I guess there comes a time in everybody’s life when they start thinking about all the stuff they have accumulated during their lifetime. The time has come for my husband and me. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything quite this maddening. It’s called “downsizing.”
Oh sure, I’d heard others talk about downsizing, but actually, I never thought about doing it myself. Now, we are right in the middle of a mess.
No matter how much one likes the prospects of a new, or new-to-them, abode, condo, apartment, or assisted-living place, it means they have to move! Moving is work. It takes days, weeks, and sometimes months.
The last time we moved, 16 years ago, it was fun. We started moving in the fall and arrived at our destination the next year. We enjoyed this larger house with a big yard full of trees and flowers, and a swimming pool! We were fixed for life, or at least, had made our final move, we thought.
Husband built a game room/second garage, bought a pool table and an antique car and I gave in. So what I’d never had a formal dining room before. Why did I think I needed one then?
The grandkids enjoyed the pool, the grownups, too. They played with all kinds of backyard water toys and sons brought scuba gear to test before taking off on dive trips. They offered advice and landscaping tips, and quite often, their strong backs.
Time marched on. Now oldest son has retired! His brother just shakes his head, and the grandchildren are not kids anymore. They’re in college. Besides their dad bought a big boat, and now, instead of playing in the pool, they take off to the lake.
Husband has had surgeries, and his back isn’t as strong as it was, so we hire a younger man to do most of the outside chores, while “my” flower beds are being neglected, and a younger woman comes regularly to give the house a good going-over.
Yes. We need a smaller place. Not necessarily less square footage in the house, but definitely a smaller yard.
Tell me please, do other people, my age, or older, or maybe even younger, hate to take inventory of their stuff and try to decide whether to keep it, or let it go?
I know full well we can’t move all of our stuff, but what about things like my mother’s cedar chest, and the sweatshirt with small hand prints painted on it by our daughter-in-law when the grandchildren were small? And there’s Husband’s grandmother’s dresser with its marble top and the old mirror one can hardly see themselves in? Don’t re-silver it, I was told. Antique mirrors should look their age.
And how do I discard old photo albums, both Husband’s mother’s and my mother’s? Not to mention all the other photographs we have collected through the years.
There are also two big file cabinets and a smaller one, plus stuff in desk drawers, and an old wooden apple crate full of lord-knows-what, which sits about six feet from my chair.
There are 17 notebooks, important to nobody but me on shelves high above the other desk in my office/laundry room. The scrapbooks hold every column I’ve written, starting with my desire for an exercise tape featuring plump, slightly older, young mothers instead of limber-legged young women like those on a tape I received as a Christmas gift.
And books! I’ve been giving books and magazines away quite frequently since becoming obsessed with this downsizing, but a dent hasn’t been made in them. I don’t know what’s actually in my books, but at one time, I was absolutely positive they were worth keeping.
Here I sit, trying to think through this mess. I need to be throwing stuff away. Instead, I open a drawer and read again thoughts that occupied my mind through the years. Mostly good thoughts, but many I’ve never followed through on. Why did I keep all those words? Did I think someone would someday want to read them? Sure, I did! But I’ll spare you the details.
I’m stopping – right here. You have your own “stuff” to worry about. You don’t need mine. Besides, I know that someday soon I will be able to discuss this downsizing experience with more authority. For now, I’m ready to forget it . . . tomorrow is another day.
Patsy Pipkin writes from her home in Searcy, Arkansas.