I‘m really tired tonight, having had a rough few hours with my mom, as she obsessed about my brother going out to dinner with friends this evening. She paced and ranted and cried, insisting that he probably drowned or was murdered our was out with some girl and I should call him and don’t I know where he is and who he’s with until I finally just let her go on and on while I turned on my laptop and left a comment over at Ronni’s, where there’s a great piece (and comments) about how the entertainment media still stereotypes “older” individuals.
[Gasp. Gasp.]
However, I can’t call it a day until I post about having a Skype chat with Doug Alder, way up there in Canada. He has a web cam, so I could see him. (I’m not sure I’m ready to mount a web cam here yet; I would have to make sure my hair is combed and I don’t look like I just finished a wearying three hours with my mother.)
I only know Doug from his blog, but talking with him felt as though we were old friends. We just hung out and chatted. It’s happened that way for me before, like when I talked to Jeneane Sessum on the regular phone and later, at various times, had a chance to meet other bloggers in person :Betsy Devine, Halley Suitt, Frank Paynter, and Dave Rogers.
Now that Doug has helped me get more comfortable with Skype, I’m going to make plans to talk with Ronni. She’s up in Maine.
But for now, yawn….

PhoneCon, Blogblab, call it whatever you want, but make every effort to be there.
Jeneane lit the Phone Con fire, and now Ronni is burning to launch an Elderblogger PhoneCon.
On October 24, from 8:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Eastern Time, Ronni will host a blogblab fest for anyone who might like to join in.
Get the offical info here and check in with Time Goes By to keep up with the pre-blab chatter.
Many of us know each other from our blog “voices.” Ronni’s blogblab will give us a chance to hear the voices behind the voices.
I’ll be there, probably even relieving Ronni’s hosting responsibilities every now and then.
Got my Skype. Got my headset. I’m clearing my throat and clearing my calendar (such that it is.)
‘Hope to hear you there as well.

Two posts over at Blogsisters are worth your time. Both are about how important it is to connect with other people in a meaningful way.
This one called “Look Them in the Eye and Smile.”
The other requires both looking and listening, and it actually made me choke up a little.
I send (((H))) to you all.

No, this post is not about my mother. It’s about letting go of stuff. Physical stuff. My stuff.
My brother is cleaning out his basement, and I still have stuff in there left from when I moved here more than a year ago. One of the boxes held what I came to think of as my “professional portfolio,” e.g. many of the articles, grant proposals, profiles, etc. etc. that I had been paid to write over the course of my professional career. I kept them in case I needed to look for another job. I never intended to spend 20 years with, and retire from, the state’s Education Department.
Tonight I threw it all away. It no longer matters that one of my funded proposals was used by the National Science Foundation as a model. It no longer matters that the Chairman of the Biochemistry Department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute sent me a note thanking me for turning my lengthy interview with him into a well-written and interesting profile. And so into the trash went everything I wrote for other people that got them what they wanted. All of that no longer matters.
What I did save was a box of stuff about my kids — newpaper articles, writings, report cards, and, suprisingly, my son’s (that’s b!X) assessment report from his year at a Montessori Pre-School some thirty-three years ago. What his teacher said about him then is pretty much what those who know him would probably say about him now. Except maybe for one thing — which might or might not still be true: “frequently bursts into song.”
When my daughter and her family come to visit here in a few weeks, I will give her what I have saved about her. It’s time for her to begin amassing her own box documenting her history that will get stored in her basement.
My brother tells me that I have one last box in his basement that is labelled “craft stuff.” I have no idea what’s in it, but I’m readying myself to let it go.