Moving house. We did that. High on the stress test but not as high as getting Covid and not being able to breathe, so I won’t say it was rough, because it wasn’t, and we love the space we’re in. It does force you to take a good long look at what you bring with you, AND what you’ve kept stowed away.
Take this: found when cleaning out the garage. What the hell is that you ask? Why it’s just what you think it is. A piece of bronze with the words Hey Assface! on them. It was my first attempt at using the engraver when I was learning how to make jewelry, and my favorite Chevy Chase line. I have no idea why I kept it other than my fourth-grade boy’s sense of humor still prevails and perhaps I might need to give it to someone. Or leave it for someone, like a warning. They can fill in the rest.
There’s also this:
This looks very random but is actually the template for an underwater scene stained-glass window I have yet to make. And started twenty years ago. That’s right TWENTY. Procrastination can get the better of anyone? Surely? Or perhaps it’s that I can’t let go of projects I, somewhere in my tiny brain, know I’m not going to finish? Those blue spots are blue tack, where you place the pieces to make sure they all fit together before you solder them. Yes, this means I have cut pieces ready to go. All I have to do is assemble the pieces, cut the remaining parts out, and solder them together. A long afternoon’s worth of work. And yet. There it sits. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of it this move either so it now resides in a box in a new garage, “window pieces” in black marker on the side. Damnit!
If I’m thinking ahead, I should get rid of it. Because otherwise my kids will have to, and that’s no fun for them. And what is really important to me? How many things are there really, that I would want anyone to remember me by?
I was out walking with a friend and she had to do the clean-up for her dad a few years ago. They weren’t close but close enough that it smarts to go through your parent’s things, to see what remained of value.
“It’s about a Tupperware bin worth of stuff,” she said. And we agreed, that was about right. After it’s all said and done, if I had to leave just the essentials, that would be the size needed. There would be my mom’s family history book, some photographs, maybe a few papers that said I achieved a few things, although after the fact who cares? So those can probably go too. The book I have yet to finish. There’s my ceramic owl from Sweden that I sold a bunch of jewelry in order to justify the buy (I am a sucker for art, if it speaks to me I’ll pay whatever). A few other pieces of art that won’t fit into the bin so they’ll have to deal with that. An old joy division T-shirt I’ve had since ninth grade, so soft and worn through that it feels like Emperor’s silk, which I plan on wearing into old age. Hmm, what else. Should I admit I’ve kept my brother’s blanket all these years? That goes in, as well as things friends have made for me, jewelry or ceramic mugs or drawings. A few love letters that are so awful they make me cringe but I still have them. Actually, I am having a hard time thinking of things. By then my family will have forced me to get rid of the tapes/cd’s I keep in my garage workshop (when I make things, I need old-school music, direct from the boombox.)
Somehow, it’s a comfort that I can’t think of much, and also a reminder. There aren’t really many “things’ that make up a person. The things we do in real life, right now, are way more important than the stuff. How we treat others (I’ve fallen off the wagon a bit on this during COVID, I need to remind myself to get off my high horse). What we do for each other, that is what should live on.
But. There should always be someone in your corner making sure nothing untoward gets in your box, the one that will live on a high shelf in the next house until someone eventually throws it all away.
It’s fine, get over it, you’re already dead at this point.
But you need someone to check to make sure you don’t have a valuable limited edition David bowie painting that ends up at the dump. (That just happened, so check if my crap is worth anything and pay off some bills)
https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/sudbury/landfill-bowie-setting-records-1.6070072
And way back when I worked at the pharmacy (the only job I loved enough to put on my facebook page) the workers were gifted things that never sold. Like the giant butt plug from the sex toy section, so large I’m pretty sure it could be used as a catalytic converter in a pinch.
Friends took it and played a game in their house, hiding it for the other to find, for years. But If they both kick the bucket at the same time, someone needs to come and retrieve it, or their families might come up with all sorts of ideas on their own, as they do. Just pointing out, there might be things you need to plan for. Contingencies. I should ask them if it still lives, or if it’s become a garden planter or something.
But another friend posted on Facebook that she wanted her family to be like…what the hell is this, what in the actual F?! She has a point, too. Why not let them make up all sorts of things about you? Might be a better story than you actually had. You might live on in history, even, as the owner of the world’s largest butt plug, and by association, the owner of the world’s largest asshole.
There could be worse things to be known by? Maybe?
Anyway, make a plan, people. Throw out some stuff. Keep it if you really will, one day, take an afternoon to finish it off, and give it to someone unless it’s going in your bin. And decide who your safe person is, the one that knows you better than anybody, who will sneak in before anyone else and clean up all your scary shit and burn it in the backyard. Or not, but best to decide, first.