My Heart Breaks—Sort Of
Having just attended a lecture on the “Joys of Downsizing” at the local senior center—packed, by the way—I have decided to grab the bull by the horns, meaning the crap in my house. I figure it might be about time.
I’m alone now in a house we bought over thirty years ago, when my husband dragged me kicking and screaming into colder climes. He is now being well taken care of in assisted living. Meanwhile, I’m in a house with accumulated junk from him, me, my children.
Do I love my house? Yes. Especially after the remodel. Do I get annoyed with my house? Yes, when something happens and I have to call someone for repairs. These incidents make me think I don’t belong here anymore.
But how to clear out all this junk!
I’m starting with the kitchen. Since I don’t cook anymore, I’ve decided I don’t need five frying pans. I’ve kept one. Just in case. Coffee mugs? The lecturer says people generally have about 40. I had eight. I now have four. I got rid of my dutch oven. I’ll need to find where I put the step stool to get into the upper reaches of my cabinets to get down all the soup pots, as I used to love to make soup. I still make soup but for one, I don’t need industrial sizes.
Am I sad to see the kitchen stuff go? Not really. The kitchen was never a favorite place of mine. But I did have regrets getting rid of the little glass from the Ghan, that marvelous train trip my husband and I took from Adelaide to Alice Springs, Australia. Ah, those were the days.
Upstairs, I have already given away clothes and shoes. Including clothes I bought that I never wore—due to those online sites that promise a perfect fit. I thought at the time, hey, I can make this work. I never could.
In my sewing room, I have denuded three bins of material and sent the larger pieces to my sister, who still sews. Unfortunately, I have as yet failed to take the scraps to recycling because I’m lazy. I still have the sewing machine. Just in case.
Aside from my bedroom, there’s another room with a single bed. In other words, despite this being a rather large split-level, there’s no room for visitors except my children, one at a time. In that spare room I have a closet full of bags I’ve bought over the years of my travel that I simply can’t let go. Yet.
What can I let go of? Well, three dulcimers and stands and cases. Tons of arts and crafty type stuff, as every time I took a course, I had to get the equipment to carry it on at home—except for printmaking. I never had the strength.
What can’t I let go of? I still have the topping from our wedding cake, a plastic bell where some of the fabric flowers have dropped off; but the bell remains. I no longer know where my original wedding ring is, but I still have that bell. Long-ago love, still going strong after fifty-nine years.
Then there’s a wooden sign that my girlfriend bought me, “Beware of the Pussy.” I simply must keep that. We had so many wonderful times together that every time I see that sign a smile in remembrance.
As the lecturer said, this is a process, for which her company charges $135 per person per hour. I’m not paying myself nearly that amount. That money will have to go to joint pain relief as I work my way through the house.
But—well—it needs to be done. At some point.