We all have it, don't we? Call it what you will: personalty, junk, books, furniture, coffee cups, photographs, clothing unworn for years or outgrown, memorabilia, souvenirs, letters, etc. Take a walk around your abode and do a quick catalog of what you have amassed and continue to retain in your life. Is your list long or short? I figured out that in my lifetime, I have had mailing addresses at 22 different locations encompassing 12 different cities and towns in six different states over 76 years. I'm uncertain that all these moves were the result of nomadic instincts, boredom, marital incompetence, or being run out of places by popular demand. In any event, I've had more than my share of chances to accumulate an esoteric pile of "stuff." I could never be classified as a convert to minimalism, but I am increasingly willing and even eager to at least begin to shed “stuff.”
I'd like to think that it is not an affectation and that I am really inspired by the Jesuit theologian Jacques Maritain, who commented, “How much there is in this world I do not want.” It was probably a foregone conclusion that the guy would be an anti-materialist since he'd taken a lifetime vow of poverty. Being a theologian, he probably was referring to having no interest in fame and adulation. I'd be happy to forego those things too and would be totally content with not being either infamous or generally detested. So, it would seem that I am a minimalist, if only in terms of my aspirations.
Two years ago, prior to my most recent change of address, I began the three-fold process of junking things, saving things, and setting aside items I hoped my children would accept, appreciate, and preserve. I surprised myself by throwing out my High School, College, and Law School diplomas. The last two, expensively framed, hung on my office wall for decades, assuring clients that I was, in fact, a real lawyer. Going forward now, I'll be unable to prove my former professional status. On the bright side I figure I'll be less likely to have to hear any more of those abominable lawyer jokes.
I could not part with my Foreign Service Commission signed by LBJ and Dean Rusk in 1966 and appointing me to the "Diplomatic Service of the United States" because they both reposed "great trust" in my "ability, prudence, and integrity." I kept this because I found their confidence in me misplaced a bit but still delightful and to counter the opinion of many who know me that I am not very diplomatic, but rather blunt. So that stayed out of the growing junk pile. Next, I kept my Military Officer's Commission even though it's pretty obvious in retrospect that this was no big deal. The government would make anyone a 2nd Lieutenant during the Vietnam War as they kept losing them. I gave some of the Vietnam stuff to my sons: a Montagnard knife, the fin of a Russian 122mm rocket that missed me (thank you, God) but made Swiss Cheese of the Jeep next to me. Next, I'll divest myself of the framed photo of me and my friend in Cambodia. He was a Commandant (Major) who was later executed by the Khmer Rouge.
I gave one of my kids a brass salute cannon that was last fired by my Great-Grandfather and namesake for the benefit and delight of his eight children sometime in the 1890s. I'll keep the photo plaque of my Barrington High Hall of Fame football team, not because it's proof of my athletic prowess on the gridiron, but rather because it is the only the athletic award I ever received. I've told the kids that it should be placed in the family equivalent of the Smithsonian and treasured forever.
If hoarding is a mortal sin, I am consigned to the fires of hades for eternity because of my lifetime accumulation of books. These tomes pose a real problem. In some cases I feel that they are my best friends – loyal, entertaining, enlightening and inspiring. I'm really loathe to desert my little collections of poetry, of Irish history and literature, the biographies and the novels that I fell in love with in a lifetime. Those law books I have not yet disposed of, will soon hit the road or the dumpster. I also inherited some wonderful sets of old books from my lawyer-uncle who was a collector. I asked one of the family if there was any interest in them and was asked, "What color are they?" Given the fact of e-readers, there's little enthusiasm among the young for even leather-bound volumes other than for decoration in built-in bookcases. This, I suppose, is progress and as such, is something old men should not seek to enjoin or abash.
There's the issue of the old (2001) Porsche 911 convertible that sits in my garage. My willingness to have this driven away by a family member is predicated upon my accelerating belief that I look ridiculous driving it. (I did have a 911 in the past, but then I was age-appropriate for the thing.) More and more I think that my operation of the car, top down on a glorious summer day, is the third of a trio of ridiculous social gaffes by old men. The first being guys with their gray hair in ponytails and the second, those wearing baseball caps backwards. All three are probably silent cries for help, love, or attention. Here's the catch:the 911's a six speed. It has a third pedal, called a clutch, and is thus inoperable by any of my issue. In fact, the Times just reported that only 22% of American drivers can drive a stick.
I have three sets of golf clubs hanging around. They’re really good clubs, but those should go if only to preclude me from continuing to embarrass myself. Young people have little time for golf. Nevertheless, I am inclined to go through the motions, present them to grandchildren, and express my very fervent hope that they be able to operate them better than I. Unfortunately, I cannot include any of the thousands of golf balls I have purchased over the years, as most are long MIA.
As for clothing, there are two problems: size and style. In my prior life I was expected to wear a uniform consisting of a two-button jacket with matching trousers. We used to call this combination a "suit." In fact, the very word has become a pejorative – a slur flung at stodgy, bourgeois males who give others orders. I gave a slew of them to the veterans center but have since concluded that very few Fall River vets have any real need of these staid fashion sets. Those that I retained will not fit any of my issue because of their waist size and will be of little interest as they are so rarely worn anymore. Off to the dump with them!
I told my partner that I should buy one good suit to wear to funerals and to eventually be buried in. This flagrant elder abuser informed me that I'd only need a jacket as they don't put pants on corpses. This was an entirely unnecessary comment. Nevertheless, she did pique my curiosity and my research confirmed her claim. The next day, I told her that pants were still required when I attended the funerals of others, so there!
If I'm successful in proceeding with my dive into minimalism, there will be little in my estate other than a lifetime of scribblings, unpublished with but a few exceptions. These poems, essays, stories, and, of late, rants, should probably accompany me into the crematorium as a sort of kindling.
Sorry, this is getting maudlin. As I think about it, death may be the subliminal motivation for ridding oneself of "stuff" as one approaches the abyss. In this regard, I find my Mass attendance has improved over the years. An atheist British writer described the sight of old people praying in a London RC church at midday as those "who were cramming for finals." In fact, getting rid of stuff may be Christ-like. A recent Gospel was the story of Jesus sending the apostles out into the world and admonishing them to take neither food nor even a spare pair of underwear with them. So there's a Christian exhortation to "travel light" and not get too hung up on "stuff." Buddhists, too, would urge this. I've seen their saffron-robed monks wandering the streets with empty rice bowls, relying solely on the charity of strangers for food.
If that be the case, my intent is to continue to both cram and to divest myself of "stuff." The cold, eternal fact is that, in the end, you can't take it with you, wherever you're headed. Or better still, as I heard from an old Irish priest quoting his long-time undertaker friend, "Pat, in all my days, I've never seen an armored car following a hearse."
