stuff

I have a lot of stuff.

Downsizing from a 2400 square foot house to an 800 sq foot one bedroom made me realize how much crap I’ve accumulated over the years. Lately, I’ve been thinking about selling or donating a chunk of my stuff. I have been feeling bogged down by it all, hampered and made heavy by this accumulation. I’ve been starting to feel like the junk lady from the movie, “Labyrinth

I am can get okay with selling my beautiful Danish Modern sofa and desk, I can get rid of unused clothes, and sort through my boxes of random collected crap. But I’m having a difficult time with the idea of parting with my books. It’s amazing how much of my identity is wrapped up in this stuff. Especially my books.

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I suppose they have been with me the longest, so they are old, comfortable friends by now. Some of these books have traveled with me since I was in single-digit years, some I have read and re-read and re-re-re-read. I have a book that my 4th grade teacher gave me, “Where The Red Fern Grows”. I have read it every year since then (and I still cry at the end. Shhh, don’t tell anyone). I have books that my mom wrote and bound for me, a book my uncle illustrated and wrote for me, books of theater and philosophy and science fiction – all of which have had great impact on how I view and think about the world around me, my relationships with other people, and my core values.

How can I get rid of these treasures?

Some friends have suggested I just get them on a digital reader.
Not only would that be cost prohibitive – I’ve collected this small library over the past 30 plus years – but something is lost in the translation for me when I read a digital copy. I feel this loss moreso with companion books than I do with a new reading. I can’t imagine reading “Where The Red Fern Grows” on a computer. Page lifting and travel has worn the old book. My hand-me-down-first-edition Oz books have that certain ‘old book’ smell. I have half that collection, my cousin has the other half, so not only do I have the wonderful tactile sensation while I hold those old hardbound copies, but I have a connection with my dear cousin, and to our parents who gave us these books.

I am a person who doesn’t sit still for long. I move. I have lived in dozens of towns in my life. There is a thrill to encountering a new city, and discovering it’s secrets. Having a lot of ‘stuff’ doesn’t work well for a person who likes to travel and move. Being encumbered is difficult for someone who gets an antsy feeling in her bones and motorcycles on her mind.

This is a conundrum.
I’m still working on it.

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I feel the need to have a disclaimer about the disorder of my books. Usually I organize them according to genre, but I have yet to do that since the latest move. 🙂

 

a writer writes

My dad liked to tell me “Honey, a writer writes. You have to practice each day in order to get good. It’s like anything – takes hard work and practice.” He even gave me some books on the subject. “On Writing Well” and “Writing Down The Bones” and probably a few other books too. The problem was, I didn’t think of myself as a ‘writer’, but rather as ‘a person who writes.’
There’s a difference. A ‘writer’ is someone who dedicates time and hard work to the art and craft of the written word. ‘A person who writes’ is an occasional thing, a hobby, something done randomly for the pleasure of it.

Over the years, I’ve done both. I’ve been a professional writer and have been paid for my works, I’ve won prizes for poetry, I’ve kept this hobby of a website up since July 10, 2003 (in various incarnations), and I’ve kept a journal since fourth grade. I am a writer. I am a person who writes.

I have never given much credence to the idea of “New Years Resolutions,” but this year I decided to at least make a solid run at being a writer who writes. The idea was to be more consistent with my posts here. Put up something new every Monday or some-such. It would force me to work on the craft of writing, to pay more attention to the output instead of my usual stream-of-consciousness post I usually send out. I was going to write something here each week regardless of how I felt. Not feeling inspired? So what. Nothing coming to mind? Deal with it. When I was in high school I complained to my dad that my history teacher was an idiot (he really was) and that the reason I cut class so often was because it was a waste of time to sit in there and not learn anything. My pop replied that in any situation there is always something to be learned. Maybe I could learn how to be more patient, maybe I could learn what not to do as a teacher and use those skills in other aspects of my life. There is always something. So, with this writing problem – there is always something to write about. Theoretically. Right, pop?

One of the reasons I dislike New Years Resolutions is because it seems like a fake promise to yourself. You only promised because everyone else was doing it. If you really wanted to do X, you would pick a random date and start. Instead, New Years Eve has become a high-pressure date. I hear “What is your New Years Resolution?” practically everywhere I go. Work, a bar, dinner with friends…. Why put that much undue pressure on yourself? If you don’t follow through, instead of just chalking it up to “Okay, I didn’t complete that this time, I’ll just try again,” instead you have BROKEN YOUR NEW YEARS RESOLUTION! Bad you!

Here it is Wednesday, January 8th 2014 and this is my first post, a week into the New Year. It is not Monday. I am not writing because I have a deadline for myself to post something by tonight. I’m writing because the thought struck me “a writer writes” and I started to think about my dad and those books he gave me and my wishy-washy New Years Resolution.

So, for what it’s worth, I will try. I will try to write something each week. I’m warning you up front that this experiment might lead to some pretty sucky posts.
Hope you stick around for it.

Thanksgiving

My dad decided that going to visit his friends in Corvallis, Oregon for Thanksgiving would be a fun adventure.
We were to meet at his place in Oakland, California and then drive up that Thursday morning. He figured that traffic would be light and it would be a lovely ride.
My dad got ideas in his head like this and wouldn’t be dissuaded and it sounded like fun, so I went along with it.

I’m not sure why we didn’t prepare more.
With an 8.5 hour drive one way, it would have made sense to bring snacks.
Instead, we threw a couple of overnight bags together, tossed them in the car, and got on our way.

We started early, so that we would arrive before the 3pm Thanksgiving dinner.
Driving up the coast would have been a beautiful drive, but it also would have taken almost twice as long. Instead, we shot straight up I-5 through Redding, California and Ashland, Oregon. Somewhere around 10am we started to get hungry. After stopping at a couple of closed fast food restaurants, the hunger pangs really started in on our bellies.

Now, my dad suffered from the particular type of low-blood sugar that made him cranky. Very cranky. After an unsuccessful hour of searching for an open eatery, he was getting downright unpleasant.

The closures were confounding us. We felt like some terrible luck had befallen us.
And then, as if lightning had struck the car, at the same time we yelled out, “Because it’s Thanksgiving!” Our eyes connected and we burst out laughing.
Dad almost had to pull over the car he was laughing so hard.

Soon after this realization, we managed to find a gas station that had some candy bars and snacks, so we loaded up on those and headed on to Corvallis to a wonderful Thanksgiving feast and traditional football with some of my dad’s oldest and dearest friends.

I usually spent Thanksgiving with my mom’s side of the family.
This was one of the few Turkey Days that I remember spending with my dad.
It was wonderful.

Happy Thanksgiving, Pop.
I miss you.