I had been watching Jeff Smith, and I asked mom what frugal meant. She started off with synonyms that I also didn’t recognize. “It means not wasting.” Oh, right, I got it.

Why?

This went on for a while.

So, I keep my thermostat at 68, during the day. Thanks Jimmy. But I gotta be honest I haven’t recycled a bottle in years. Try a 25 cent refund, please.

Mom still clips coupons. Her thrift is driven by a sort of profoundly irrational sense of self interests. She is a hoarder of sorts. Not the type with newspapers stacked along the walls mind you. She’d suffer from the horror if she thought I was saying that. Mom is very tasteful and completely presentable. Mom hoards reserves for the future. Hoarding is a compulsive search for feelings of security.
The social implications of her choices are important to her. She really values frugality – as a social value as well as a personal one. It’s just that she would use her tea bags twice if she had a billion dollars in the bank – because you never know when you’ll need more than you have.

You have a hold on me, and I don’t feel I can pull free.

Claustrophobic

You dumb bitch!

Away, git git git

breath

We are quantum components of an organically based computer… a brain.

The child lives in the moment.

this leads to great freedom but also great selfishness

The adult has the benefit of perspective.

this manifests as wisdom but also great self consciousness

What freedom?  The freedom to create and explore

What selfishness?  The selfishness of one who does not know the wants and needs of others

What wisdom?  The wisdom of understanding born of patience

What self consciousness? The self consciousness born of fear and perceived judgement

… and perhaps the wisdom to balance them all?

You know that private browser tab you push?

They’re watching…

They know what you show the light and what shames you.

You’re shame empowers others.

When I step out, there will be crying, laughing, mourning, rejoicing.

Then

I’ll be forgotten.

It’s good that I’ll get a chance to rest.

May you have friends who never let you get into the bed in worse shape than you got out of it.

The pancakes and apple butter, from his late dinner, still hung in his nose, as he added cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg to his warmed cider.   Carrying his drink to the old stuffed chair, that faced the piano, in the living room, he sat the drink down, on the wood chair, that served as desk, counter, and workbench most evenings – before migrating to bed.

Sitting in the chair, he placed his feet on the ottoman left by a lover who had overstayed her welcome, to the point of providing furnishings for the old house.  In his mind, his own complicity in the process had long since been forgotten.

As he reached for the cider, he felt and heard his back crackle – stiff from the days work.  The drink was just overly warm – which is to say just the right temperature to sip its slow cooling with care and pleasure.

The sound of his good collie dog licking her feet was accompanied only by the sound of the furnace kicking on and blowing air up through the vents.  She stood up and clicked away – stepping on the hard wood floor.  As she entered the kitchen, he heard the old gun dog growl a soft protest at the disturbance.  Everyone knew it was a symbolic act.  There was no real threat of violence.

Another sip of cider marked time.

His phone buzzed.  He read the text from a dear friend asking him to join for a drink.  He paused to consider the incongruity of the cell phone with all the other elements of his life.  The thought passed.  He responded that was very comfortable, but that they were welcome to join.

Yoga he thought.  Perhaps he would do yoga in a bit.  Stretch out and all.  He imagined the feeling of the slow stretching in his back and legs as he settled further into the chair.

The collie walked back in and whined softly.  He absently told her to hush, as he picked up the book he had begun.  Kurt Vonnegut.  He’d been meaning to read something by him for years.  The story opened well enough – giving early indications of a skepticism that promised to shed light (if not joy).

He read for a bit.  Took a final draft of cider.  Rolled his neck.  Stretched his shoulders back.  Slowly stood up.  And walked to bed.