​Carol Smallwood’s ​most recent books include: In Hubble’s Shadow (Shanti Arts); Prisms, Particles, and Refractions (Finishing Line Press); Interweavings: Creative Nonfiction (Shanti Arts), and three edited librarianship anthologies.

​http://thebookendsreview.com/2018/10/24/second-interview-w-judith-skillman/
The Bookends Review Oct. 24, 2018

Deerbrook Editions, February, 2019
Came Home to Winter
by Judith Skillman
Deerbrook Editions
ISBN 978-0-9991062-7-3
$16.95
 
https://www.deerbrookeditions.com/
 
 
Judith Skillman’s poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best of the Web, the UK Kit Award, and is included in Best Indie Verse of New England to mention just a few honors of this prominent American poet and translator. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and journals and her work as an artist has also attracted notice. The state of Washington poet has published sixteen poetry collections of acclaim; visit www.judithskillman.com
 
 
 
Smallwood: How did you decide on the title of your new poetry collection, Come Home to Winter?
 
A number of the poems deal with “the dark seasons,” at least here in the northwest: autumn and winter: “The Quaking Aspen’s First Autumn,” for instance. Then there more than a few pieces about aging, including “Rheumatism” and “Mobility”. It seems fairly clear, now that I am in my mid-sixties, that winter is more than an apt metaphor for the aging process, and also, ultimately, for mortality.
 
To equate a season with the body once seemed too precious, too cliché. I suppose I was ageist. But it occurred to me lately that all young people must be ageist, really. It’s part and parcel of youth’s innocence and arrogance. It is a necessary defense that enables one to survive.
 
Having said that, as one “matures”—doctors with a bedside manner like to call it that—many of the features we associate with winter accompany the body on its journey. There is a poem titled “Post Vitreous Detachment,” which appeared in Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA). If someone had told me when I was in my thirties that there was a gel in the eye and that gel would dry up and pull away from the retina, well, I don’t know if I could have handled the prospect. This has happened in both eyes now, and the results are described in “The Floater,” which was also in JAMA.
 
Of course, despite its intimations of mortality, the ‘dark season’ casts and reflects light. Growing up on the east coast, first in Syracuse and then Maryland, and traveling a great deal to Montreal where my relatives lived, was a wonderful way to experience the beauty and magnificence of winter. The season of cold does not have to be dark. Snow and ice are beautiful in their austerity.
 
Smallwood: You write about nature with such close observance and skill. How has the land of Washington state influenced your poetry?
 
When we moved to the Northwest in 1982—first to Sequim, on the Olympic Peninsula—and then to the “Eastside,” across Lake Washington from Seattle, I fell in love with what the realtor called “God’s Country.” Of course, in the 36 years since we arrived, the area has become a metropolis resembling  Washington DC, which I wanted desperately to get away from. But the mountains and water, as well as the flora and fauna, have definitely influenced my writing.
 
I remember first seeing a madrona tree; it was with jaw-dropping awe. And learning about how these trees hold all four seasons at once was eye opening. So many of the plants here, even the weeds, are large and beautiful. Foxglove, for instance. I love nature so hiking has been an ecstatic experience. Coming from Maryland it was a pleasure to find that the worst thing one encounters might be nettles, rather than those dangers I grew up with from the age of six on: tics, hornets, yellow jackets, poison ivy, and poison oak.
 
Regarding “close observation,” this wanting to get closer to nature comes from my father. He was a solar physicist and astronomer who loved studying the sun, planets, and stars, and he also looked at nature in other ways. I got the myopia gene. Growing up I was puzzled to see him take off his glasses and peer at a bug or a flower…now I do that myself. More with flowers and plants than insects, though.
 
 
Smallwood: I see in your acknowledgments that magazines accepted your poems such as Prairie Schooner, Shenandoah, Alaska Quarterly Review which must give you great satisfaction. How long did it take you to appear in top magazines?
 
Well, I was lucky enough to have poems taken by the journal Science (which no longer exists), and by Poetry and Poetry Northwest in the 1980’s. When we moved here I studied with Beth Bentley at University of Washington Extension and I credit her with for teaching students how to write associatively. This is a difficult lesson to learn and one I still struggle with. The conscious mind wants to take over; the subconscious holds mysteries that lead to a strong poem.
 
Of course I would like to get acceptances from top magazines more often, but that is not realistic. Journals are subjective and what is in vogue changes. Also, writing good poems doesn’t happen that often! As in any endeavor, the nature of the poebiz is that rarely one hits a hole in one. The only way to improve one’s art or sport is to keep practicing.
 
 
Smallwood: You are included in Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judith_Skillman
When did you get this honor?
 
Actually it was my college friend Jesse Glass, who is a poet and a professor of English at Meikei University in Japan, who gifted me with the Wikipedia site some years ago. He said it was a garden and that I needed to work in it…I should update it more regularly.
 
 
Smallwood: How long does it take you to write a poetry collection? Do you have a topic in mind before you begin?
Do you write first poems in longhand?
 
To begin with the last question first, I no longer write poems in longhand because I can’t read my own writing. Also, writing longhand doesn’t keep pace with thoughts, at least as compared to using a word processor/computer. Generally I have a feeling more than a topic. Sometimes a title or subject comes to mind, but in associative writing, which is what I try to do, the goal is to allow ourselves access to what’s frozen (or invisible), below the tip of the iceberg.
 
Also, I try to be aware of the difference between fancy and imagination—though this is possible only in revision. Fancy is contrived, whereas the imagination is defined as the “mind’s eye.” When the imagination is at work, one can follow a subconscious thread. That’s why the goal is to generate material from feelings, not from intellectualizing or overthinking. I also learned, from David Wagoner, to pay attention to your dreams and the songs that get stuck in your head. These can be clues.
 
Regarding the length of time it takes for put together a poetry collection, it varies from a year or two to perhaps five or ten years. I try to keep the material fresh. With Kafka’s Shadow (Deerbrook Editions, 2017) the subject matter was all of piece and that felt very refreshing. I’d like to do another biographical work in verse at some point.
 
Smallwood: Your poetry brings in such a wide knowledge of authors, art, language not to mention general knowledge. What is your educational background? You are also known as an accomplished translator. In what languages and when did you begin?
 
Thank you, Carol. I’ve always been a ‘bookworm’ though that term is now archaic. Although I read far less now than I used to, if my nose isn’t in a book—even if it takes a long time to finish said book—something doesn’t seem right. It’s not a good feeling. Probably this love of the written language predicted that I would buck my original family’s arena’s of expertise in the scientific fields. My mother is a math educator with a PhD, and I’ve already mentioned my father’s physics. Both of my siblings have PhD’s in the sciences.
 
I got an MA in English Literature from the University of Maryland because at that time the MFA degree in Creative Writing didn’t exist there. My very first major out of five or six as an undergrad was visual art, and though that didn’t work out, it’s been rewarding to return to making art when possible. Art and poetry have so much in common.
 
I am a Francophile; my favorite language is French. But actually the first translation project I did was Italian. Because it is a Romance language it was possible, but only with a native speaker. I also worked with a native Portuguese speaker to do two Pessoa poems that hadn’t been previously translated. I love trying to read Cesar Vallejo in Spanish, and René Char in French, after reading their translations to  English by different translators. I credit the Translation seminars I was lucky enough to take at UW with for learning enough to venture into translation—it is a science and an art. 
 
Smallwood: Some of your poems are in stanzas while others aren’t. Do you know before you begin writing how you will arrange the poem? Some are short, others long, and use indentions. Have all of your collections included a Notes section at the back to aid the reader?
 
Regarding form, I try not to think about it when writing a first draft. It’s only later, going back to a piece that may be worth some revision, that I try to break the lines into stanzas. I also try to count the beats in a line. This seems to help in getting rid of excess verbiage—especially adjectives and gerunds. If a poem lends itself to couplets, tercets, or quatrains then so much the better. That can also help to lop off an ending that really isn’t necessary.
 
It seems best to think of content and then consider form, unless one sets out to write a deliberate formal poem such as a sonnet or a villanelle. If the form and content gel it helps a poem succeed. As for using indentations, I like to think of fractures. Is this a piece that lends itself to separation and disjunction? In visual art some subjects and/or treatments of subjects are considered organic. That can be true of poems, too.
 
For Notes, it depends upon the work in a collection. Some collections have only had three or four notes. Poetry is confusing in and of itself, so any time one can assist with a note, why not. But on the other hand a poem should stand alone. There is this tension regarding the “Notes” page in a book. I try to not overuse them.
 
 
 
Smallwood: Other recent poetry collections include: Angles of Separation (Glass Lyre Press 2014); Kafka’s Shadow  (Deerbrook Editions, 2017); Premise of Light (Tebot Bach, 2018). Are you working on the next book? If so, could you please give us an idea what it is about?
 
Well, I have some new poems in various stages of revision. I play around with order when I have time. The theme is various rifts we create and those which are thrust upon us. I don’t want to write the same poem over and over, though many poets/writers have said that is all we can do. I’d like to change it up, and perhaps that can become an inspiration even as it is an uncomfortable place to be.
 
Creativity can take on many forms—whether it’s working on a book, a painting, or just listening to a piece of music. The feeling of entering a new realm, whether through reading, writing, or simply day dreaming about possibilities—that sudden feeling of avenues opening up—is what renews one’s joie de vivre. Art reminds us how important it is to remain open to possibilities, and to continually renew our wonder.
 
 

Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

“Is that star falling ‘cause it was bad and being kicked out?”  Joy looked up, then at me.
            “Maybe the big thing that looks like Mom’s soup ladle’ll catch it.”  I giggled.  “Or,” trying to scare Joy, “maybe it’ll fall right on your head.”
            Joy quickly covered her head with the tiny hands.  She hesitated, then looked up again.  “There’s a little soup-ladle thing also.  Why?  And can a star fall into that instead of down and down and crash?”
            I shrugged my shoulders.  I had no answer, even a made-up one, and knew I could stall and Joy would forget the question.  “Make a wish.  You know.  ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star’, but now you do the ‘wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.’”
            “What do I wish for?”
            “How do I know what you wish for.  It’s your wish.”
            “Mm,” Joy paused.  “I wish one day I’ll have pink satin toe shoes and twirl and twirl and twirl.”
            “Okay.  Anything for right now?”  I knew toe shoes were years away.  “Like wishing Mom would get rid of the linty chenille bedspread so we could sit on our beds and our skirts wouldn’t look like snow covered things?  Or wishing we could be at the beach all day and not have bad sunburns.”
            The sky was peaceful.  I didn’t know why the ladle-looking things were called dippers, but I liked the shape.  And I didn’t know why some stars twinkled and one really bright one didn’t, but the darkness and sparkles pleased me.  “We have to go in the house now.  It’s your bedtime.”
            “Okay.”  Joy paused, and then said “I wish my bedtime could be later.”  She smiled.
            Words and concepts were special, even then.  Wishes were not hopes, and hopes were not prayers, and I was selective as I phrased each.  So even gestures, to me, had to be considered before accepting them or personally using any for nourishing my wants.
            Wishes on stars were like sing-song rhymes, intended to just be sentences to cause smiles.  A dark sky was just that until sprinkled with tiny lights that magically appeared for no purpose except appreciation of Nature.  Sure I’d read about the North Star and navigation, but I wasn’t sailing the open seas, or climbing, or even fleeing in a northward direction under cover of darkness, so navigation and astronomy were merely ‘courses’ in school, and little more. 
            Hopes seemed to be personal, more like a poem’s free verse where a snapshot is frozen with words.  Hopes were my achievement goals whether long-term or momentary.  I didn’t hope-for an A in a school subject unless I knew I’d worked hard enough on the course to have earned it, so it wasn’t abstract.
            Prayers.  I slid under the covers each night as if I were going to rise, without any doubt.  My parents said wishes could be trivial, hopes might be inner desires, but prayer was unique and not to be abused.  
            I think ‘be safe’ before a family member flies . This really is more than a ‘hope’ yet not wasting a prayer in case there is an allotment for each person. 
            There’s a gratitude in my understanding of a power I can’t see or touch, and that my existence has either a purpose or some meaning.  I’m aware of my gift of life and intelligence.  My respect for that is living with the values my parents gave me, appreciating the environment, nurturing sensitivity and kindness, and awe when praying.
            “Grandma.  Why do stars twinkle?  Oh, did you see that falling one?  Was it bad and being kicked out of the sky?”  I also heard my younger sister’s words from decades and decades ago as I listened to this grandchild, and watched the wonder in his eyes.
            “Make a wish.  You know.  ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star’.”  In time, he’ll understand his own life will be a snapshot, and sanctity of prayer is different from wishes.
 
           
Published summer 2012   “Shemom”
reprinted 9-2012 Messenger Post newspapers
reprinted summer 2013  “The Lutheran Digest”
 

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

​Why did it bother me when I read about the closing or possible re-designing of 970 nationwide Woolworths?  How often had I actually been inside my local one for items or even food at its luncheonette?
            Woolworths, the place, had been part of my life;  its vanishing took pieces of the past with it.
            Long ago, the leather soles of my shoes sounded harsh hitting the hardwood floors of my neighborhood Woolworths.  My first canary, in its wooden cage, was selected by bird sounds from the back of the store.  Sure my goldfish had come from there, too, but a canary really needed care not just flakes of food as fish received.
            White flat pumps, with thin ankle straps, echoed on that floor.  They were bought for my elementary school graduation;  the white pique dress with its eyelet pique cap sleeves had to be handsewn by all girl graduates during required sewing class.  My sewing thread came from Woolworths.  For graduation, I wanted the special perfume only that store carried in small purple bottles.
            I stopped at the soda fountain, no longer a child swinging in circles on the round counter stool, and got a milkshake.  The straw clogged, yet if I sipped from the glass a fluffy mustache of ice cream formed on my upper lip.
            I knew I'd be 'old' when the movie theatre on the same street allowed me to sit in the adult section, though I wasn't eligible for three more years.  But, after I marched down an aisle to "Pomp and Circumstance" carrying an old-fashioned bouquet, fragrant from that purple bottle scent bought with my allowance, I could stop buying red lip pomade and actually wear real lipstick.  Of course it'd come from Woolworths!
            The big Woolworths in New York City, near Penn Station, had a drink-you-eat-with-a-spoon.  No treat was as exciting for that was the very only Woolworths I knew about that served this thick ice-cream-like-liquid that was too heavy to drink yet light enough to use a long handled spoon.
            I bought a sterling silver barrette in the city, and an engraver put my first name on it as I waited.  Securing it in my limp flaxen hair, I felt it was an award.
            Sure, the gadget floor of nearby Macy's had wonder, but only for my mother.  I preferred merely to place my feet on the wooden escalator strips and just ride.  But Woolworths had underwear, perfume, school supplies, pets, embroidery material, curtains, knitting needles, buttons, toys, costumes, party goods.... 
            Commuting to graduate school, I'd finally outgrown a Woolworth lunch counter, pet section, perfume, and even got my school supplies at the college bookstore.  But, when my first child was born, my daily carriage walk was to Woolworths.  As if I wanted to expose him to the mystery of the store, I made an excuse for that walk, lifting him in my arms and carrying him while the English Pram parked outside.
            Sometimes I gambled with the balloons suspended from umbrellas at the lunch counter:  I selected a specific one, a waitress popped it, and the price printed on a folded slip would be the one paid for a banana split sundae.  I never quite got too old for this.
            I moved to western New York State;  all stores in the Rochester region were closed by the end of January 1994.  I remember bringing my three children to rotate on plastic counter stools waiting for lunch.  The floors were vinyl, and no purple flacon of fragrance was available.  I'd never seen the drink-you-eat-with-a-spoon except in Manhattan, but I showed my children the canaries, and seasonal costumes, and picture frames, and toys, and.... 
            When the Sears catalog ceased, it wasn't really an end to mail-order books.  And FAX machines made telegrams obsolete.  Escalators are metal, and some landmarks or large department stores in every town have changed or been torn down.  But the 5 & 10 has be remembered by those past middle-aged and older, and missed.

​published Feb. 19, 1994 The Sacramento Bee Op-Ed Page  ©1994McClatchy News
reprinted Spring 2002 Heroes from Hackland
reprinted September 2015 Clear Mt.
reprinted October 2015   go60.us
 

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

Six minutes of driving separate our houses.  And, at age three, Kevin asked me for special time.
 
Settled in a padded rocking chair, I read aloud.  His favorite books were “Milk and Cookies” plus “Grandma and Me”.  He memorized the stories so as soon as I recited ‘milk’, he’d say ‘cookies’ with a musical rise.  Giggles followed.  Often just these two books would be repeated for a full hour, then I’d begin “Pinocchio” about the puppet’s growing nose after telling lies.  I’d ask Kevin to make up different endings.
 
I cut a potato in half so he could make dents in the flesh of it before he dunked in stamp-pad ink and pressed the inky side against a tee shirt I’d have flat on a table.  The potato-painted shirt had his design permanently etched.
 
By age six, I padded his knees, elbows, shins, put a helmet on his head, then roller skates on his feet.  In my enormous basement, in the unfinished section, he’d try and glide, catching each supporting beam for his personal aid.  It often took longer to get him ready then his actual time on metal wheels.
 
We walked park trails that were comfort zones for birds.  Holding food bits in outstretched palms, birds would gently alight and lift the seed food before flying upwards again.  He was noticing shapes of tree leaves, textures of bark, sensation of soft trails or hard pebbles underfoot.
 
A local college had a children’s theatre production, and Kevin was enthusiastic about a different experience, until he sat waiting for the curtain to rise.  He whispered that he wanted to go home, and I said ‘absolutely’ and we’d leave as soon as he felt less frightened, so he climbed into my arms.  The show began.  I stroked his hair, asked if he were ready to leave, and he said ‘in a few minutes’.  In the security of my lap, he watched the entire performance, got excited when the lights went on, and wanted to tell his parents about the good show.  In my mind, I pictured my younger son and his wife smiling with their son’s pleasure. 
 
Miniature golf and then eating ice cream from the same dish, learning to play checkers in the Sesame Street exhibit of The Strong Museum in downtown Rochester, NY, rolling snowballs were just parts of growing hours with me.  Gradually, regular golf, Scrabble boards, ping pong, became activities, and he began explaining his school learning telling me why a piece of wood floats in water while a rock sinks. He liked the planetarium, and appreciated live theatre.
 
Calendars continued to change numbers, as did our ages, and I waited for special time to cease.  When it didn’t, I thought of a more permanent way for the teen to remember our relationship once I’m no longer alive.  “Grandma and Me” was going to become a personal story he didn’t know I was keeping.
 
In 2005, using e-mail instead of the telephone, I asked if he’d really want what wished for as we discussed "The Monkey's Paw" and "Flowers for Algernon" readings for an English assignment.  The next year in Biology, with stem cell being taught, Kevin and I spoke of  “Flowers for Algernon” again as a parallel to using humans for research experiments that have consequences, the right/wrong based on one’s religious beliefs, and how a story read for one class spills over into another subject.
 
“Romeo and Juliet” had us e-mailing the power of names.  I, the English teacher, took Shakespeare’s difficult poetry and simplified the meaning when possible.  After all, the famous line "O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?" --From Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 33) is crying out ‘why’ are you Romeo Montague. Had he been Romeo Stone, rather than the last name of the family Juliet’s parents despised, an immediate barrier wouldn’t have been set up.  Then the childhood book, “Bambi”, came into our conversation as Bambi sounds feminine yet the animal was male.  We moved back and forth.  I was watching the mind expand, and he was permitting me to share the development.
 
I moved each e-mail into a Word Perfect file of  letters knowing that I’d give him these tangible papers and he’d have a type of diary of his teen life.
 
E-mails from college, fall 2010, came with details of his freshmen-week activities, credit-hour studies for first semester, sports events.  He continued to examine his courses and commented on my responses.  A professor’s Philosophy lecture posed: what makes us human, how do we know that we aren't just brains in a vat, also do we have complete control over everything we do and think?  My response covered half a typed page.
 
The printed word is seldom done with pen and ink, but e-mails do not have to be eradicated with the pressure on the delete key.  I’ve complied years of our back and forth discussion of feelings, studies, even our grandma-grandson sense-of-humor about how his school’s team loses when I watch the televised games.  I have a gift for him to re-read when he, himself, is old.  Before the precious exchanges were deleted from the Inbox, they were transferred to the ‘special time’ file I created, for time with any loved one is special, and the recording of specific events or thoughts are markers in life.
 
 
published Oct. 29, 2011 ©2011 The Jewish Press
reprinted:  Shemom   winter 2012-2013 issue
reprinted:   Clear Mt.  Dec. 2011
reprinted: go60.us (online) January 2013

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

​Since newspapers have little information to print, and yet haven’t gone totally online, a recurring using-space broad theme is ‘senior’ and generally the specific is ‘downsize’.  Maintenance-free smaller house is a catch-phrase that sometimes means an association has to be paid a fixed-fee and that group hires lawn service, driveway plowing, garbage pick up, if it’s a patio home or such.  Leave your mortgage-paid-up dwelling for senior living; if there are stairs in your present home, that does become a real consideration. 
            The word-of-the-day, for the elderly, in the rolled up printed paper this morning, was ‘loneliness’.  Artificial Intelligence robots are said to be somewhat better than a dog as the AI can talk to one who has no companion and the pet cannot.  
            Then the repeated verb ‘downsize’ was inked.
            I opened a closet containing items seldom used, or totally obsolete.  Ought to be easy to dispose of those. A 35mm slide projector was inside.  Seems to have gotten heavier as my muscles aged.  Two-thousand slides sat in Kodak carousels, and each box, holding 100 slots, was marked with the years and subjects. It was the 20th century when I began box 1. A square picture, got inserted upside down into a slot. To view, the carousel attached to a circle on the projector and rotated so each slide became magnified on my living room’s white wall.  Yes, I do remember I once had a screen that had been used with my 16mm movie film.  I’d pull up the screen from the bottom of its weighty storage rectangle, and stop at the height available where it affixed to a metal pole that was part of the back.  With aging, the wall became easier.
            Mousepads, and with pictures rather than one color, were stacked in a short pile.  Some signified a souvenir from a vacation so the item would be a remembrance yet useful.
            VHS tapes neatly formed what looked like a bookshelf.  The 8mm camcorder in its travel case was on the floor.  Tiny cassette tapes were magically made into VHS tapes at a developer;  I, then, could easily insert into a special box so the tv screen could highlight the memory captured, and with sound.  Reels of 16mm movie film had no sound.  Projected 35mm stills had no sound. Oh it seemed so splendid to have movement, sound, and also color.
            Opening a scrapbook-type thing of black and white snapshots, I also noticed the negatives from each roll held in envelopes for when I’d want a duplicate of a print able to be done by a photo shop. I felt in my pocket for my smartphone which is also a camera, and recalled having to take an entire roll, often of 36 ‘shots’, before I could bring that into a store to have positives made.  And it was tricky to get the unused film into the sprocket holes so each could ‘advance’ as a camera snap was activated.
            Why did I save a landline telephone! What did I do before lightweight speaker phones as I cooked a meal, or oversaw a homework lesson for one of my offspring?  None of my grandchildren have anything but individual cell phones; would they even know what a phonebook was?  Did I have one of those in this closet! 
            Rabbit ears.  Now why would I have put these away?  That antenna hadn’t been used on any television sets for decades.  No wonder this closet’s been closed for almost that long.  Guess if the space had been walk-in, I probably would have the metal stand used for my black and white sets.  Might I find a clock-radio with tubes on a back shelf?  A transistor radio was in folded  cardboard behind the rabbit ears.  And there was a shoe-box of audio cassette tapes, but nothing to play them on and I doubt there are any devices made for hearing these.
            Downsize often means furniture, China cabinets, cartons of vinyl records without a turntable, some seasonal things no longer really needed.  Might be more simple to sort those as few memories are made from a too-large armchair, but there are emotional recalls from dancing to a Frank Sinatra record, or seeing the unused CD’s that revolutionized music and put even what I’d listened to on 78 rpm into a tiny disc.