My kids moved out of the house years ago. Looking around the place the past few days, trying to restore order after completing an emergency water heaterectomy, I was amazed at the amount of other people's stuff that still occupies my home. The matching wooden rocking chairs my beloved mother bought for my son and daughter when they were tiny come to mind. One was still tucked in Erica's old room. The other was piled atop a junky treadmill I no longer use. I haven't used the cursed treadmill in forever. Why is it cursed? Because almost every time I used it on a regular basis I would get sick, something that never happened with any other treadmill I've used. Anyway, I don't believe in curses. My sweet wife still knows, or claims to know, which chair is Colt's and which is Erica's. I mostly remember putting the things together. My mother never had a lot of money, so it was a big deal for
her to put aside enough cash to buy those chairs. Whenever I see them, I remember my mom,
my kids and the fact that they never did take those chairs to their own homes.
Moving any appliance in my home, you're likely to find a Pokemon or Magic: The Gathering
card. Thanks Colt, my son! If I move the old cedar wardrobe just right, as if that were even possible, and dug into the uncharted wilderness beneath, I'd probably find all of Barbie's lost clothing. There may even be a Pog or two. Several Lego blocks, assorted Ninja Turtle weapons and the lost castle itself are rumored to be nearby. Some things even the best vacuum cleaners can't pull from their hidden locations.
There's a box with a wedding dress that neither my wife or daughter ever wore. Some things I can't explain with my limited knowledge, but the dress was a gift to my daughter when she was single. What
I can't explain is why it is still here. My sweet daughter wants my cedar wardrobe, (I'm not dead yet sweetie) but neglects to remove her old high school clothes from it. I wonder if old denim jackets are worth anything on Ebay?
It's not just my kid's stuff blocking access to my toolbox and air compressor. Now I have four
grandchildren to conveniently drop stuff here, never to take it home again. Carter is the worst of
the lot, the oldest grandchild having more opportunity to discard things here than the later arrivals. The number of recovered pacifiers alone could provide recycling material for several Chinese rubber factories. Lowen and Lunessa are better about hanging on to their toys, but I suspect the last used diapers in the Diaper Genie were there doing. Surely the nasty things haven't been tucked away in that forgotten corner since the now 6 year old Carter was a baby? I know for a fact Lawson is innocent,
because his mother hasn't brought him to my home yet. After all, he's only a month old. It's not like I'm his favorite grandpa or anything.
Now I don't claim to be innocent in the cluttering Pamela's home, as my wife calls our little place. Sure, there's a machete and an axe or two lying around the living room. The atomic clock that hasn't had batteries replaced in ten years or so is mine as well, but it was a gift. So what if the built in outdoor thermometer doesn't work anymore, it still tells time. At least, it probably would with fresh batteries. I need to do that sometime. Yes, the brass animals are mine. Collecting brass figures, vases and bowls is something I like to do. You never know when a brass figurine of a unicorn will save the day when a deadline is approaching and you need a book cover fast. Don't laugh. It really happened. That $1.oo brass unicorn made it to the cover of one of my Wanderers books. You Lorefans should buy a copy now if you don't have it already. It's a really great tale.
Back to the blog. A lot of the stuff I own is junk. I admit it. Still, it's my junk. Oh, the old copies
of Shooting Times with my favorite Skeeter Skelton stories will have to go, someday, along with the Lewis Grizzard books and scattered copies of Guns & Ammo. Broken eyeglasses I meant to fix will
eventually be tossed. Worn out shoes no longer fit for garden duty can be trashed as well. What I won't throw away are all the little items that remind me of loved ones passed, loved ones present and anything that has an important memory attached. Who cares if someone else doesn't know the true
value of a brass unicorn? Looking at it reminds me of the daughter who successfully bargained for it for her father during a rare day of flea marketing. That memory, and many others recalled through my junk, that's what's important. Excuse me, now. My lovely wife is headed to the trash with one of my old NRA caps. You know the style, the black one with the embroidered "scrambled eggs". It's not all that moldy. I bet it still fits.