Fall Layers and Closet Truths: A 30-Day Purge Begins

September in Michigan brings more than falling leaves and back-to-school chaos—it sparks a personal reckoning in Jean's closet. As the weather shifts, so does her wardrobe, and this year she's committed to a 30-day clothing purge. With decades of fashion, fluctuating sizes, and sentimental garments hanging on padded hangers, she is confronting the emotional weight of letting go. This isn’t just about de-cluttering—it’s about identity, memory and making peace with change. AI...

 

September brings change to Michigan. The biggest shift? Kids heading back to school while parents scramble to fill calendars with carpools, practices and pick-ups. A longer-lasting transition begins in the trees, which start their slow dance of changing colors—pale pinks and yellows taking the first steps toward October’s grand finale. The high temperatures of summer are also ushered out on the tail end of hurricane season on the Gulf of Mexico and along the Eastern seaboard. And September means I start digging around in my closet for clothing that bridges summertime weather and winter layering. 

I’m the undisputed queen of layering. Summer means sleeveless shells under ¾-length shirts. Fall brings short or long cotton sleeves under flannel. By November, it's turtlenecks pair with sweaters or sweatshirts. And in winter? I might add a third layer—a cotton camisole or quilted vest for extra warmth. In the “black” section of my closet alone, there are fourteen tops in various weights and sleeve lengths. No one needs that many. Same goes for the sweater section—eighteen, all hanging on padded hangers. And pants? Nineteen pairs, including three pedal-pushers and four pairs of blue jeans. No one needs that many pants. Unless, of course, they do—because like me, they have two sizes in each category. 

I need a major purging project because my closet can’t hold another hanger!

It’s no secret—I struggle with my weight. It goes up, it goes down, and right now I’m living in the larger sizes. You’d think purging would be easy: just toss what doesn’t fit. But other fatty-fatty-two-by-fours might back me up when I say that letting go of smaller sizes feels like giving up on ourselves. I did that once and what happened is that larger size became the smaller size as I added on more pounds. Now, years after that disastrous purge I hear a little voice in my head reminding me that I shouldn’t get rid of anything in my closet, because I won’t be able to afford to replace whatever I’d purge. Tariffs combined with a fixed income are a bitch.

On September 1st, I went looking for a hanger to store a new top—and found none. Not. Even. One. That was my breaking point. I came up with a plan: purge one garment a day for the next thirty days. I’m in day eight as I write this and so far I’ve kept my promise to myself. I started with things I don’t like and never wear and next I’ll go for the things that don’t fit. I’m putting my daily choices in one of two boxes: ‘Donate’ and ‘Hold for a Year.’ Somehow knowing I'm not donating everything makes it easier to perform the task. Purging thirty space-wasters should make a huge difference in my small closet and I’ll be able to see if I have a need for anything new. If I do it will be pants. I have some that are a quarter of a century old. My pants size doesn’t seem to change like my top sizes. But I have some that are too short.

This is the third time I’ve written a post about closet purging, the first time was in 2014. “I started with a book titled, Ten Steps to Declutter Your Closet,” I wrote.  “Short and sweet. Twenty-five pages of standard stuff: haul everything out of the closet, try on everything and purge the stuff that doesn’t fit, is stained or needs repairs or that you haven’t worn in the last year. One Year! I’ve got nearly three feet worth of closet rod taken up with vintage clothing from as far back to the Kennedy administration.” Before I moved here, I managed to pare down my vintage collection. But I still have three garments I can’t part with. They make me happy just to see them now and then: a dress from my clubbing days with Don in the ’70s, a size 11 sailor-themed, two piece outfit from the late ’60s (the smallest I ever was in adulthood), and my beloved hippie/bicentennial dress from 1976.

In 2020 while faced with another closet purging I wrote: “My master closet has always been a walk-in hell-hole of clothing (in three sizes), shoes, Crocs, purses, hats and anything that I want to hide from the world---the volume of which needs to be cut in half before I move. I’ve never enjoyed purging clothes. My size changes so often that I’m afraid to let go of things that don’t fit. I know—it’s a messed-up mindset. Life coaches and diet experts would say keeping three sizes traps us in a cycle: we bounce 15–20 pounds up and down, grabbing the next size up instead of facing the snug truth.” Re-reading this post made me realize I have made some progress, given the fact that my current closet only holds two sizes. Maybe if I live to be 100, I’ll die with just one size of clothing to my name. But let’s be honest—it’ll probably be one of my nieces who makes that happen, when and if I get moved to Assisted Living.

Until Next Wednesday ©

Review of The Book of Two Ways by Jodi Picoult — A Deep Dive into Death, Desire, and the Dilemma of ‘What If’

 

If you’ve ever wrestled with the haunting question “What might my life have looked like if I’d chosen differently?” then The Book of Two Ways will hit close to home—and possibly leave you fuming. In this spoiler-heavy review, Jean unpack Picoult’s ambitious novel that blends death doula work, Egyptian archaeology, and quantum theory into a tangled narrative of love, loss, and unresolved choices. While the book is rich in research and philosophical depth, its ending left her unsatisfied and emotionally rattled. Read on if you’re ready to explore the messy beauty of parallel lives—and why sometimes, closure matters more than cleverness. AI….

Spoiler Alert: If The Book of Two Ways is still on your “To Read” list and you prefer to go in blind, skip this post. I’m about to work through my frustrations with how Jodi Picoult chose to end this well-researched but emotionally packed and surprising novel.

The protagonist, Dawn, is a Death Doula. According to Wikipedia, a Death Doula "is a person who assists in the dying process much like a midwife does with the birthing process. They’re non-medical professionals who help the dying wrap up loose ends while offering emotional and spiritual support." Loose ends might include anything from completing a 'Honey-Do List' to tracking down a lost love and delivering a final letter. Whatever the client needs.

Personally, if I had a Death Doula at the end of my life, I’d ask her to make a vibrator disappear. Too much information? Maybe. But I’m hoping that it adds a little shock-awe-humor to this post. Whether it’s true or not—I’ll let you decide.

Back to Dawn. In her college days, she was a budding Egyptologist, but life intervened—her mother entered hospice care, and Dawn left her undergrad program unfinished. (Been there, done that.) During an archaeological dig fifteen years before the book’s present timeline, she had a summer affair with a fellow student named Wyatt. Fast forward: she marries Brian, a man she met while both had loved ones in the same hospice home. They build a good life together while raising a daughter—who Dawn initially believes is Brian’s, but turns out to be Wyatt’s.

The book’s title refers to a map painted inside Egyptian coffins, showing both a land and water route to the afterlife. In Picoult’s plot, these maps become metaphors for Dawn’s choice: stay in her stable marriage or rekindle her relationship with Wyatt and return to the life she left behind. It’s the classic “What If” game many of us play as we age.

Major spoiler alert: Picoult ends the book without revealing what Dawn decides. Some readers on a fan site say this mirrors “the idea of parallel lives and the unknowability of fate.” Others call it a cop-out. Still others note that Picoult often presents moral or emotional dilemmas rather than tidy conclusions.

I’m firmly in the camp that felt cheated. She created an impossible choice—one that hurts someone no matter what Dawn chooses. The old romance reader in me wanted one more chapter. I wanted Dawn to stay in America until her daughter finishes high school, not abandon a 15-year relationship for a romanticized summer fling. The idea that she’d throw away a shared life for something that might not live up to the fantasy made me angry. It’s easy to romanticize the past and take for granted the quiet strength of a long-standing relationship. I think most of us make peace with our choices. We'll never know if Dawn did the same.

Can you tell I’ve played the “What If” game a few times? 

And that wasn’t the only thing that made me angry. One of Dawn’s clients wrote a letter to a lost love, and Dawn planned to deliver it before the client died. But when she saw the man through a window—seemingly happy with his family—she chose not to disrupt his life. That decision, while questionable, was forgivable. What wasn’t forgivable was telling the dying woman, just moments before she took her last breath, that she hadn’t delivered the letter. A letter the client said was her most important final wish. If ever there’s a time for a little white lie, it’s on someone’s deathbed!

The book also dives into heavy themes like quantum physics—legitimate theories about parallel lives that sound like hocus-pocus but aren’t—and offers a fascinating glimpse into archaeological digs. But if I had to boil the book’s main theme down to one philosophical question, it would be: Do we make our choices, or do our choices make us? ©

Until Next Wednesday.

Favorite Quote from The Book of Two Ways: "Love isn't a perfect match but an imperfect one. You are rocks in a tumbler. At first you scrape, you snag. But each time that happens, you smooth each others edges, until you wear each other down. And if you are lucky at the end of all that, you fit."

Photo Credit at the top: Part of the Book of Two Ways on Coffin B1C, from Wael Sherbiny, Through Hermopolitan Lenses, Image by Jordan Miller. 

The Lingering Legacy of Vietnam: The War That Changed Us

This post explores the lingering impact of the Vietnam War through personal memory, cultural reflection, and historical context. From Bruce Springsteen’s protest anthem to Ron Kovic’s memoir and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Jean revisits the emotional terrain of a generation shaped by conflict. With fresh reflections sparked by recent books and films, she connects past and present—reminding us that war doesn’t end when the fighting stops. AI...

“Records are often auditory Rorschach tests,” Bruce Springsteen wrote in his memoir. “We hear what we want to hear.” His song Born in the U.S.A.—often mistaken for a patriotic anthem—was actually written as a Vietnam protest song. Springsteen’s interest in veterans affairs and this song were inspired by Ron Kovic’s memoir Born on the Fourth of July, the story of a paralyzed veteran turned anti-war activist. That autobiography was published in 1976 and it became a best-seller. Fate brought these two men together shortly after and they became life long friends.

The 1989 film adaptation of the book, starring Tom Cruise, took some creative liberties—adding a high school girlfriend, placing Kovic at a protest he only watched on TV, and dramatizing a visit to the family of a fellow soldier he accidentally killed (in real life, he wrote them a letter). But overall, the movie stayed true to the spirit of Kovic’s account.

According to Wikipedia, Ron wrote the book in three weeks and two days. He described the process like this:

“I wrote all night long, seven days a week, single space, no paragraphs, front and back of the pages, pounding the keys so hard the tips of my fingers would hurt. I couldn't stop writing, and I remember feeling more alive than I had ever felt. Convinced that I was destined to die young, I struggled to leave something of meaning behind, to rise above the darkness and despair. I wanted people to understand. I wanted to share with them as nakedly and openly and intimately as possible what I had gone through, what I had endured. I wanted them to know what it really meant to be in a war — to be shot and wounded, to be fighting for my life on the intensive care ward — not the myth we had grown up believing. I wanted people to know about the hospitals and the enema room, about why I had become opposed to the war, why I had grown more and more committed to peace and nonviolence.”

Netflix was showing Born on the Fourth of July recently, and knowing it was a classic Vietnam film, I decided to watch. I couldn’t remember seeing it before, but I had read the book. Back in the late ’70s I read around twenty books about the war—memoirs and fiction by recent veterans like Ron. I was obsessed, trying to understand how we, as a nation—and I, personally—could go from naive supporter of the “conflict” to understanding why so many of us turned against it.

I thought I’d long ago made peace with that terrible chapter of American history. But seeing that movie on the heels of reading Kristin Hannah’s book The Women (about the U.S. Army Nurse Corp during the Vietnam War) a bunch of memories surfaced. Like the night Don and I tried to talk a friend of his nephew out of running off to Canada because his draft number was close to being called. Right or wrong, we didn’t succeed and he became a draft dodger. No matter what choice those teen boys made it was life altering. It wasn’t until 1977 when drafter dodgers were pardoned by Jimmy Carter, in an attempt to heal the nation, that those who fled could come back to The States.

We visited the Vietnam Wall Memorial twice—once in Washington, D.C., shortly after it was built in 1982 and again a decade later when its traveling replica came to town. Our local newspaper called the replica ‘The Wall That Heals.’ It was 250 foot long, ½ scale replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall on the National Mall and its 24 panels contain more than 58,000 names of those who didn’t make it home. When we saw the actual Wall in Washington D.C. it was an emotional experience for me. I had penpal relationships with over fifty servicemen over in ‘Nam spread out over four-five years and I planned to look them all up in the index book by the Wall, but after finding a few listed I just couldn’t continue.

When we saw the traveling replica it was my husband who was left haunted by the experience. As I pushed Don’s wheelchair past the 24th panel there was a homemade sign on a stake that contained the name of a work friend of Don's. It said he’d died of Agent Orange. This was in the ‘90s, just after our government finally got around to acknowledging the connection between Agent Orange and all the medical problems the guys who were exposed to those chemicals suffered. My husband’s friend had taken his own life just weeks before his wife placed that hand-painted sign at the replica Wall. The war hadn’t ended for him. It just changed shape. 

During my caregiving years (2000–2012), war played in our living room every night in the form of VHS tapes of M*A*S*H. When the series originally aired (1972–1983), Don was working nights and never saw it. But he had the entire series on tape and watched the episodes repeatedly. The whoop-whoop of helicopter blades and Alan Alda’s voice gave him the comfort of ritual while I was in the kitchen becoming a blogger.

I don’t entirely understand why we humans find comfort in watching the same shows over and over again, but I do it now with Sex and the City. Watching an episode after a movie each night acts like a palate cleanser for my brain. I’ve probably seen the entire series a dozen times.

And now I need that palate cleanser after watching the nightly news. With two wars raging and a president I don’t trust holding the reins, I’m angry again—angry that humanity remains so divided that we risk blowing up the whole kit and caboodle. Did Vietnam not teach us anything? I know what 45/47 wants out of one of those wars. He wants to develop the Gaza Strip into a high-rollers resort. And with Netanyahu’s latest plan to take over the area and relocate its people, it sounds suspiciously like an off-the-books deal is brewing. If so, it better not involve our tax dollars! If we can’t fund USAID to support the poorest people in the world then we sure as hell can’t fund billionaires on vacation!

My mother used to say, “Don’t borrow trouble from the future.” How she could say that so often—when she was the longest-range planner I’ve ever known—is beyond me. Maybe that’s the answer. She didn’t borrow trouble. She saw its potential and planned contingencies.

Anyone want to help me dig an underground fallout shelter? ©

Until Next Wednesday.