| by Dr. Jeffrey Lant Over the course of the last several months, I have been engaged in one of life's unappealing necessities, sorting through dozens and dozens of boxes packed (often years and years ago) with an array of things dubbed too valuable to be thrown away, or at the very least items which deserved another look, later. Well, "later" has now arrived, and I am engaged in the business of well and truly sorting through each and every one of these stored items, deciding which can now be thrown away, which will be donated to places like Goodwill Industries and The Salvation Army, which ones will be kept... and (here we go again)... which ones will remain in storage, Today I intend to share with you all my thoughts on this inevitability of life... partly because no one I know will listen to what I have to say on the matter. My friends are tired of providing a willing ear. They are polite but firm: say no more on this matter, or we shall bore you, too, with the ups and downs of our own storage problems... and the garage sales we've had to organize. This threat is sufficient. I shut up. But you, I hope, will indulge me; at least this once. There is that about sorting things in storage which craves a congenial ear. May I have yours for a bit? What went into storage. The plain fact of the matter is that we all, every last one of us, has far too many things. What's worse, since we all have elements of the pack rat about us, not only do we acquire things; we are loathe to sacrifice anything on the off chance that we will need it one day. That's the first problem; we're deluding ourselves. We should all be tougher with ourselves on the matter of what we save. But we cannot. You see, things are evidence that we have passed this way, and we want as many tell-tale markers as possible. Still, the sorting process should begin the day you first think that you require storage. In my case, I had the usual "good" reasons for resorting to commercial storage facilities. There was, first of all, my mother's possessions. Some of these had a substantial value; others, the sentimental ones, were even more important. These things have been stored for years in California; three thousand miles away from me. A good friend, probably a saint, helped me pack these items. I was depressed that day; my mother was failing and I just couldn't deal right then with the thought of losing her. Packing boxes was something necessary; it was also therapeutic. But it only postponed the inevitable problem of sorting the items and making irrevocable decisions. My friend offered to keep these boxes, each one filled with memories, until I decided what to do with all the items. I told my brother and sister what I had and that we should early decide who gets what. But they have mountains of their own things. It wasn't that they didn't want maternal mementoes; they just didn't want them then and trusted me to share when they were ready. I mentioned the matter to my sister the other day and she said, "Not yet". In the way of these things, the favor my dear friend gave me went from a few weeks.... to years. It was scandalous, I know, to take advantage of her that way; even the frequent presents I sent were inadequate. But she said she didn't mind; she had them in her attic. Finally I ran out of excuses and said the many boxes could be shipped to me. And so they were. My assistant Aime Joseph and I opened the boxes; he with care, I with trepidation soon confirmed. There was so much... all "important"... every piece needing attention and clarity. The books were the most difficult of all. My mother was an avid reader as I am. Often we read the same book at the same time, a continent between us which meant nothing when we discussed our findings. I found her volumes of Robert Browning the hardest to deal with. She loved him so... "That's my last duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive." I put this book and many others amongst my working library. I can see the cherished Browning from here. Unpacked, too, was all her jewelry. I had given much of it, one Christmas, one birthday after another. These items are being kept for my niece Chelsea and nephew Kyle and his wife, when he has one. Chelsea asked if she could take one of the pieces, a jewelled dragonfly, to college. My official reason for declining was the number of light fingered folk in the dormitory and her tendency to be over trusting. But in truth, I wasn't ready to let even that go -- yet. In fact, as each box was opened, Mr. Joseph would cluck and ask me just where I would put what was in it. Miraculously, we found a home for everything... until the others want some for themselves. The other, bigger storage project. The second storage project was arguably even more difficult, for it involved 4 large rooms packed to the ceiling with stuff which I had obviously found significant enough to pay thousands of dollars each year to keep. But enough was enough... Mr. Joseph and I have been working on this project for months now. There are, after all, thousands of objects to be sorted, including items from every epoch of my life. Each week Mr. Joseph goes to the storage facility and, with his cell phone, he lets me know what's left in the first room, now nearly emptied. Then he brings me the boxes... each one filled with one conundrum after another. What does one do with one's first suit, worn at age 3, well over half a century again? I can't get rid of it... I just can't. It's hanging in my closet, safe for now. And the teddy bear that soothed me 6 decades ago? No one, including me I am ashamed to admit, remembers his name; I call him now "The Old Gentleman" and he seems content. Some people no doubt think it odd to see him here, but he and I go back a lifetime, and such bonds must be respected and ensured. I am more ruthless with my things than with my mother's. Mr. Joseph makes regular deliveries of my books; ten thousand books, perhaps more, given away without a pang. In the middle of this unceasing project, it occurs to me that, even with great disposals, there is far too much remaining. And if the point of keeping them seems clear to me, it will surely perplex and baffle the folks getting all this. What can "The Old Gentleman" mean to them? I have advised them, in my will, to be ruthless, but I know my flesh and blood. They will be unable to do so, try though they might. "I can't give away the chairs Uncle Jeffrey wrote his books in... or the typewriter... or the pewter mug his friends engraved for him on his 21 birthday, in Scotland. I just can't." And so, in due course, I, with the best intentions, will become a puzzle for them... a puzzle which they will defer, postponing resolution, by storing. Thus one generation succeeds another, overwhelmed by things, too much stored, grand resolutions for dispersal, but guilty whatever we do. You know what I mean. |
