Each year I clean out the pan cupboard--that's the lower right cupboard when you're standing at the sink. Each year I consider getting rid of the crepe pan, which we have never used. Each year I take it out and hold it up by its solid wooden handle and look through the dime-sized holes in the sides, and then I decide to keep it. It is made well and feels good in my hand. I could be a person who make crepes: cheese or fruit, or cheese and fruit together. "Get rid of that thing," Christopher says. "But it was your dad's," I protest. I put it back under the cupboard. I didn't keep everything we inherited from John Magson. For ages I've stored his kitchen table in the attic, but most of those little matchstick chairs had have broken beneath our American weights and we burned rather than repaired the remnants. I did keep his denim cooking apron, which I wore yesterday to make a peach pie for my brother Tom, using one of my granny Betty's old pie pans.

Once the crepe pan goes back into the cupboard for another year, we forget about it, and the quart-sized yogurt containers are more likely then to become a point of contention, because they sit in the front in stacks and fall out when we open the cupboard doors. Even I am not sure why I want to keep a hundred quart-sized plain yogurt containers, except that I suspect there is some use for them. I fear that one week after I throw them away, somebody will say, "Oh, we could have used those to save lives." To be honest, though, the only use I've so far found for them (apart from storage) is to put the toilet brush in beside the toilet.

For years I kept milk jugs, hundreds of them, all with their lids on, strung together on baling twine. I wanted to build a raft out of them and float down the St. Joseph River during the Venetian festival in St. Joe. But then they cancelled the flotilla event--apparently too many drunken rowdy people on the water was a liability. Still, for a long time I considered just making a raft for my own adventure. I would wear a crown and call myself the dairy princess and launch at Scottdale. I would bring my friend Jamie Blake with me and a bottle of wine (or a jug of Kaluha and cream), and we would each have a canoe paddle, and we would wave at everyone we saw on shore as we floated past. Just thinking about that lost dream makes me a little sad that this spring I finally recycled all those milk bottles, clearing them out of the attic and the shed. That recycling day was when I first noticed the woodchuck holes in the dirt floor of the shed.

Like a good farm girl, I save canning jars, and any glass jar that takes a standard sized lid is classified as a canning jar. That includes mayonnaise jars, Marie’s salad dressing jars, and some peanut butter jars. In my opinion, all jars should take standardized lids—it should be a law. And in fact that would help cut down on the clutter in my lid drawer—yes, I have a lid drawer. If lid sizes were standardized, if I could count on any given lid fitting any given jar, then I wouldn’t have to keep so many. I now recycle many of non-standardized jars, unless they’re particularly attractive, such as the Dundee marmalade jars or the decorative jelly jars, in which case I save them for use as drinking glasses. And maybe we already have a few too many glasses and cups (they don’t all fit into the cupboard at one time), but if we had fewer, then we’d have to do the dishes more often than we do.

In the cupboard on the other side of the sink, there are a lot of canned goods. I repeat, a lot of canned goods. We have no basement for shelter during national emergency, but we will not die from starvation, at least not for a while. Food doesn’t count as clutter, especially not canned food, which does not need to be managed and rotated like the meat and fresh fruit and vegetables crammed into our European-sized refrigerator (a refrigerator made for those people meant to sit in those matchstick chairs we got from John Magson). I'm not so careful with cheese, however, because you can just cut off the mold. Christopher does not subscribe to this theory of moldy cheese, however, which means I have to cut off the mold before I bring the cheese to the lunch table.

The fruit and vegetables require constant vigilance, but I've been pretty lax about my own garden tomatoes in the last few weeks. Christopher is very distressed about the ones currently rotting atop the refrigerator. I will take care of them soon. I want to go through them carefully, as there might be good ones in the bunch; though to be perfectly honest, one bad tomato often does ruin the whole bunch. At this time of year, in the garden, the proportion of good tomatoes to bad dwindles.

For the record, Christopher's claim that I have 72 bottles of shampoo is a gross exaggeration. First of all, the number of bottles is only 33 (I’m not going to count the hotel-sized bottles), and second of all, half of those bottles are conditioner. That's all I’m going to say about that stuff in the bathroom.

We all need more beauty in our lives. Throwing away anything beautiful would be wrong, so how can I throw away the wrapping paper that my friends chose so carefully? Someday I may want to give a gift that is not just stapled into a paper bag, and I could re-use some of this beautiful wrapping paper. And what about greeting cards? Do people really just throw them away? I know it's the thought that counts, the fact that those people actually remembered my birthday, and I ought to be able to hold onto long after I've tossed away the card. Except that my memory is so lousy that without the card I won't remember who gave me a card. And some of those cards are really touching and funny, like the one Heidi just gave me with the little girl wearing giant wax lips.

I recall the way my grandfather Frank Herlihy's life ground nearly to a halt as a result of all his stuff. Once he turned about 88 years old, it would go like this: he would go into the living room to get something; he would get distracted by an old letter or a book he'd read as a youth or by a trinket he’d given his wife Betty, then he'd stop what he was doing and ponder the object, reconsider all its meaning and be almost paralyzed by memories. That's how I want to be when I am old and alone and ill, surrounded by objects that are drenched with meaning, objects with the potential to stop time. The alternative, of course, is to be old and alone and ill without anything you love to distract you.

Frank Herlihy's woodpiles were something of a travesty in those last years, however. Most of the wood was spongy and moss covered. Christopher has been on me lately to get rid of some of the wood I've been saving, and so I've disassembled my mammoth woodpile and am letting him burn whatever is moss-covered or moldy or spongy (though I could save half of many of those pieces, since only half the length of many is spongy or moss covered). I'm throwing short pieces onto the fire just because they are short, that's how far I'm going! I've got only a rowboat-sized pile left, and I've put a tarp on it. Christopher says that most of those pieces are no good because they've got nails in them. I've promised that if he needs a piece, I will pull the nails out. He says the nails are probably rusted in. I suspect that Frank Herlihy would have pulled the nails out before putting the wood on the pile.

I haven't even addressed the other woodpile, the woodpile inside the shed, containing clean dry wood, oak tongue-and-groove floorboards and odd 1x4 lengths we used for window and door trim. Ever since the woodchuck took up residence in the shed, I've dreaded working in there. I know we should shoot the woodchuck, but getting rid of the living creatures can be even more difficult than getting rid of inanimate stuff. Maybe just maybe that woodchuck has a purpose in the scheme of things. He's very cute when he suns himself in our backyard, and he seems to enjoy his life a great deal. As do the spiders living in both our bathrooms.

The stray cats are another problem. I don't think the hungry flea-ridden beasts enjoy their lives immensely, but there they are. We don't want them here, because the wild birds enjoy their lives much less (or for a much shorter period of time) when the cats are around. The mama cat with her seven babies was not enjoying her life much when we discovered her, though the little tiger kittens were irresistible. What mama did with food could not be classified by anyone as enjoyment. She devoured food, inhaled food, attacked food, and turned it into milk. I did not want to keep those cats in a cage on the porch, but I had to keep them there until they could get on the path to a life in somebody's home, which they did after a month.

Old paint cans. Now there's something I've explained to Christopher numerous times. You have to keep what's left of the paint from each room so that you can touch up your paint when the metal futon frame bangs against the wall or when a greasy handprint appears. And that is why I have all those one-gallon each containing three ounces of whitish paint. And since it's all latex, we can’t store it outside--latex can't take the freezing and thawing. Normal people would keep this paint in the basement, of course, but again, we haven't got a basement.

Though I've filled my office with floor to ceiling bookshelves, space is in short supply, and most of my shelves have books sitting horizontally on the tops of the vertically arranged books. I've considered getting rid of some of my math books, though doing so now while I'm writing a novel about mathematics would seem foolish: who knows which one I might need for reference. I suppose I don't really need more than a few composition textbooks, and probably two writing usage handbooks would answer all my questions, but sometimes a particular rule is stated better by one author than another.

My files. You might think I don't need a file for each one of my friends and family members, but if I didn't then where would I file those thoughtful, sometimes hilarious, birthday cards? And you might think I don't need a file for each state I've visited, but then it is awfully handy to have the "Indiana" folder when it's time to go to Jasper Pulaski State Game Area to see the Sandhill Cranes, to find the directions and the phone number so we can call and find out what percentage of the Eastern United State’s population of cranes is currently sleeping there (by mid November it approaches 99 percent of the Eastern Population.)

I sift through my clothes every year, and each year I manage to get rid of a few things. This summer, in a reckless bout of confidence, I actually tossed away three pairs of pants that fit me when I'm 30 lbs heavier. I've been considering getting rid of the pants for years, but boy oh boy will I feel dumb if I gain the weight back. I rarely have to buy shirts, as people usually give them to me. I still have the red softball-type shirt that my staff at the high school newspaper the "Round-Up" gave me in 1980. "Editor" it says on one side and "Fish" it says on the other--that was my nickname. I'd wear it but it's a little tight in the armpits.

Refugees are driven from their homes every day, torn asunder for their lives and their home and their belongings. Sometimes over decades some aspects of life can be rebuilt, but the beloved things, from past generations, from friends, from family are all gone forever. To get rid of stuff I loved out of misguided principles of austerity might be to make myself a refugee in my own home. I won't do it. Instead I will revel in the privilege of staying put and I will revel in the accumulation of things that matter to me.

I think I really will make crepes this year, but for now I'll put this pan back with my other pans, including the big non-stick pan Sheila and Matt gave me a few years ago, the pan I still cook in every day. I can feed them some crepes. Fifteen years ago my mother Susanna gave me that ancient cast-iron corn muffin pan which makes muffins in the shape of cobs of corn. More recently, Christopher gave me one like it with the shape of fish. That enameled Dutch oven that Susanna gave me has been my fudge-making pan for the last six years--I've considered getting a more appropriate pan, one made out of a newfangled material I’ve read about, but the longer I make candy in this one, the more difficult it is to change it.

In a more practical defense of clutter, I will say that, with all I have here, I have what I need. I may even have what you need, and I invite you to come over and borrow it. I may even give it to you. At midnight last night when David Magson said he needed a table for his computer, without hesitation I dragged in the ladder, got up into the attic and extricated the big wooden table from in and around boxes of dishes, old mirrors, a disassembled double bed, computer cartons. How perfect is that? He now has a table that belonged to his own father! I handed him down the legs, then the big table top. Susanna said she needs a printer; no problem--I've been saving my old laser printer. It works beautifully so long as you just feed it one piece of paper at a time. So stop by if you need something, and can we interest you in a big neutered male gray long-haired cat? He’s free to a good home.

News and Notes

Tom Campbell turned 40 and we celebrated at the farm. Susanna made both cabbage rolls and stuffed peppers, and Denny brought a cake that looked like chocolate on top, but then when you cut it (surprise!) it was marbled with bright blue. As we ate, we marveled that the color was almost exactly the brilliant hue of her grandson David's new hairdo. The three young chickens in a cage in the kitchen were a big hit with the many children in attendance (Liz and Kenny's three, Eva and Mike's 2, Deb and Mike's 2, Kendra's 2). A few days later Susanna gave us all a shock with the discovery of a very blocked carotid artery that demanded immediate action. She’s home now and is recovering from surgery nicely. In other Comstock news, all of us are overjoyed that the work on the Sprinkle Road bridge is completed and that critical north-south artery is open again. No more traffic jams in Comstock!

Steady work has become a little less certain for the union sprinkler fitters in the family, since Pfizer, which bought Phamacia, which previously bought the Upjohn Company, ended contracts with many subcontractors including Harroun Fire Protection; Tom Campbell and Matt Schwartz are taking it all week by week. Uncle Terry has just become unemployed in Chicago. Loring Janes's job at Comstock High School did come through again this year, though he had been warned it might not. Loring has my truck up at the school. I asked him to look for the electrical problem (he and his students found many) and, oh by the way, he said, your brake line is broken and you have no rear brakes. Yow! Christopher is rebuilding the Ford 8-N tractor engine, for the second time. He rebuilt the engine once, had it running beautifully up and down the road, and then he heard a clanking noise and then an explosion. Apparently the cylinder sleeves slipped into the crankshaft, destroying two pistons, and he doesn't know why. As he works in the garage, squirrels toss hickory nuts onto the roof above him.

Brother Mike writes: I worked last night at Pfizer but won't be working tonight. I stopped at Mom's after work to use the bathroom before shopping at Meijer. I saw her newly hatched chicks. When I was walking back up to the truck I heard the eerie sound of a rooster crowing in the woods. It must have been a bird day because I was walking out to my truck at Meijer and about a dozen sea gulls were following me. I was thinking of the Alfred Hitchcock movie "The Birds" and how to defend my groceries if the birds became too aggressive. I quickly unpacked my bags into the truck without incident and drove home. I guess I have too much of an imagination.

Joanna Herlihy is returning home to Cambridge MA after having spent two months working on the Little Cottage in St. Joe, moving earth in all kinds of ways with various implements, shoring up the riverbank to save the land for future generations, installing a septic system so that future generations won’t have to use an outhouse. Perhaps the high point for her was renting the mini-excavator for eight hours. She said it nearly jarred her bones loose. She says she lost eight pounds and feels more muscular than when she arrived. Cousin Mimi writes from L.A.: It's been pretty hectic lately, though. I'm just finishing up the documentary I've been editing... it's about a high school rock band called "Fatal Charm" and how everything goes to hell after they graduate. We screened it for the boys in the band last night, and they took it like little men, I must say. Cousin Nate writes from further south: I'm still living in a squalid penthouse on the beach in Tijuana. I like it here, but it's a little too far from school and work, in the northern part of San Diego. And it's a pain in the ass crossing that border on a regular basis.

News from our road: This was an eventful summer on our half-mile stretch of dirt road. David Magson moved into the house next door. A few hundred yards to the east George Gazely, the blustery old man of the road died of mysterious cancers as did Mrs. Bass two houses to the west. Lynne Meredith writes: “We’ve had lots of problems with (feral) kitten dying down here. They seem fine til they reach a certain age, then they suddenly die. It's so sad to see. The mommas just act so upset! Wonder if it's a virus or just because of all the in-breeding.” Speaking of death, now is a good time to kill garlic mustard: If the day is going to be above sixty degrees and sunny for a few hours, go out with Round-up and spray the new rosettes, kill them before they become full-blown plants. (There may be generic versions of Round-up now, but be sure the ingredients are the same, as you don’t want to use anything more toxic.)

On a cheerier note, Melissa Fraterrigo married Peter Seymour in Indiana with much fanfare and joy, a full mass, and a beautiful dress. The Catholic priest was a surprisingly good singer.

Movie advice from Heidi Bell: We saw two great movies recently--Spirited Away, which is an animated Japanese movie just translated into English, and Dirty, Pretty Things, which is a poorly titled but really flawless, wrenching movie about service workers in London. I can't recommend either of them highly enough. Spirited Away is the most imaginative thing I think I've ever seen, and the protagonist is a young girl who starts out as a whiner but ends up a warrior of sorts. Movie advice from Carla Vissers: We went to see "Winged Migration" last night at the Knickerbocker. It's fantastic. It's a French documentary of sorts on migrating birds, but there's hardly any talking at all—just footage of birds set perfectly to music. Really really stunning. Carla on Motherhood: This morning on the way to school my daughter told me she'd picked out the song she wants to lose her virginity to. Argh. Is it any wonder I have a head full of gray hair? Also, last night she told me that if George W. gets elected for a second term she's going to organize a mass youth suicide in protest. She seemed serious. The whole time I was telling her how stupid and useless that would be, I kept thinking of those monks who set themselves on fire.

Jamie Blake writes in August: Thursday night at judo I dislocated my patella (again, for the fourth time) and had to be taken to Borgess by ambulance. (Bronson was closed due to the power outage.) The injury was much more painful than childbirth, it was awful; and Max had to listen to me screaming, poor little guy. I am on crutches now.

In August, Leslie Magson wrote: We only had a 4 hour blackout up here in upstate NY. We were quite lucky. A lot of the locals gathered at a restaurant in town ( we all got off early from work) and hung out on the back patio with candles, playing poker and munching on chips. It was really fun. We all kinda groaned when the lights came back on.

Brooke Eaton-Nugent of Lansing writes: We just got back from camping. I had 368 email messages. We had really great weather for camping, until it rained on us today right before we packed up, so of course everything got wet. But at least it stopped before we packed, unlike last year when we threw everything together in a downpour. Ahh, Michigan. The very first day up there I stayed out in the sun on the beach without sunscreen for about five hours. Can you say "lobster?" Well, a painful lesson, to be sure. I have 24 more actual people to answer, but I think I'm going to climb into my waterbed and go to sleep. The girls start school tomorrow morning and they'll have to get up early for baths since we all smell like deep woods forest funk.

From Robin Lynch, Lansing: Stray cats will break your hearts. The kitten of the stray cat I told you we took in has so far had a concussion this summer, and been stung on the paw by a bee she tried to scoop up off the floor. In an effort to get at some bleu cheese, she was found running around the kitchen with a knife in her mouth like a pirate. A friend gave us a Zen fountain for the cats to use as a water fountain, which they do. But Natasha the kitten is also taking the stones out very carefully and burying them under the couch cushion. Mark says she has been watching the squirrels, but I think he gives her too much credit. I'll give you a heads up when Mark is coming your way with his railroad group. Get this--he bought himself a fez. An actual Shriner's fez with the tassel. And put a big shiny brass military ornament on it from his Civil War collection. Yet I'm the one who's in therapy.

From Mary Sharp, M.D.: In Texas, at an autism conference, I was forced to purchase new cowboy boots. I originally asked to see the gaudiest ones in the store. They were remarkable, but $450.00, so they did not make it into my shopping cart. What did was new, butter soft, brown ostrich (without the funny little feather holes) and I am a pleased and content woman. The book is out officially. The name is An Unexpected Joy, the Gift of Parenting a Challenging Child, Pinion Press, which is an imprint of Nav-press a Christian publishing house in Colorado Springs, that does a lot of study materials for churches. They are not right wing fundamentalists, just committed Christians who have been a joy to work with.

June Wiaz writes from Florida: I'm expecting a book out in Feb, Green Empire (by Kathryn Ziewitz and June Wiaz) Non-fiction but hopefully a decent read. .The book is about the St. Joe Co., the largest private landowner in Florida. They have significant political connections to a certain Florida governor named Jeb. Could generate some interest outside of Florida, but we were pretty even handed. Didn't want cement shoes. By the way, I still have a picture of you picking up what probably were diseased kittens in Poland, I think. I later got very sick and had a tumor removed from my neck. Cat scratch fever, perhaps?

Angie the horse-girl writes from Kalamazoo: Garlic might be a good way to help with the donkey's fly problem. People give it to their horses as a feed-thru fly repellent. It works well if you don't mind having a horse that smells like a cheap Italian restaurant. I was reading one of my horse catalogs that I get and they mentioned that feeding garlic is an effective way to keep donkeys’ legs from getting chewed up.

From Patty Kube: After spending two weeks taking care of Susanna's livestock I have come to realize how much I LOVE the donkeys. So sweet, appreciative and nice to look at. At the same time, I'd forgotten how much I abhor chickens. They are absolutely the most obnoxious animals I have ever been acquainted with. That white bastard of a rooster has started to attack me when I gather eggs. His three bitches peck and squawk every time I reach in their nests. There is one red hen that is especially evil. She looks at me with bad intent and then pecks the hand that feeds her. Not once, but several times in rapid succession. I hope she gets carpal neck! Like some people, their viciousness is in direct proportion to their stupidity. I've padded their nests, filled their indoor pool (I removed it Tuesday because it was too disgusting for words and they don't appreciate it anyway), tossed cracked corn, picked fresh grass and made sure they have the best of care. And what do I get in return? A few measly shit-and-feather covered eggs that I have to wrestle out from underneath them. There's something about feeling up a hen that is most unappealing.

Writing News: Bon finishes a draft of her new novel Math Slut and awaits the verdict from her readers. Q Road was a finalist for the Great Lakes Booksellers Association Award, which went to Jeffrey Eugenides. I have some new souvenir matches (fancy box matches) honoring the paperback release. They’re four color, very pretty. Let me know if you want some. In the near future I’ll be visiting Dixon IL, Elgin IL, Milwaukee, Battle Creek and Kalamazoo and Portage bookstores. Let me know if you want more info. And just so you know, I’ll now be handling my own security at my book signings —I just earned my black belt in kobudo (weapons training).

Excerpts from The Honeymoon Diary: Andrea Augustine and Dave “Zach” Rathbun

September 1 After thirteen total hours on an airplane, we made it into Alajuela, a suburb outside of San Jose, last night. After we had the taxi driver wake up our hotel owner, she bustled us, hair sticking up and wrapped in a blanket, into our love nest. We promptly started our honeymoon by falling directly asleep, only to be woken up by a man next door to us showering and performing various loud and sundry bodily functions at a decibel level way too high for four a.m. Then the sun comes up at about 5:00 in the morning, but we dutifully slept until 8:00 or so. We woke up and spoke with our hotel lady while drinking tasty coffee and eating bananas. She told us we should go and see a volcano, which is a great day trip from Alajuela.

September 3 We are in Montezuma, which is in the southern part of the Nicoya peninsula, on the western part of Costa Rica. We had a full day of travel (via two buses, and a ferry) to get here yesterday. We fell asleep almost as soon as our heads hit the pillow, then slept for almost 11 hours. This morning hiked to an amazing waterfall where we got to climb over many rocks and perilous trails (made the waterfall even more amazing). We swam in the pool below the waterfall and then returned to our bungalow to dry off and have a couple beers. It took us nearly a half of an hours worth of discussion to decide exactly what day it was.

September 5 Yesterday, we took a horseback ride on the beach (thanks to Grandpa and Maureen for getting us this on our honeymoon registry). It was amazing, with the jungle on one side and the crashing Pacific on the other. We rode for about an hour to get to this waterfall that emptied from the mountains into the ocean with tide pools all around that held myriads of crabs and other crabby things. Not us, of course, as we are never crabby. After bathing, mingling with other folks in the pools, and eating some of the most delicious pineapple that we had ever laid our tongues upon, we looked into the sky to see ominous clouds threatening. We mounted our trusty steeds, took off into the distance, and tried to outrun the storm. On the way, we saw our first monkey of the trip in the jungle. Through trotting and galloping, we managed to get about ten minutes into the hour long ride before the skies opened. It wasn’t quite as exciting as the tornado we had seen coming over the ocean the night before, but pretty impressive with loud thunder and lightning, nonetheless. As we ran through the rainstorm, we were soaked through and through. The rain soaked our hair, our clothes, pooled in our shoes, and washed the sweat from the horses and us. It was absolutely amazing, and completely added to the experience. We got back to the bungalow, tried to dry off, then took off for dinner, as we were starving. We came into the pizza joint in town, and proceeded to eat way too much mouth-watering pizza. While our mouths were filled with gooey cheese, the owner turned on American football on the television (with the requisite, Spanish-speaking large-chested, primped and teased female broadcaster). Dave/Zach got into a conversation with another American fellow in the restaurant regarding whether the Redskins or the Lions were the worst team in the NFL. We washed down the delicious, deep-dish pizza with light beer as the sound of football stats filled the air. This morning we took a canopy tour into the great canopy wonderland in the sky. The rides were intense-- zipping through the trees with amazing foliage and the blue Pacific in the background. There were 11 platforms and 9 zip-lines, and each one was a little mini-adrenaline rush. Midway through the trip, we stopped at another waterfall (for those counting, this makes three waterfalls in three days) for swimming and jumping from large ominous rocks. I would like to put on record that I had nothing to do with this.

September 10 We are in the Tortuguero National Park. We have been going on jungle tours, riding in boats (the only way of accessing this area), and watching the green turtles laying their eggs on the beach.

Send news and notes to Bonnie Jo Enterprises, PO Box 52, Comstock MI 49041 or bonniejo@iserv.net