We moved from Kansas City to Des Moines this year and, during packing and unpacking, we found a lot of valuable items that we forgot we possessed. The proper term for these heirlooms, of 32 years of marriage and 56 years of life, is ?junk.? But it’s ?our junk? and it has emotional attachment, so we can?t figure out how to dispose of it.
This is a quandary that few people faced in the lean years on the farm. Possessions were fewer and more utilitarian than those Wal-Mart ?gotta have? items we bulge with today. When sharecroppers moved from farm to farm, they could load the wagon with everything they had, tie the milk cow on the back and they could make it in one trip. Now we have the ability to buy something every month and we are given other items for birthdays and holidays. When it all starts to add up, being materialistic becomes rather unsatisfying.
Every item has a story or a memory attached: the moose hide I bought in Canada and the antique calf weaning spiked nose ring that jabbed the cow?s udder each time he attempted to nurse. These items, plus hundreds more, are almost forgotten until a required sort is made?and then they become priceless.
Living in the age of cheap portrait studios and 35 millimeter cameras, we have thousands of pictures of our children. We display only a few on the walls, but there are bottomless boxes of darling babies, a prim and proper little girl and an achieving son. When one of those boxes is found, it brings work to a complete stop. And only after looking at many sets of pictures, can we force ourselves to keep moving toward our goal. What a treat to remember the joy of our younger years. How many thousands of dollars worth of film did I shoot?
There are some items that were handed down from earlier generations. I have my grandfather?s plow and one-fourth of my mother?s lamp collection. The lamps have their own curio cabinet, so there is a spot for them for the rest of my life. But the plow is long, heavy and bulky and I have to find a new place for it every few months. My father gave me the drawbar for an F-12 Farmall tractor and I find it so abstract that I really don?t want to keep it?but I can?t throw it away. I took it to the Old Thresher?s Reunion and walked around looking to give it to someone restoring a tractor. They all seemed so busy with their work that I couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone if they’d take it; so I brought it back home.
Now winter is approaching and we’d like to get both cars in the garage. The boxes fill an entire car stall; so we’ve rented a storage unit for more money a month than our junk is worth. I built shelves so we could keep from piling things and shuffled off boxes to the new place. Who ever thought you could make money building storage units?
Every time we move, we declare some items should be sold; so we have a garage sale. Not everything sells and we can’t throw away that which is left. We put it back in boxes and mark it: ?garage sale? for the next year.
Despite all this, when I go to the store, I see items I need. I catch myself bringing home more stuff that will follow the same path as past possessions. The nightmare never ends. We give clothes and furniture to Goodwill and other charities, with the understanding that they can?t bring it back to us. And we get a tax deduction.
I collect only two things: antique fruit jars and scale model tractors. This can be another curse because a true collector can?t quit accumulating items. Whether it?s Faberge Eggs or kitchen egg beaters, the money will run out before the thirst is quenched. The house we moved to is smaller than our last; so the jars are still packed and the tractors sit on several garage shelves. I?m glad I didn?t start collecting steam engines!
I?m sure a psychologist could have a field day studying what we keep and telling me how to cure this ?packrat? problem. Perhaps this winter, when the snow falls and life is peaceful, I?ll get scrapbooks and organize all the pictures. I?ll make display cases and put the inherited trinkets out for everyone to view. But, I know that won?t really happen; so I gaze at these boxes and think maybe this is what hell is like, packing and unpacking the same boxes over and over again, trying to dispose of possessions, but never accomplishing it. Maybe I?m there already!
