I am not organized, and I have no particular desire to be. You can figure this out as soon as you walk into my house. Well, sometimes the downstairs looks organized, because we scoop everything up and take it upstairs if we know we are having company. This leads to some chaos in the upstairs bedrooms. Every time we entertain downstairs, the piles upstairs get larger. The problem is that our house doesn’t have an attic or a basement, so there is nowhere to stash things out of the way and forget about them, possibly for years. I’m pretty sure that’s what my mother did. Our house in New Jersey had a finished playroom in the basement, plus a laundry room and a furnace room, so we actually used that space, but the attic was mostly for storage, and there was lots of room up there for boxes and trunks and garment bags full of who knows what.

It doesn’t bother me that my house has piles of things all over the place, on coffee tables, bookcases, desks, even on the floor. Last summer my youngest daughter made me attack some of the piles on the floor in the corner of my bedroom, and sat with me while I went through them, helping me figure out what to keep and what to toss. But I got no joy out of any of it, and eventually I said okay, that’s enough, I’m finished.

However, an unmade bed is anathema to me. I make my bed perfectly every morning before breakfast. The bedspread has to hang down the same amount on both sides, all the wrinkles need to be smoothed out, the two shams and three throw pillows need to be arranged just so. If the bed is made, I find it doesn’t matter so much how the rest of the room looks, whereas if the bed is left unmade, everything seems sloppy. In contrast, my youngest daughter, who is compulsively neat about most things, and never keeps any extraneous papers or even momentos, has no interest in making her bed, and always leaves the covers all rumpled.

My dresser drawers are organized too, even though nobody else sees them. My socks are neatly lined up in one drawer, organized by color. Long-sleeved shirts, short-sleeved shirts, pants, shorts, nightgowns. Everything has its own neatly arranged drawer. In contrast, the top of the dresser, like most other flat surfaces in the house, has old bank statements, vacation folders, photos, books, magazines,the occasional stuffed animal – you get the idea.

I have a hard time getting rid of clothing that I like, even if I haven’t worn it in a long time, because there is always a chance that it will come in handy. Consider, for example, the white hat that is on the top of the pile in the Featured Image. That was part of my bridesmaid attire at my college roommate’s wedding in 1984. It was next worn by my 7-year-old daughter Sabrina at the wedding of my husband’s twin brother in 1992. Then it lived for decades on a shelf in my closet. Last year the Harvard Club of Sacramento had a summer garden party to which people were requested to wear hats. I pulled out this hat, dusted it off, and looked smashing in it. (Didn’t get any pictures, unfortunately.) I now realize it has sat on the pile since July, but perhaps I will move it back into the closet. If I do, does that step count as getting organized?

Another example is the skirt my sister wore to be a bridesmaid in my wedding in 1983 (there does seem to be a wedding motif here, doesn’t there). She gave it to me afterwards because she knew she would never wear it again, and there was a chance I would. It hung in my closets in three different houses, possibly being worn once or twice in the ’80s and never again after that, but last month I was invited to a Jane Austen tea and needed to put together some kind of Regency outfit to wear. I was happy to pair that skirt, pulled way up underneath the bustline, with an off-white blouse and an orange scarf as a sash, for an approximation of a Regency dress. I was very glad I hadn’t given it away!

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my passion for organizing the dishwasher! I have a very definite idea of where all the dishes, glasses, and silverware belong, and while I appreciate it when other family members or friends load their dirty dishes, I invariably end up rearranging them. One of my favorite movie scenes of all time occurs in Rachel Getting Married, where Rachel’s father and her groom have a competition about who can do a better job of loading the dishwasher. Luckily for me, nobody in my family challenges my technique, because they know I can do a more efficient job of getting everything in than anybody else can. Sometimes my husband will say, oh I’ll just wash these last couple of things by hand, but I say, no, no, I can fit it all in. And I do!

So it seems that the things that I care about organizing are not the things that are visible, with the exception of my impeccably made bed. The rest of the house is just going to stay disorganized. When my daughter despairs, I tell her “When I’m gone, you can just throw everything away! But until then, leave it alone!” She probably wishes she had a Marie Kondo-style mother, but it ain’t me, babe.

 

I have learned that all “tweens” go through tough adolescent years; it seems to be a universal truth. Mine seemed particularly brutal, as we moved from Detroit to a near-suburb, I skipped a grade at this crucial period, the new girls were far more sophisticated and I had a particularly ugly adolescence with buck teeth, ugly cat’s-eye glass frames, bad hair cut, slow to develop…you get the picture. Some of the new girls were unkind to me and I just curled up inside and wanted to disappear.

I was saved by going off to the National Music Camp (now the Interlochen Arts Camp), in Interlochen, MI beginning in the summer of 1964, after that awful 6th grade year. There I found sensitive, artistic kids simpatico with me and made friends of a lifetime.

By 1966, my third summer, I was in Intermediate Girls Cabin 12, now an “Upper” Intermediate. I was already close friends with Christie, who had been in my cabin the previous summer, but she was now in Cabin 13. Ida, who had been in Junior Girls 10 with me in 1964 and was also in IG 13, so I was an honorary member of that cabin and hung out there a lot. Emily, too, became a very close friend. She cut up her yearbook from Larchmont, NY so that I could build a shrine to a boy, now in the High School division, on whom I had a mad crush (he didn’t know I existed). Christie, Emily and I were in several classes together and remain very close friends to this day. Em sang at my wedding.

By this point, I was emerging from those ugly-duckling years. I was out of braces and wore a retainer at night. I had more attractive glass frames and would get contact lenses as soon as I returned home in the fall. Even my hair style improved. As I entered high school in September, I blossomed.

I liked the girls in my cabin. Everyone at camp knew why we were there and bullying didn’t really exist. We might feel competitive within our majors, but we were in awe of those more talented than ourselves (and yes, we knew who they were). We were tight-knit within our cabin structure and had the best counselor I’ve ever had over my many summers at Interlochen and several camps before going there. Her name was Marilynn Anderson (the return address on a letter I saved would indicate she was from Albion, MI) but she called herself “Grundy”. We don’t know why; she used the word however it suited her, “I’m going to grundy along”. Everyone who came into contact with her was drawn to her. In the Featured photo, she is the short round woman in the middle of the back row with the short, blonde hair. She read us “Winnie the Pooh” after Taps at night, doing all the voices. In my mind, she sort of looked like Pooh Bear, a pleasant association.

All counselors had day-time jobs in the division. Grundy worked as a life guard on the water front, but had a special gift for kindness and living. She played guitar and sang folk songs. We loved to gather round and sing along. I learned so many classic songs from her, the playlist of Peter, Paul and Mary, Pete Seeger, John Denver, so many others. We delighted in her company and I assure you, this was not the case for many other counselors; all college students, many just marking time. They were not paid well and conditions, living in those cabins and taking care of these sensitive girls, was not ideal. Grundy reveled in it. She made us all feel special.

We were a pretty fun bunch. One girl, Carlina Paul, had a father who played the organ on the set of soap operas in New York City and had all sorts of juicy gossip with which to regale us. Several of us were from the Detroit area, which caused instant bonding. One was from Chicago and was SERIOUS about becoming an actress, though it was just not destined to be. Last I heard (and it was a long time ago), she was Lindsey Wagner’s personal assistant. A few, already at 13, were strikingly beautiful, as you can see from the photo. Some were supremely talented. We all enjoyed each other very much. Grundy fostered a wonderful spirit in the cabin. We adored her for it.

Camp was a serious place and we received report cards at 4 weeks and 8 weeks (the end of the camp season). We wanted to do well and be invited back the next summer. We were not only graded in our classes (Operetta, Choir and Acting Technique for me that summer), but also “Citizenship”, which was how we behaved in the cabin. For the ONLY time in my six summers, I received an “Excellent” both terms (the highest ranking). I was overjoyed.

Obviously, this was long before the Internet and camp had a long-standing tradition of writing “train letters” to everyone in our cabin to read on the way home. Since campers came from across the country and even from foreign countries, most had very long journeys and you could write anything to them – make up puzzles or games, put in candy, things to occupy your friends as they made their way back to civilization. Even the drive back to my home took 5 hours. I still have the letter Grundy wrote to me.

Dear Betsy,
As must all good things end, so must our summer at Interlochen. These past 8 weeks have been weeks of learning for all of us, and especially for me, your dreary and feeble old counselor! We’ve had a lot fun, but there was more,…an understanding of each other as individuals, that made our cabin such a great one.
An excellent camper you’ve been all along. And you truly are a virtuoso in the art of living. Keep your sense of humor, enthusiasm, and intelligence always about you, and you’ll never ever lack for friends. “Just let a smile be your umbrella”, to quote a tried and true saying! I shall always think of you as a friend, the dearest possession any person could want.
“You call me friend…
But do you realize
How much the name implies…
It means that down the years
Through Sunshine and tears
There’s always someone standing by your heart…

And I would have you know…
Wherever you may go
There’s always someone — standing by your heart.”

“Grundy love,”
Your counselor

Whew! That made my heart sing! For years and years. I still come back to that poem and repeat it to special friends. It may seem simplistic and trite, but for this 13 year old waif, it meant everything. My mother was quick to scold and criticize; short on praise back home. My brother, who was my rock, was already off to Brandeis. My father was a kind, gentle person, someone I came to rely on later in life, but worked 6 days and 2 nights a week until after I, too, left for Brandeis, when he switched careers and no longer worked in a retail capacity. I never lived at home again, marrying the month after graduation. Grundy was the first adult (in writing this piece I calculated that she was 7 years older than me) to tell me that I was a good person; not commenting on brains or looks or any other external attribute, just a good human being. That made a huge impact on me. And I was not alone. She did this for most of the girls in our cabin, I suspect.

I must have given her a little piece of jewelry; a pin from the camp store, as she commented on it in the Christmas card that she wrote in response to mine (which I still have). She thanked me again for the pin and said she wore it all the time. I have a postcard from Grenoble where she spent her Junior year abroad. She knew I was studying French, so the whole card is written in elementary French.

And finally, on that tissue-paper thin airmail paper, so redolent of the era, a letter dated April 12, 1967, also from France. She says my last letter took weeks to arrive, as it wasn’t sent airmail. She described a trip to London (visiting Windsor Castle was her favorite) and Paris (the Louvre and Easter Mass at Notre Dame were the highlights). She was accepted into a summer Peace Corps program, but the length of the assignment gets her back after her term at University of Michigan begins, so she will have to pass on that opportunity. She has written to Mary Jewell (head of staff for camp, wife of the music director for High School Operetta and an Interlochen legend) to see if she could do anything at the camp, but is doubtful. There, the trail runs cold. She did not return to camp in 1967.

I have thought of her often through the years. I tried to track her down. Years ago, the head of the Alumni Office at Interlochen tried, unsuccessfully, for me. This was before the Internet, so perhaps I might find something now. I don’t know if she married her boyfriend Neil or not, or what her name might be. So many times throughout the years I’ve wanted to tell her that she meant so much to me, that her kindness and smiles still light up my inside when I need a boost. I’m sure she’d like to hear that. Since this prompt, I did look for her on Facebook, and there are two “Marilynn Anderson”s, but neither look to be my Grundy.

My birthday was just a month ago. I am now Facebook friends with Marcy, the girl furtherest on the left on the cabin photo. In fact, she posted the cabin photo, used as the Featured photo (I have my own copy, but it was SO fun to see it show up in my Facebook feed) along with birthday greetings on my special day with the warning to “carpe diem”. We went off-line to catch up. She is the third of four sisters from Detroit, all of whom went to camp. Besides Marcy, I only knew her younger sister Vicki, who now lives in the Boston area. Vicki, also, was a Drama major at camp. Marcy told me quite a tale about her life. It is her story to tell, not mine, but she has lived a life full of highs and lows yet keeps impressively cheerful. I am in awe of her attitude and thrilled to be back in touch after so many years. She has stayed in touch with several of the other members of that wonderful Cabin 12, including Judy Harris (seated, last girl on the left in the front row; I am seated, second from the right). Judy is now a well-respected attorney in the juvenile court system in New York. She was mentioned in the book “The Notorious RBG”, as she was so helpful to the author! And she, also, has tried to track down Grundy, with no success. Grundy influenced and moved her in indescribable ways. Marcy and I chatted about that for a while. Isn’t it remarkable that in a mere 8 weeks, someone who wasn’t our teacher could have such a profound impact on so many of us.

If you are out there Marilynn “Grundy” Anderson, we love you. 54 years later, we still think about you, want to be in touch, want you to know that you made a difference for so many of us. We hope you are happy and well. Please contact us! We want to tell you what you’ve meant to us. You deserve to know.

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Addendum: Since posting this story, I know what became of dear Grundy. As I’d hoped, someone with more internet savvy than I have tracked down information and, with great sadness here is what I can report:

Marilynn Helen Anderson, born August 13, 1946 in Michigan, died, 2008 in Naples, Florida.

The pin I reference in my story must have been a birthday gift, as we would still have been at camp on her birthday. She would have been around 62 when she passed.

I was able to reach out to cabin mate Judy who found the story moving. She believes that Grundy went into the Foreign Service, which would explain why we couldn’t track her down.

Rest in peace, dear friend. There is still someone standing by your heart.

 

 

I am a born organizer and record-keeper. That is just who I am. My degree is in Theatre Arts and I wanted to be an actress, but learned over my four years of college that I was more adept at being a stage manager, writing down all the cues, running the show while in production. The most elaborate show I stage managed was “Lenny” which had over 200 called cues during the run (long before the fancy electronic light boards and set elements available today). I am convinced I was awarded my degree with departmental honors due to the difficulty and success of that show, which went from Brandeis to a professional local theater, but without me, because I was not a member of Actor’s Equity, the professional trade union. The director did show up at my first apartment, shortly after I was married, to get my “book”, the marked up script with all my notes and cues in it. I was heartbroken that I was not hired to go with my “book”.

I have always been a record taker. Before I went off to college, my dear Aunt Pauline, Dad’s oldest sister, gave me a beautiful leather-bound appointment book. I found that I didn’t put appointments in it, but recorded events after-the-fact, so it became a record of my life. Not really a diary, since there is no commentary, just an organized record of what I did each day (if there was anything of note to record). And I have kept up the practice to this day, so except for missing 1988, when my purse with the “At-A-Glance” calendar inside, was stolen in December and I couldn’t recreate it, I have a record of the last roughly 49 years of my life. A great memory aid when I’m writing these stories.

Though you couldn’t tell it from my study, which always has stacks of papers and folders everywhere, I like things tidy, as you can see from the photos of my home. The Featured photo is what we call the “Beautiful Useless Room”. It used to be the den, but during a massive renovation of the house, done from 2001-2002, we turned the porch off the kitchen into the den with the big flat screen TV and the computer (which can make it difficult for me to read or write when Dan is watching TV), and were going to turn that front room into a “library”, but we pushed the wall back, then discovered we didn’t have as much space for shelving, as you can see, so Vicki said we couldn’t call it a library with so few books. It is a sophisticated space and I keep the catalogs from all the shows from the Rose Art Museum under the coffee table. Occasionally, I will sit there and read. It gets wonderful light in the morning.

The foyer has a high vaulted ceiling. This was architect Patrick Ahearn’s idea when we first bought the house, 33 years ago. The kids used to pretend the rug was an airport runway and play on it, but toys were always put away at night.

The dining room, off the foyer (just behind that front room, and across from the living room, with a baby grand piano, where my chorus will sometime hold soprano sectionals) was the site of brunches after both children’s b’nai mitvot for all my out-of-town relatives. I held my mother-in-laws 65th birthday here, and throughout the house. Even a friend’s daughter’s bat mitvah party took place here; adults upstairs (with a professional on the piano) and kids eating and entertained downstairs in our large finished basement. Caterers in the kitchen, just off the dining room. Shiva for her brother here too. My house is large and good for entertaining, but I clean it up immediately after.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As each guest left after Christmas, just days ago, their sheets and towels were immediately washed by me (no waiting for the cleaning lady), beds were made, towels neatly folded and rehung; one couldn’t tell I’d had a house full of guests in every bedroom just days before.

My study and my office desk, when I worked, are something else entirely. I have piles stacked everywhere. One pile for the Rose Art Museum. One pile for Brandeis reunion work, one pile to be filed, one stack from film festivals, one for health insurance, and so on. I used to say you could tell my mental state by the tidiness of my office. Every once in a while, I will take the time and go through everything and de-clutter. That feels great. I did such a project before my company came for Christmas recently and I don’t want the place to look too awful. It is amazing what I find and how long I’ve held onto some scribbles on little pieces of paper that were transferred to my iPhone long ago. Big piles have been tossed. That always feels satisfying, but there is more work to do when I can find the time. More fun to read the newspaper, write these stories and watch “The Great British Bake-Off”. We have become addicted, though not inspired to actually try and bake!

I try to go through closets too. Is this too big, too small, out of style, haven’t worn it in several years? It gets moved to a back closet and will eventually be given to Goodwill, unless the outfit has real sentimental value. I wore it to my brother’s wedding, my rehearsal dinner; something like that. Those items are stored in a locker in my basement. Some I can still fit into, but the 20″ waist is gone forever. Having children will do that to you.

I live my life in an organized fashion. Some might call me compulsive (my husband, for example, though he also chides me for the state of my study…until he wants some document that he knows I’ve saved and know exactly where it is). He had me in tizzy a few years ago when he asked for the folder on my car. I, of course, know exactly where I keep it, but it wasn’t there. I looked through all my files several times. Nothing. Couldn’t find it ANYWHERE. That isn’t like me at all. He was aggravated with me. Finally, I found that he had put it in a stacked tray on HIS desk (definitely did NOT belong there)! Of course he did not apologize, but at least I knew that I wasn’t going crazy, so there was some relief in that.

And all of you who have read my stories for years know that I love my photos and spent a whole President’s Day weekend about 37 years ago getting them out of shoe boxes and organizing them into photo albums, which I kept up until the iPhone came along and I stopped printing them. Friends tell me to put them in books, but I love having them at my fingertips (though I don’t have them in albums on my phone; I must learn how to do that so I can access them more easily).

I find staying organized is a key to a happy, well-regulated life for me.

 

I lack my mother’s passion for tidying up. So I have decided to embrace the clutter in my life and put my energy into things that really “spark joy.”
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