Sing it to the tune of, “The Way We Were“. I was back in Jacksonville for a long weekend. I was reconnecting with my loved ones, helping my daughter Lauren move, and cleaning out one of my storage spaces. There is something metaphorical about spending the day in a place where the things you kind of want, but don’t need are kept. The poetic stacking of memory and a previous life…
Why in the world did I have a shot glass collection? When did I have enough shelving to house them all? And why can’t I just throw them out? It’s not like I will ever use them again. It’s not like I will ever sift through these tiny, clinking breakables and think, “Gee I’d love to go back to that roadside gas station in Mayo, Florida!”
We went in what I called an “excessive” caravan of trucks and cars to attack this job. It took us two hours to move the dregs of storage unit 800 to the C Block of storage 154. For a while it was fun. We unearthed and wore gag, Christmas headbands. At some point, Jon Jon said, “Seriously, put those in this box.” It got hot. And loading ten pounds of shit into a five pound bag was his job…
Decorations…
And what about Christmas decorations? Halloween knickknacks? Did I actually accumulate 50 or so boxes of gewgaws that twinkle or go bump in the night? Now I understand why my ex-husband used to flip out every time he got a credit card bill, “Are you kidding me? $750 at the Hallmark Store??? Is this a mistake?” But they had those darling tree ornaments that spin miraculously when the Christmas lights heat them up, and wrapping paper…
My storage space houses box after box of drinking accouterments. A full set of Thanksgiving china. Christmas wine glasses (red and white) and scores of those “adorable” charms you put on the stem of your glass to identify your drink. (Useless, because everyone spends the evening getting snockered and saying, “Wait. Was I the little clown or the high-heeled shoe?”)
The storage space of someone who has downsized is particularly forlorn. The extra end tables. Lamps without shades and all those baskets that used to grace the tops of kitchen cupboards. I have one box entirely made up of the bar tools designed to make exotic, alcohol laden drinks. Shakers and blenders and strainers. What an extravagant palaver when drinking straight out of the bottle works best.
Downsizing Again…
Anyway, my purpose was to see my children and downsize again. So, don’t tell, but I overstuffed the dumpster with things like old beach towels and bedding that had been stained with candle wax. Nothing kinky, just a “air-conditioned” storage unit that could not accommodate sustained, 100 degree heat. Don’t pack things that melt with the linens, okay?.
The rest of the good stuff I gave to my children. Nana’s twelve legged table is still in the family. The bar stools are the lives of Lauren’s parties at her new house. The empty planters are fecund with cuttings in the yards of my children…
I gave away some of the artwork and antiques with the caveat, “Just don’t sell this. Give it back if you don’t want it anymore.” But like so much of the life I lived when these items were housed in closets upstairs and displayed in long, dim hallways, I do not want them back.
Please don’t give them back…
