Today is as good a day as any to declare my independence from stuff.

I started writing this this morning and I've got a lot of notes as to where it's going to go. I imagine you could provide your own ending to this one.

When it's finished, I'll post the rest of it...

Letting Go
        I am surrounded by stuff. For the last week, I've spent an hour or two every day trying to clean out our garage. I've barely made a dent in the mess. Everywhere I look I see memories. Most of them are good memories. For a long time, the stuff reminded me of good times in my life. I've kept all of these things because without ever intending it to happen, they became a part of who I am. There's the old accordion I bought in a thrift shop for ten dollars. It's not a squeeze box. It's a wheeze box. The paper bellows and the glue that holds the whole thing together have dried out over the years. When I bought it, I never intended to learn how to play it. I just liked to look at it. Even back then, I don't think anyone could make any music come out of its tired old body. But I liked it. I've never much liked accordion music. Admittedly, there was a time in the 50's when I first discovered jazz where I had a couple of Art Van Damme Quintet albums that I enjoyed, but I mostly associated accordions with polkas… one of the few forms of music I could never warm up to. But when it comes to musical instruments, I've always been fascinated by them. As far back as I can remember, I've adorned my walls with instruments, or posters and photos of them. Somewhere along the line, the accordion was banished to the garage, along with a second, smaller one.
        Sitting on the shelf in the garage next to my accordions is a box labeled, Old Toys. While my walls have been filled with instruments there are shelves throughout our home lined with old toys. Some go back to my childhood, and some are right up to date. Sonic The Hedge Hog sits on the same shelf as tin wind-up toys of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. I always identified with Donald Duck growing up. Mickey was alright, but Donald was my kind of man. Or duck. He was always losing his temper, usually making a fool of himself in the process. I could identify with that. Each old toy sitting on a shelf has a story. That's why I've kept them, and still enjoy looking at them. There's an old pressed sawdust Wimpy, with a stack of hamburgers firmly clutched in his fist. I found that one in a junk shop on Pacific Street in Stamford, Connecticut. The shop made no pretense of being an antique store. The front window was a jumble of discarded stuff, all at a bargain price.
        When I worked at the Stamford Museum, it would break my heart when someone would call, wanting to donate a treasure to the Museum. One man had an enormous model sailing ship he'd built that was three or four feet long. He'd painstakingly hand cut every plank in the deck of the ship and it had taken him many years to build it. When he had to face the reality of moving in to an apartment, he realized that there was no room for the ship. He offered it to his children and grandchildren, but nobody wanted an old ship model. The historical societies he'd approached had no interest because it wasn't a model of a particular ship. The ship came from the man's mind, not from a blueprint. We not only didn't have the space for it, but it didn't fit in with the Museum's purpose, so I had to turn down his request. The best I could offer was to listen at long length to the man telling me how he'd come to build the ship, and how much it meant to him. The ship carried wonderful memories. He was having trouble letting go.

    "And a certain ruler asked him, saying Good Master, what shall
      I do to inherit eternal life? And Jesus said unto him, why
      Why callest though me good? None is good, save one, that is,
      God.                           

    Thou knowest the commandments, Do not commit adultery, Do not
    kill, Do not bear false witness, Honor thy father and thy
    mother.
   
    And he said all these have I kept from my youth.

    Now when Jesus heard these things, he said unto him, Yet
    lackest though one thing; sell all that thou hast, and
    distribute it unto the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in
    heaven, and come, follow me.
   
    And when he heard this, he was very sorrowful; for he was very
    rich."

                                                    Luke:18-23 KJV

When that scripture is read in church, I never think of it as applying to me. As John Fogerty sang:
    It ain't me, it ain't me
    I'm no millionaire's son
    It ain't me, it ain't me
    I ain't no fortunate one
                                        Fortunate Son – John Fogerty

Jerry

Not all of us are Collectors, but we are all Accumulators.