Every Seven Years πŸ›πŸ›πŸ›πŸ›πŸ›πŸ›πŸ§š | Perforated Lines
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⚑ March 29, 2024

Every Seven Years πŸ›πŸ›πŸ›πŸ›πŸ›πŸ›πŸ§š

Olga Ziemska, Stillness in Motion, 2003. Twigs, installation view.

It is said that you replace almost all your bodily cells every seven years, and that you become, in essence, a whole new person, tip to toe. However, up in the attic of your brain, your memories are the sole exception to the 7-year purge, remaining intact and fragile and forever multiplying in quiet dusty half-forgotten heaps.

If you chart your own history and look at what you were doing at ages 7, 14, 21, or 28, you will notice profound changes. For example, I turned 21 in 1968 when my handsome husband came home from a difficult tour in Viet Nam. By the time I was 28, my next handsome husband was making scrambled eggs in my smooth cast iron pan. And so it goes.

I won’t bore you with the details, but it gets worse as you get older. Time speeds up and you – as if enchanted – turn corners and open doors, collecting memories and mementoes, never to regain or even understand the past. And now, in 2024, I have just turned 77; it’s my eleventh turning amid crowded mental stacks, and there is some trepidation.

And with that, I’ve introduced myself to the Substack and Medium worlds and yes, I’m coming back on line after a few fits and starts and stops during the Pandemic. Remember the Pandemic? I do, and somewhat fondly, to tell you the truth. For the first time in my life, the whole world was telling me to stay inside and amuse myself, to cocoon in peace and silence.

For the first time in my life, I was in place, right where I was supposed to be. Inside. While inside, I wrote blog posts about celebrity frames and empty shelves, but mostly I stayed silent and communicated only with dear family and distant friends via fancy electronic screens just like the Jetsons predicted when we were still driving stick shifts.

The year before this one was crazy – a year of superstition for me as I approached the age I thought my mother was when she died, but I was wrong, by a couple of years. Her real age is a small family mystery because when she was a young teenager, she took a tissue dipped in bleach and erased the ink on her birth certificate to make herself older so that she could work. Work was her religion; punch-in-punch-out was her mantra, and she even managed to be paid triple-time-and-a-half at the factory and in the union.

In gratitude, I am back here at the blog, writing my way along and hoping for the best. This is my work, actually, and it’s also my salvation. And yes, although I’m plenty superstitious, I’m not a witch, thank you very much. I just do witchy things because they make so much sense to all the old wives who have lived to tell the tales.

I am an Old Wife, and these are my tales. πŸ”