing her face with a tissue as she was perspiring. She told me about her pomegranate tree that had fruit that split open last season because it has been so dry. She also told me her daughter makes excellent pomegranate martinis to which I responded, “I like your daughter already!” She told me she just celebrated her 75th birthday (she looked more like 65) and that she recently got a speeding ticket. What a hoot this woman was! She's from Germany, has been widowed for over 20 years and thinks her husband has come back to her as a hummingbird. Her son runs his own surf board company in Ventura.

Her name is Anna. I learned all of this in a matter of 20 minutes.

Do you ever wonder why you meet certain people? I do. I certainly feel richer for having a conversation with Anna today. The next time a stranger starts up a conversation, don't close up, shut down - let it take you where it's supposed to go.”

Claire and Karma and the Red Tractor

When I’m with Claire, I question my growing-up church lessons about “original sin.” Claire is perfect in every way. It is the world that will make her imperfect. I apologize to every pastor who raised me and put me through catechism, but I don’t buy the dogma anymore. 

Claire was here in Podunkville today because her mom was getting a perm. Cass can get a really great hairstyle here for half the price she’d find in Steeltown.

We started out having lunch with some friends. Claire was a doll. She loved watching the other babies and toddlers, she ate her corn chowder baby food and drank her apple juice from a sippy cup, and when her mom left for her hair appointment, she just banged on the ledge of our booth and said, “AHHH!!!”

We stayed in the restaurant awhile with my friends, and then Claire and I went downtown with a mission to get to the post office to pick up a package. Our adventure started at the health-food store to see Pat, then we crossed the street to Michelle’s Café to show off a bit, and then we went to the hair salon. I’ll never get tired of the “oohs” and “ahhs” and the “Oh my god she has such big beautiful eyes!” compliments. 

We finally made it to the post office and then went home and played with the dogs, talked to Grandpa Larry and then retreated upstairs to my office to play and (hopefully) take a nap.

A year before Claire was conceived I dreamed of the time I’d introduce my grandchild to my office. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s filled with books and things dear. In between austere and ornate are several items that wouldn’t fetch a dime on eBay but mean the world to me; things I want to explain to Claire when she gets older, but for now are OK to chew on.

Under my grandmother’s cedar chest I store a box of children’s books that my friend Gail sent to me a few months ago. Claire likes the books, but she loves the Priority Mail box they came in even more. At least for now. Soon she’ll appreciate the books, but today let’s just say she’s had her share of “fiber.” Cardboard is mighty tasty to a 9-month-old. 

After the cardboard, I sat down on my office chair, picked up Claire, and put on Noggin.com on the computer. We watched videos and I pretended I knew the words to the songs. As Claire laid back on my chest, she sucked on her nook and dug her toes into my calves and rolled her fingers into my arms. Fifteen minutes later, she wanted to be put down and so we both sat on the floor and started to explore.

Nothing makes a baby happier than a clothes basket. I loaded it with her toys and my sunglasses, which she played with while we roamed downtown Podunkville, and she proceeded to stand up next to it and finally dump it over. Once dumped, though, she wandered off to my book shelves.

On my book shelves are books, of course, but also pieces from my past. Claire first grabbed the wooden plaque given to me by my brother, Marty. He’d painted on it a couple of mules and my name. He gave it to me for my 16th birthday, which was his 26th birthday since we share a birthday 10 years apart. I didn’t think that was such a good thing for Claire to play with so I put that up.

Then Claire found the tractor and my “Space 1999” lunchbox. I used to watch “Space 1999” on Sunday nights in our kitchen in 1975 at 11 p.m. on the 8”x8” black and white screen television. I was almost 12. The storyline intrigued me even though it was based on “2001: A Space Odyssey” and I had no idea what that was or who Stanley Kubrick was. All I know is that 33 years later, my granddaughter is banging on the “Space…” lunchbox and chanting, “Da da da…”

The tractor belonged to my late husband, Bruce. When he bought his very own International Harvester tractor back in 1982, the dealer gave him a “thank you” gift – a steel toy replica, which is now (of course) a collector’s item on eBay. Bruce displayed it on his desk in his bedroom and after he died, I kept it to remind me of the times we spent laying on his waterbed listening to the Moody Blues and Boston and talking about our future. Sure, Claire is now gnawing on the tires, but whenever I see that tractor I smile and remember the man I loved so much.

I introduced Claire to Korbel the teddy bear and she kind of liked him but wasn’t real impressed. That made me laugh. While I love Korbel, I’m not so in love with the guy who gave him to me. He hurt me worse than any guy has ever hurt me in my life (including Bruce dying), and so maybe Claire sensed it and thought, “Grammy, this bear doesn’t have good karma.” I won’t blame the bear for its giver’s insensitivity, but it’s cool to know Claire might be in touch with good energy and bad.

Claire is 9 months old and doesn’t need a whole lot of stuff to make her happy. She was just as content this afternoon running her fingers over the wicker slats of the clothes hamper and playing with the loose veneer of my grandmother’s cedar chest as she was watching Moose A. Moose singing “Neighborhood Parade” on Noggin.com. And when it was time for a nap, she fell asleep in the crook of my arm as we laid on my bed with the window fans humming. I admit I napped for a few minutes, too, but mostly I just stared at Claire. You’d think I’d be used to her by now, but I’m still amazed by her presence.

That’s all I wanted to say. Just some stuff about Claire and my office and to share some photos. It’s summer and life if groovy.

I’m All About the “Girls” This Summer

Here’s my idea of a perfect summer evening: Lisa Lillien, Mignon Fogarty and I sitting on my deck drinking Poolside Cherry Pom-artias and splitting infinitives. Oh to dream!

Hungry Girl (aka Lisa Lillien) and Grammar Girl (aka Mignon Fogarty) have both written books and are out on book signing (or is it “book-signing?”) tours. Not together, but how cool would that be? Both of my “girls” in one book store? I think my head would explode.

I’ve subscribed to both Lillien’s and Fogarty’s newsletters or podcasts almost since their inceptions. One gives me great tips on how to save a calorie (or 4,000) and the other gives me great tips on how to write better. Can life be any more balanced? I don’t think so.

Lillien’s book, "Hungry Girl: Recipes and Survival Strategies for Guilt-Free Eating in the Real World," is a compilation of many of her already-published recipes from her Hungry Girl website as well as several new ones. I’d give you more specifics than that, but my daughter “borrowed” my book and told me she’s not returning it. She’s nothing if not honest. I have a replacement on my wish list on Amazon.com, and as soon as I’ve sold another piece of my Christmas village collection on eBay, I will buy it.

I haven’t been so happy about pumpkin since I first watched, “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!” when I was 5. Lillien does so many things with pumpkin puree that Libby’s ought to have her on their payroll. Packed with fiber and yet sinfully sweet, her simple pumpkin plus pudding recipe is an almost daily treat for me.

Many of Lillien's recipes call for Splenda, which I don’t tolerate very well, but I easily substitute stevia in several of them. I like the Trader Joe’s brand of stevia more than Sweet Leaf, but Sweet Leaf will work in a pinch. I find it leaves an aftertaste. TJ’s doesn’t.

But there’s a lot more to Hungry Girl than Splenda and pumpkin. She has great ideas for lower-cal margaritas and other drinks, onion rings, salads, and oatmeal. Without Hungry Girl, I’d never know you can turn butternut squash into hash browns, which, I discovered, makes a better substitution for pasta than its sister veggie, spaghetti squash. Shred a cup of butternut squash, cook it along with some minced onions and ground black pepper in a pan sprayed with non-stick spray until a little brown and then top it with sauce or pesto. It’s fabulous.

Educating the other side of my brain this summer is "Grammar Girl’s Quick and Dirty Tips For Better Writing." I never thought a blue aardvark would help me remember the proper use of the words affect and effect, but Fogarty’s little cartoon character is just the visual I needed.

Fogarty’s attitude is that “learning about language should be fun.” With her upbeat, casual writing style and memory tricks, she fulfills her philosophy.

I listen to the Grammar Girl podcasts at the gym and replay them at home when a particular episode hits on something I struggle with. I also subscribe to her weekly newsletter. I used to believe language was finite, that there wasn’t anything “new” to discover about usage, but Fogarty tackles some of the “hard and fast” rules of usage (i.e. “generic pronouns”: is it proper to use “they” as a singular pronoun?) which is what makes this book so interesting and useful.

Move over Strunk & White, Fogarty refers to many style guides and dictionaries when making her case for or against common usage faux pas or seeming faux pas. She also recommends what have become two of my favorite books on language: “Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English” and “Words Fail Me: What Everyone Who Writes Should Know About Writing,” both by Patricia T. O’Conner. 

We’re all writers, even if “all” you write is e-mail or notes to your kid’s teacher as to why Little Jimmy wasn’t in school the other day. “Grammar Girl’s Quick and Dirty Tips…” is written in plain English, and her tips and tricks offer simple ways to remember proper usage of common words, punctuation and references that most of us, at one time or other, screw up.

So if you're looking for some fun and educating reading this summer, pick up Hungry Girl or Grammar Girl or both! Bon appetit and happy writing!

When I Was A Kid…

Children really do live in our neighborhood, but you wouldn’t know it this summer. Every day is quiet. No one’s out riding bikes or playing kick the can or running a lemonade stand. I drove past the municipal pool yesterday and it wasn’t very busy, either.

Where did all the children go? It’s like the plot of a Mary Higgins-Clark novel. Have they all been turned into TV-watching, Wii-playing, Cheetoes-eating zombies?

I sit outside on the porch every evening and the only person I usually see is the mentally challenged man from the group home at the end of our street who walks up and down the sidewalk drinking Coke or Mountain Dew, hour after hour, stopping to clap and laugh sometimes when he sees...well…I’m not really sure. But whatever it is makes him darn happy.

Allow me to be an reminiscing old bitty for a moment.

When I was a kid, I spent most of the summer outside, mostly because I wanted to, but sometimes because Mom kicked me out of the house (especially if I used the “b” word – bored). “Go play!” she’d say pushing open the screen door and locking it behind me.

If no friends were around and I was stuck playing with my little brother, we’d hit the sandbox or the swing set and talk about what we wanted to be when we grew up. But usually our friends’ mothers had kicked them out of the house, too, and together we’d find all kinds of things to do.

We’d catch butterflies and bugs and put them in Mason jars with holes poked in the lids with branches and leaves stuffed inside. If enough kids were around, we’d organize a kickball or softball game. Sometimes we’d set up the badminton net or a croquet course. On really hot days, we’d fill big galvanized pots with water and “swim,” or hook up the sprinkler and run through it until we were shriveled like prunes.

No matter where I was in the neighborhood, I always knew when it was time to go home. No one’s dad had a whistle like my dads. Snappy sharp and piercing like a drill sergeant’s, Dad’s whistle all business. My call home was three whistles because I was the third child, and my brother was four whistles. It didn’t matter what we were doing, if we heard our whistle we were to come right home. No “Just five more minutes?” or “Do I have to?” but NOW, as in "Drop everything this very second. It's time for dinner or bed."

I don’t hear whistles like that in my neighborhood. I don’t even hear parents calling their children home. That is, when there are children outside. I assume they use cell phones now.

It’s a shame. I miss the laughter of kids playing around here. Sure, I’ve got Mr. Happy Clapper, but it’s not the same.

Have all neighborhoods become void of games and bikes and butterfly collectors? Do kids run through sprinklers anymore? If this is the case, Claire and I have to have a serious talk. I’m buying the kid a sprinkler and a galvanized pot, a croquet set and badminton birdies. We’re gonna have fun outside, gosh darn it, just like when I was a kid.