Perfect Storm

Funerals combine three things I hate the most:
death, sentimentality, and small talk.

What if

I've written about this before-- the ease with which you can spy on people on line. I joked with my kids that I needed to be on Facebook in order to stalk them, but it's really not so far from the truth. When your loved ones are far-flung, it's a way to connect without being intrusive. How far you take it is like anything in life: on the honor system. I promise I will not abuse the access you give me (there's a lesson our government needs to learn).

But the web also has the wonderful capability of reconnection, something new in human development. Haven't seen someone for 30 years? Google them. Some members of my high school class decided to set up our entire 2009 reunion just using the web, and found hundreds of grads on the "6-degrees" principle.

So I did something slightly forbidden-- I found an old, boyfriend?, on Facebook. He wasn't really ever my boyfriend, and our relationship in college was like slightly-too-close brother and sister, but he's definitely in the "what if" category. Not really the one that got away, but certainly one that was available for fishing if I'd put some effort into it. We danced around each other for years, and watched bemused while each hooked up (in the modern parlance) with someone else.

And there he is, the same evilly-goofy face I loved in college (sorry Mark, but there it is), and it brought such joy to see him after all these years. So where was I going with this?

Nothing. Just. I really love the web.

Cleaning day

My son moved out, the real one, the official one, the not living at home for sure anymore one. But his spirit, that is to say his STUFF lives on. He took what he "needed," although I personally think he needs more than he believes he does. He doesn't want to be anchored to things; I get that. However, he doesn't seem to mind anchoring us to his things, namely the items that he left here.

When your children move out for the first time, they take their things, and leave the memories. That's one of a parent's functions, I suppose, to be the repository of memory. But so much memory is locked up in stuff. Is the hideous peanut-shaped jar junk, or is it a precious childhood artifact? If I get rid of the admittedly brilliant 6th grade spanish class poster, will someone regret it? There are reams and reams of drawings; I have no idea what to do with them.

It's not so easy moving a child on. Memories seem ephemeral, but they attach themselves. They are sticky, and their things have weight.