The other day I ran into a longtime friend I haven’t seen for the better part of the year, even though we live less than a mile apart.
We quickly caught up, exchanged news and realized we are both appalled by a huge challenge looming on the horizon and closing in fast. The time has come to start downsizing.
There are two schools of thought to downsizing one’s inventory. The first: think like a cat and ease into it gradually, sniff with disdain at your stuff, then decide to postpone it indefinitely. Should we fall off our perch before we get started, don’t our now-adult former little tax exemptions deserve some payback for being expensive yet thoroughly rotten teenagers?
The second is to adopt the Swedish Death Cleaning philosophy: a severe and radical purging of anything you are not likely to need between now and when the undertaker rounds up six pallbearers. It is ruthless, brutal and minimalist, but remember, these Scandihoovians are descendants of Vikings, who were that way too.
We all know we have too much stuff, or inventory as I prefer to call it. Sooner or later the deed must be done, and it’s not pleasant. I know some people rub their hands in glee and, with dollar signs in their eyes, start planning a garage sale sometime in the spring. No thank you.
It’s not that I am too lazy to carry out loads of inventory. The laziness part comes later when something has to be done with the remains of the sale, whether it is carried back inside or hauled to a thrift shop.
No, the real ugly part of a garage sale is seeing a former important part of our life get haggled down from 50 cents to two bits. Even that is not as trying as watching a piece of your history disappear down the sidewalk.
As an example: Those old hand-painted silk ties you haven’t worn since Reagan was in the White House, and you will never wear again until the undertaker asks about one for the open-casket visitation.
Those are not just colored cloth that went around your neck! They remain a tangible reminder of when you were a somebody, a regular captain of industry.
Back in the olden days you had to wear a tie to work. It was company policy and you hated it. Now you hate it all the more knowing your ties will soon be gone forever.
No young offspring will roll their eyes in horror and tease you about how doofy a tie looks, or how sharp you felt when you saw how you tied Windsor knot to practiced perfection. With it comes the hideous reminder that you will soon be gone forever too.
It is painful to accept the rejection from your children and their tax exemptions that they do not want your Royal Dolton China or the cut crystal glass. You think you got problems getting rid of the stuff? I have three full sets of each.
The silver tea service that once graced your table, the one you are convinced would look so nice in their house, nobody wants. They don’t see grace and elegance, just a lot of time wasted polishing it when they could be playing video games. Warning: if they pull out their devices during this conversation it is probably to check the silver futures to determine whether it is worth taking home.
Then there are the books. Some we never looked at; others were childhood favorites that we read time and again. For us, those books are stories that have not yet been read, and they are important to us. A few contain passages we have memorized. The next generation probably sees them as dust collectors. Besides, everything is online today.
Do you know what happens to books no one wants? Sometimes we think we are being generous by taking them a book sale or a thrift store. If they can’t foist them off on someone, the day comes when they end up in a big packing container on a palette. When enough of them are filled they get sent off to a processing plant.
Paperbacks go straight into the grinder; hardback books have their covers ripped off and thrown aside; the contents go into the grinder, eventually liquid is added to make a slurry, and the concoction becomes tomorrow’s newspaper. Or worse, your treasured books are now toilet paper.
It is sad to see treasured items seemingly evaporate. A sign in the front window of a shop in Douglas has the message: “Unless it has a fascinating back story, we’re not interested.” Unfortunately, there just are not enough fascinating back-stories for everyone’s treasures and icons.
Anyway, my friend and I talked about this for a while and, when we were morbid enough, said we had to get going. Even though we are now officially in The Olds demographics, we still had important things to do. Mine was to pull out my pipe and go for a walk to shake off our exchange of laments.
That’s when I came up with the greatest idea of all time. The hardest part of getting of letting go of stuff is that with each piece, we are letting go a little of our history and ourselves. It is as if part of us simple evaporates. We know we won’t physically live forever, but via our inventory we will be remembered by those who come after us.
If we are lucky, whoever gets the old O-27 Lionel model railroad will mention your name. Or, one of your friends from your afternoon tea group who gets the good China will recall times together, and tell the tale of how someone would slip a bump of whiskey into her cup. But that’s about it, and in another generation even that story is lost.
Here is the answer: When time comes to downsize and say your final farewells to anything that has a fascinating back story, look at it, hold it, inhale its scent and remember back to when you got or used it. Then, set it down and say goodbye to it.
Immediately make a point of writing a paragraph or two in a computer file you can call “Once Upon a Time.” If you don’t want to do it on your computer, then push a pen on paper. Just know it takes longer.
Your fascinating back story can include anything you like. It’s your story.
Here’s an example: On my desk is a black acrylic falcon I bought when Pat and I went to Egypt. No, it is not a replica of the Maltese Falcon, but the great god Horus of ancient dynasty. In a yard sale I might get a quarter for it. The real value is that fascinating story.
Write about every object you are culling from your inventory, and why it was meaningful to you. Save it, but for heaven’s sake, print it. Put it in a three-ring binder with a label on the cover and cover letter inside.
Maybe, some day in the future when you have taken up residence at Happy Vale Nursing Home where an aide named Bambi, she of the piercings, tattoos and multi-colored hair, is wiping apple puree off your chin, you can ask someone to read the stories. And you will remember, for memories outlast stuff. They are the most important of all.
Later, the younger generation can read about your stuff, but they won’t be reading about inventory. They’ll be reading about and remembering you. At the end of the day, that is what we all want — to be remembered.
Just be sure to clearly mark the notebook and leave it where heirs will find it.
