Middle of the Night Ramblings

I sent a friend of mine a link to our STL house which is now on the market. She emailed me back and said, “How come it looks like you have already moved out?” I explained to her that H & A are living in the unfinished part of the basement which is not in the listing pictures and that H has been going through the process of giving away/throwing away/selling all of our belongings except a few pieces of furniture, clothes, and the two computers. She commented that she needs to plan to move overseas then because her husband is a pack rat and that would be the only way he would get rid of things. I have been here since mid August and I don’t miss any of the “stuff”. Besides food, shelter, and transportation/sightseeing costs, the only things that I have bought since I’ve been here are books, and a new purse that can hold my weekend travel necessities, which always include a paperback.

Years ago when I lived in the South my friend T took me to an estate sale, which I had never been to before. The house was owned by an elderly woman who had passed and instead of the company arranging the estate sale pulling everything out of the house for the sale, they just let people go through the cabinets in the kitchen, the closets in the bedrooms, and the bookshelves to find things to purchase. I have never forgotten this experience. I was standing in front of this woman’s bookshelf looking at her collection trying to figure out what kind of a person she was. Naturally I began to wonder what story my bookshelves would tell. This experience coupled with my friend J and I driving to Georgia to help our friend’s sister clean out her house after she had passed away has made me think differently about stuff. In her rebellion against breast cancer, our friend didn’t prepare anything, including putting her house in order. Her sister was overwhelmed by the task at hand and I never want someone to feel that way because of my junk.

I’m writing this in the middle of the night, and it probably sounds crazy, but it’s something that I think about. H tends to think that I am morbid for thinking about someone going through my things after I die, but I just find it an extension of my practical nature (and maybe a touch of OCD). To make light of my obsessive thoughts, I'll leave you with this clip of George Carlin's classic "stuff" monologue.