[The scene: a home in a suburban development in North Florida, USA. At a computer upstairs, He stares at a blank screen which represents, in fond theory and — for the moment — ebbing hope, a page in a novel-to-be. He wears headphones, volume turned up louder than normal to mask the downstairs haggling, laughter, and scrapes of wooden furniture on concrete floor.]
She calls His name, loudly, from the foot of the stairs.
He: WHAT?!?
She: Are you selling these shoes?
He: [pause] “Shoes”?
She: Shoes! These shoes! Are you selling them?
He: [confused] I don’t know wh—
She: Shoes. Brown. Made by Dexter. Lace-up shoes.
His eyes go out of focus. He recalls the shoes in question: He had bought them for Their honeymoon, in the far north, because they’d seemed rugged and tundra-worthy. The last time He’d worn them had been when He last did anything resembling yard work, when Tyrannosaurs ruled the cul-de-sacs and saber-toothed cats, the rooftops. Over the years, the shoes had become crusted with (on the outside) dried mud, grass clippings, fertilizer, accumulated grime, the dust of a nearby bursting asteroid, and (on the inside) a salty rime of ancient perspiration. Those shoes. Someone wants to freaking buy—?
She: [impatient] Never mind! If you can’t remember them then I’m selling them!
The blank screen now mocking Him, He shakes his head but cannot reply.
Jayne says
In my book, anything you can’t remember is definitely garage-sale-worthy. It’s all for the best, trust me. Now back to that blank screen… ; )
John says
Jayne: That was The Missus’s take, too.
I tend to cling to a lot of objects for what I call sentimental value, but what is actually a point of reference to events of sentimental value. As many times as I looked at (and of course actually saw) that pair of shoes in the garage, I am 100% certain that I remembered the Alaska trip I bought them for. This doesn’t make them, uh, keepworthy themselves. But that they’re no longer there means I’ll not have that referent any longer.
Same thing applies to certain other pieces of clothing. In my closet hangs a pale-blue denim shirt, its collar a bit frayed, elbows worn to translucence. I haven’t worn it or even removed it from its hanger in well over a decade.
Why do I still have it?
I wrote my first book — in longhand, at a card table — wearing that shirt practically every day. I wrote the first draft of what became my current WIP while wearing that shirt, and sitting in that same chair. (That’s still the chair I sit in while writing, although I go straight to the keyboard now.) Of course we can’t hold onto physical objects forever; there’s a limit to storage space if nothing else, ha. Even if they deteriorate with age, though, they continue to have power (at least to those of us with a certain turn of mind). Makes them very hard to give up, especially if we use them as memory touchstones. :)
The Querulous Squirrel says
You have identified one of the major reasons hoarders give for hoarding. Many feel they have bad memories and need those objects as a sort of external memory system. The other common excuse: It might come in handy someday or I’d have to organize some other things first to put that away. Letting go of objects that trigger fond memories is also a way of accepting our mortality.
marta says
I sympathize with hoarders. I don’t know why I have that tendency when neither of parents did. Nor did my grandmother who also helped raise me. My desire to hold on to things seems to be one of the few traits that is wholly my own.
Photos are good, you know. They take up less room and are socially acceptable.
John says
Squirrel: Oh, great. I’ve been called out by a professional. Remind me to arrange things so that you and The Missus never cross paths in the waiting room between this life and the next.
I am pretty sure that my own hoarding isn’t pathological. I mean, I do give stuff up on a regular basis. The thing is — and yes, I realize this is probably coming across as unconvincing defensiveness — I tend to cling most ardently to possessions which predated my leaving New Jersey, after 40 years, in the early ’90s. Nearly all of my family (except for a couple nephews) is still up there. I knew what I was doing when I relocated, and really do not regret it. But I also miss much of what I remember about life up there. Having on the shelf over my desk a stuffed toy given to me when he was three years old, by a nephew now closing in on thirty, is about as close as I can come to having that nephew still within fifty miles.
But, sigh. I know you’re right.
John says
marta: Photos are especially good now that they’re mostly digital. (Well, except for the responsibility of keeping them backed up!)
The Missus and I have devoted one whole wall of our hallway to family photos. Very reassuring to brush by those familiar faces every time we go to the other end of the house.
The Querulous Squirrel says
I would never presume to diagnose another blogger. It was just an observation. Symptoms like that run the gamut from a tendency within normal limits to such an extreme that life becomes unlivable. Just because you have a tendency doesn’t mean you have a disorder. Just saying.