You Got Stuff?

You Got Stuff?

Southern Living recently ran an article called “12 Things to Toss Before You Turn 70 for a Simpler, Happier Life.” I’m 81. So either I’m eleven years overdue for a simpler, happier life, or the article’s full of it. Let’s find out.

Source: southernliving.com

Here’s what I was supposed to have tossed on my way out of my sixties — and my verdict on each.

1. Knick-knacks. This item was clearly written by and for someone who has never caught a foul ball. My “knick-knacks” are two baseballs snagged at the ballpark, three bobbleheads, a stone German shorthaired pointer, and two porcelain horses that I liberated from my grandmother’s shelf in Gray. Not knick-knacks. Artifacts.

2. Outdated media and electronics. The VHS tapes went years ago, replaced by CDs I still play regularly. But I’ve got roughly a thousand LPs I refuse to part with, even though the turntable died. They’re not clutter, they’re a museum with a broken ticket machine.

3. Mismatched linens. Don’t have any. Every bathroom’s linens match with military discipline. Zero cross-pollination. 

4. Unused tools and equipment. Guilty as charged. Leaf blowers, weed eaters, shovels, picks, rakes, drills, sanders, two pressure washers, two chainsaws, hacksaws, tool chests, ladders I can no longer safely climb, paint, cleaning rags, car stuff and tons of other stuff. I’ll start on the garage tomorrow. 

5. Old cookware and appliances. Actually did this one. Half the pots and pans, ancient coffee makers, blenders, and mismatched silverware — gone. I even tossed the new-fangled air fryer. It was so noisy that the dog wouldn’t come out of her crate.

6. Old coats and scarves. I own more leather jackets and fur coats than any reasonable person should. I told my son he could raid that closet for anything except one thing: my full-length raccoon coat, worn in memory of my dad, who I saw in a photo leaning against a brand-new ’38 Ford in a raccoon coat and a Stetson, looking cooler than I will ever manage. My son settled for a suede jacket and a full-length coyote coat.

7. Out-of-style jewelry. I own no jewelry unless you count my high school and Georgia class rings — and I never wear either. 

8. Books. Absolutely not! I’ve read thousands and kept only the ones I loved. The rest went to the local used bookstore, now sadly closed. My office is wall-to-wall books, and every one of them is a memory. They are staying, and so am I, right here in this chair, surrounded by them.

9. Old papers, letters, and cards. Guilty again — I’ve kept every publication I’ve ever written and every card anyone’s ever sent me. In my defense, I did clear out a full filing cabinet of academic papers nobody, including me, was ever going to reference again.

10. Heirloom china and crystal. Don’t have any. I do have my grandmother’s mixing bowls, her rolling pin, and a couple of beer steins my parents hauled back from Germany. These are not china. These are load-bearing family history.

11. Boxed-up photos. They’re already in boxes. Problem solved.

12. Unwanted art and décor. If I didn’t want it, it wouldn’t be on my wall. I get real, genuine pleasure from the art I’ve collected, including pieces by Armando Peña Jr. and other Southwest artists. 

Notice what Southern Living — clearly written with a female reader in mind — left off the list entirely: guns and hunting trophies. My zebra, deer, bush pig, bearskin rugs, impala, gemsbok, kudu, and assorted ram and bear skulls didn’t even rate a mention. Neither did clothes and shoes, which is strange for an article ostensibly about downsizing written for women. My suits, all sized for a man thirty pounds lighter, went to my grandson. I sold the fifth wheel and gave my forty-year-old bass boat to a friend in North Carolina. But I’ve still got suits, sport jackets, shirts, more Coogi sweaters than Amazon, and shoes, shoes, shoes. Guess I got the clothes and shoes thing from my Dad. I do work through the rotation though wearing everything in order. Anything I stop wearing goes straight to the local Christian ministry for resale. And I’ve made myself a deal — no more new clothes (replacement socks and underwear excepted), no more shoes, no more physical music or books, since everything new now lives electronically.

I’ve told my kids that before I die, they’re welcome to almost anything of mine they want — mostly because I feel for them having to eventually dispose of the stuff in the house in Knoxville. I’ve also got a fully outfitted cottage on the family farm in Gray and I am clearing out nothing there because it won’t be sold when I die. And if I ever moved there for good, I’d bring only the artwork and the hunting trophies. 

But much as I love being on my ancestors’ land, I will likely stay in Knoxville for there reside my friends. Last time I spent two weeks straight at the farm, I didn’t have a single face-to-face conversation with another human being. By the end I was ready to drive to the hardware store just to talk to the girl at the register.

So here’s my verdict: if I’d tossed all this before 70, my life would not have gotten simpler or happier. It would have just gotten emptier. My stuff doesn’t complicate my life — it furnishes it. I’d be miserable staring at bare shelves where the LPs, CDs, and books used to reside. Blank walls would depress me to no end. Nearly everything I own, I use, wear, or genuinely treasure — the tools being the one exception. Getting rid of stuff now would mean getting rid of pieces of myself, memories that happen to take up shelf space – stuff that makes me happy. It all stays.