Free Me From Clutter

FREE ME FROM CLUTTER

January 17, 2007

                I am cleaning.  Finally my mood is such that my arms agree with my mind and allow me to toss out unnecessary items I no longer need.  At least that is what I tell myself.

                I shred my late husband's return prescription labels to the VA, along with his chest x-ray from the hospital, and put his extra shoestrings for his favorite tennis shoes in the Goodwill bag.  I keep his favorite robe and the gray/black sport coat he looked so handsome in, plus some special mementos.

                Our den is filled with small metal cars and moving toys he loved.  There is a plaster cast of his hand showing his knuckle ball form, which an artist had made at an art show we attended years ago.  Several small airplanes hang from the ceiling.  When I mentioned I was going to take some of his toys down, my children quickly reprimanded me.  They like to see them where they are and jokingly tell me they have placed their names on the bottoms of their favorites.  I suspect they are not joking.

                From my closet I toss out twelve belts in various colors.  They will no longer embrace my waistline, so why should I dream?  I almost place my green sweatshirt in the bag, but no, when it's cold outside I sometimes slide it over my nightgown and wear it to bed.  Doesn't matter that I have eight others, I part with one of my good winter coats when I realize it was purchased when my 14-year-old grandson was born.  To me it is my new coat, even though I have several newer ones in my closet.

                I attempt to place my rose-colored Lands' End sweater in the bag.  It must be twenty years old.  But it is an unusual color, fits well and I still like it.  Lands' end sweaters are my favorites-they never pill up and last forever, as proven by me.  There are eleven of them in my drawer.  I ignore the fact that when a new addition is made to your wardrobe another should e permanently removed.

                My mother's elegant cream-colored rayon tablecloth goes back in my linen drawer.  It was large enough to cover her mahogany drop leaf table with three leaves inserted.  Years ago she had washed it and hung it outside to dry.  A neighborhood dog decided it looked pretty inviting and put his teeth in several places, making small holes.  My mother darned it with delicate interwoven threads, making it more unique.  Only I remember this.  Really, who will want it?  It stays.

                I eliminate some knickknacks from my basement storage room.  Vases go to a friend who does crafts.  My mothers' assortment of sherbet, wine, brandy, parfait glasses are brought up to decorate my already full china closet.

                There is a large box of picture frames under a table in the basement, plus two drawers full in my bureau upstairs.  I do counted cross-stitch and occasionally need a frame for my needlework.  But I haven't picked up my needle for crochet or embroidery for four years.

                Finding a shoe box of old candles, I intend to keep only the ones I use.  Definitely most of them need to go.  I sort them by color.  Looking at them in that order, I decided I will just get a larger box.  The empty brass wood box by the fireplace is perfect.  Out of sight.  I'll keep them all.

                Who will know that the delicate Royal Winton dish that is glued together in three-places held candy called chicken bones and sat on my grandmother's coffee table when I was little?  I know.

                I really am trying

Joanne Murray is my cousin.  She sent me a book her son made for her 75th Birthday.  It contained essays that Joanne had written.  In the interest of bias, I am definitely biased so let's get that out of the way.  But once you and I get passed my bias you come to realize as I have that these essays are something very special especially to her family and THAT IS THE POINT.  As I read them the one of many thoughts that crept into my mind was "why haven't I been doing this?"  Why indeed!  These are thoughts of a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a cousin (like in my case), an aunt etc.  Most who will read these essays have that in common with Joanne.  There are people you know who might enjoy knowing what you think and what experiences you have been exposed to.  Wouldn't it be nice if you let them know by writing them down as my cousin Joanne has done.  It's never too late to get started.  I will be posting them here about one a week and do so with Joanne's permission.  Hope you keep coming back.  Leave your comments below.    Jim "Gymbeaux" Brown