LADIES WHO LUNCH

 “Here’s to the ladies who lunch..

everybody laugh!”

Patti LuPone. Stephen Sondheim’s 80th birthday concert. (YouTube) I listen about once a week. She’s brilliant. The words to that song drop from her mouth like razor blades. She’s exactly what people mean when they say “a true stage performer.” You hear every syllable of the lyric. She expresses more in that 4 minutes than most screen actors manage in a two hour movie. 

But those lyrics! Sorry, Stephen. I think the song is a little out of date. Maybe the image of useless, society women spending their days schlepping between fittings and lunch dates — martinis in the tank — was true once upon a time. At least, in the Doris Day movies. 

Or maybe that image was never true. True upper society women during the last century more likely met at a museum fundraiser — or maybe a horse or dog show (dogs that they bred and trained). They went to lunch at their social clubs to listen to lectures: Parasites in Ocean Mammals, Growing Food in Window Boxes, Statistics on Eastern Immigrant Graduate Students (whom they sponsored with an annual rummage sale.) 

Meanwhile, mid-level women without domestic help were probably canning strawberry jam, going to their monthly book club and quilt making circle. They ate the crusts off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches left by the kiddies while standing at the kitchen sink!

Then the century rolled over and everybody got careers and jobs! 

Oh my! How easy it is to paint these pictures with such broad brush strokes! 

I had the ladies for lunch yesterday. Mostly, we are “retired” from art careers or teaching careers (those just happen to be my friends — not too different from women who retired from law offices or non-profit organizations.) We ranged in ages from late 60 something to near-eighty. 

Two still actively work. Two have only this year given up careers; Covid made the decision easier. 

And me. 

Conversations ranged from “have you decided what you want for end of life?” to “what should we buy at Ikea? the best choices from Trader Joe’s? Travel plans now that the world is re-opening. And most importantly: how has the Covid year changed you, me, and our culture?”

I like ladies who lunch — especially those at a certain age. Our view is different. We are less competitive and more tolerant. I like that about us. We read and we laugh. I like that too. 

I’d love to invite Patti LuPone to lunch  — introduce her to my friends. I’ll bet she has some dandy stage stories. Or maybe she would simply join in with “my end of life plan — I’m giving my body to a medical school — right after I have all the tattoos sanded off” or “I always buy frozen rice at Trader Joe’s.” 

We’d certainly all laugh. 

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MYSTERIES, YES (a poem by Mary Oliver)

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous

to be understood,

How grass can be nourishing in the

mouths of the lambs,

How rivers and stones are forever

in allegiance with gravity,

while we ourselves dream of rising,

How two hands touch and the bonds will

never be broken,

How people come, from delight or the

scars of damage,

to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those

who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company, always, with those who say

“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads. 

ESTATE SALES, OH MY

I go to estate sales. 

Not garage sales. 

Not church bazaars. 

Never fund raising auctions!

Estate sales are held in houses — places where lifetime accumulations of objects are still in the closets. 

Objects in estate sales are arranged, priced and sold by professional agents. Agents are totally neutral. They have no history of association with the stuff. When they sort and price, they don’t sit down to leaf through old yearbooks. Nor do they hold photographs and cry over past memories. And they never see the value in bottles of sand brought back from a honeymoon trip to Tampa. 

It doesn’t matter to agents that the owner paid hundreds of dollars for a “collector edition” of anything. Current prices are determined by their experience and comparative prices at other estate sales. Most of all, ebay, that arbiter of all things marketable. 

Buyers can sometimes negotiate for lower prices. Or they can wait out the sale: prices are usually cut in half on the second sales day or toward the final hour of the sale. Nobody wants to pack up the unloved. 

Twenty years ago, estate sales were advertised in a special section of the local newspaper. Now, if you are a subscriber, they are posted every day into your emails along with political pleas for money and medical ads for erectile disfunction. Progress! 

The listings include the location of the sale with a map, dates and hours of the sale, any special “conditions” and photographs of actual merchandize! Conditions include forms of payment accepted, where to park and how buyers will be grouped into the sale. 

Nearly always, buyers are required to bring their own moving muscle. After all, loading up a 1920 credenza is hard! In my experience, however, people are nearly always nearby ready to help. I’ve had perfect strangers hoist heavy garden pots into the back of a pickup truck on the fair exchange of a heart felt thank you and the certainly that next time, it could be me helping them. 

Like most things in life, sharing sales with a partner lightens the load. My estate sale partner always heads straight for the closet with the shoes. I don’t do basements unless they are full of treasure — she scouts first. I put restraints on her clothes buying: “no, you won’t wear that EVER” and “you cannot buy another t-shirt for your grandson.” Lately, my grownup daughter has joined me. I’ve learned a lot about her. She can’t resist beautiful table ware. I’m learning to observe without comment. 

Estate sales divide themselves into a few categories. Nearly all are sad passages. If the goods are fairly new — furniture from Stickley or West Elm, say — they point to a marriage breakup. The partners are liquidating assets. The “Sold” sign is already on the lawn. I hope children weren’t involved. (Curiously, I rarely see contemporary toys or children’s clothing. I imagine that means mom and dad are trying to spare the kids separation from the familiar. Too late. The kids are probably onto you!) 

The other venues are sadder still. These are the homes that are giving up histories…wedding dresses, vintage baby clothes and old-fashioned toys — decades of cookie jars and mason jars — trunks with marriage albums and college certificates — well used tools in a crowded workshop and kitchens full of multiples. 

These artifacts open the portal to touchingly personal stories — families raised and scattered, the caregivers now requiring care — or beyond care, now passed. Who made the decision to liquidate? One or the other partner who can’t manage now? Grown children looking out for mom now that dad is gone? 

It’s the decision part that always stops me in my tracks. I want to be in control of my place. Separation may be forced on me by circumstances — poor health, or failing finances. One day, I may look around, turn to Chip and say “I’m never cooking again. Start packing.” Even worse: “Living alone is too hard. I need ease now.” 

But I still want to make the decision. I know where the valuable pieces are. Ebay may think this is only a $50 cookie jar but I know better!