oh, dry up, p

     My dad was the child of poor Chinese farmers. He could get enough chicken meat off a carcass to put together two chickens. My mom was an unbelievably good Quaker who was, as incongruous as this comparison may seem, like Spock in her unwillingness to judge others.
     Above and beyond being frugal and generous by nature, both my parents were exceedingly uninterested in objects of monetary value. The single exception would be Chinese paintings, which were to be collected and preserved for one's great-great-grandchildren, who should then give them to a museum or sell them to pay for college tuition. Preferably, my dad would say, at Yale.
     I have to specify that it was objects of monetary value that were uninteresting to them. A piece of driftwood in the shape of a face, or a really good grapefruit, well, those things merited their attention and awe.
     I have not a single memory of my parents commenting on someone else's appearance or belongings, or coveting a material object beyond the driftwood/grapefruit ilk. When a car of theirs would finally sputter to its rusty end, they would surrender it to the junkyard and pick up another lowest end VW.
     They did not shop for clothes, decorative items, tools, appliances, furniture, electronics. These things appeared in their lives because friends and offspring brought them into their house. Since my dad's nickname was Little Frog, they had more frog carvings and candlesticks than you could shake a stick at. They had the same couch all my life, and when we asked Goodwill to come and get it after my parents died, it took four unhappy men to move it. It had been made back in the Stone Age, after all; it was like the Flintstones' couch.
     Food they bought--by the VW-ful--but I don't think purchasing food to serve the constant flow of company counts as materialism. They were just feeding all the people who brought the knick knacks.
     It's lovely, this legacy, but hard to match in my own floppy character. I do covet things. Not a lot, but enough to disapprove of myself. Close blog followers will remember that I can and do wear the same clothes for several days in a row. Honestly, I only wash my jeans because I see Laura throwing hers in the laundry (with what I feel is alarming frequency), and now and then I think she will be pleased to see that I have thought of tossing mine in as well. Did you know that people wash jeans so that they look more "crisp"? This is a WASP secret she revealed to me not long ago.
     I'm having a very non-Quakerly, non-poor Chinese farmer reaction to the process of getting Laura launched in "our" (we try to remember to say "our," but even that effort tells you something) new co-op in Hastings-on-Hudson. The kitchen and bathroom are both being redone before she moves in. It needs a new fridge, a new dishwasher, a new microwave, stove, shower, sinks, a shiny new toilet. With her new job comes a new iPhone, a new laptop, a new iPad. And now that she will be commuting, today she picked up a new car--one that is better on gas and equipped with Bluetooth. That last decision I, worrier that I am about her careening along the highway manipulating a phone and a 3,000 pound car at the same time, fully support. Still, I climb into my perfectly good 2003 car and feel sorry for myself. Then--worse--I feel terrible about feeling sorry for myself, when I actually have so much more than I need. So much more.
     But it's taking place, within me, that unseemly little pout. Laura is going off to be Superwoman at a fabulous school where they put up signs welcoming her and throw parties in her honor, and I am staying in Farmington. She gets to drive the new car and I get to take over the kitty litter.
     I know it's more complicated than this. My pout about stuff is covering a lot of anxiety about our impending separation. But for the moment I am falling painfully short of my own expectations. My inner jerk is having a heyday. I am hoping that exposing it to the light in this way will force it to dry up.