Souvenirs

Since retiring one of the tasks I have been assigned is to “clean house”.  I do not mean dusting and vacuuming.  The “house cleaning” I have been relegated to is going through decades of boxes stashed in closets, storage rooms, and the garage to declutter our household and lives.  It has been over five months now and the task is still uncompleted and lurking about . . . taunting me.  I would much rather dust and vacuum than having to be the judge and jury to a lifetime of collections. 

The wife and children call this amassed lifetime collection “junk” and “clutter”.  They have jumped on the Marie Kondo train focusing on tidying and decluttering one’s life to bring into focus on what brings one joy.  They side with Joshua Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus (The Minimalists) and their philosophy of getting rid of anything that does not add value to life. They idolize, especially the children, Margareta Magnusson (Swedish Death Cleaning) who believes it is our duty to declutter and simplify our lives so that loved ones are not burdened with the task once we have kicked the bucket.  For whatever reasons, I have been assigned the job of “cleaning house”, “decluttering”, and removing the “junk”.

 

“One person’s junk is another person’s treasure.”  Or so it is said.  Where they see “junk” . . . I see treasure.  Treasure that took a lifetime to collect . . . souvenirs.  A souvenir is a keepsake, item, or memento that is kept as a reminder of a place, person, or event.  They are the preludes of stories that reveal the collector and the fundamental essence of who that person is . . . the joys, sadness, laughter, tears . . . the tender essence of who they are.  They are not “junk” or “clutter”.  They are a revelation worthy of grasping and cherishing.

 

One of my favorite poets, songwriters/singers, is the late John Prine.  So often, he expresses what many of us feel but cannot put into words.  In his song, Souvenirs (LINK), he sums up my feelings where it comes to the daunting task of “cleaning house”:

 

Memories can’t be boughten

Can’t be won at carnivals for free

Well, it took me years to get those souvenirs

And I don’t know how they slipped away from me

 

Those boxes stored in closets, stacked in the garage, long forgotten by most, represent the years of my life spent collecting . . . collecting to remember.

 

Jokingly others have hinted that I am a hoarder.  I am not a hoarder.  Far from it.  But I do have “stuff” . . . souvenirs.  Earlier in my life I like to fancy myself as a “collector” . . . as one who acquired for prosperity’s sake, for historical relevance, for sentimental purposes, team loyalty, and because it was cool . . . plus, for the potential windfall down the road.  I collected sports memorabilia, artwork, dishes, toys, books, comic books, and even Beanie Babies.  When questioned about what seemed to be an insatiable need to acquire “stuff”, I would reply, “That’s my retirement!”

 

Sadly, now that I am retired, I can assure you that there ain’t no retirement to be had in all of those collectibles.  There is not a mansion in Beverly Hills with a swimming pool and movie stars.  Nothing.  Nada.  Just boxes and boxes of “souvenirs”.  Worthless in the eyes of many, but a trove or treasure to me.  Now, in retirement and with no money, I can sit around and reminisce in the midst of all my souvenirs.  What breaks my heart is that no one cares . . . after all it is just “junk” and “clutter”.

 

How did it all slip away?

 

Personally, I am thankful for all of my souvenirs.  As I have gotten into the advance stages of aging—or as my children like to say, “old”—I appreciate “prompts” that help me to remember.  All those souvenirs serve as prompts to a person, place, or time . . . to stories of beginnings and adventures of those loves, of heartbreak and joy, of discovery, of family and friends.  They serve as a sort of overture opening a story to share, a time to remember, a person who made an impact.  Those souvenirs are not “junk” or “clutter” . . . no, they are the doorways that open to a part of the story that never ends . . . the continuing saga of how we got here . . . about life . . . and it should never end.  There in lies the difficulty and frustration of having to “clean house”.  Once cleaned they will be gone and forgotten.  No one wants to be forgotten.

 

Our culture (white) does not seem to value its oldest members—its elders—like other cultures do.  That value is reflected in television shows, movies, and advertisements that usually make fun of older folks.  Nursing homes are packed where the old are warehoused.  The old are the butt of jokes.  They are no longer respected, no longer revered.  They no longer have a place of honor at the table.  Often, they are relegated to the “children’s table” . . . which I love!  Meals are a lot more fun with the kids than stuffy adults.  Lots more laughter!  As I have stumbled into elderhood, I have discovered that I am more of a hindrance than an asset.

 

That’s too bad.  With my souvenirs and advanced age, I am the “missing link” between the past, present and future.  I am the thread that runs through and connects . . . that brings context and understanding . . . the tie that binds it all together.  All of us old folks are, but like souvenirs we are seen as extra baggage, clutter—junk.

 

It’s been a little over five months since I was asked to “clean house” and “declutter” . . . five months!  I still wonder how I got to this point . . . how time seemed to move so fast . . . that I’m sitting at the nexus of having to decide what once was, what is now, worthy of tomorrow.  Worthy of being a “souvenir” for someone else.  There are so many “souvenirs” . . . so many.  So many stories to tell and share.  So much collected over a lifetime that is fading away.  Time waits for no one.

 

Junk.

 

Clutter.

 

No . . . treasures . . . souvenirs . . . stories.  Stories of how we came to be, of who we are, of laughter and tears, of hope and dreams.  Stories of purpose and meaning.  Stories of family and friends.  You and me.  Stories of what once was and what could be. 

 

It took years to collect those souvenirs.  It could take years to part with them all.  Might not make the wife or the kids happy.  But a good story should never be rushed.  I have a good one to tell.  We all do.  We are all collectors.  We all have souvenirs.  Stories . . . stories worth sharing . . . souvenirs yet to come.

 

Who Cares?

Stellar Sea Lion.  Giant Panda.  Eastern Lowland Gorilla.  Green Turtle.  Bonobos.  North Atlantic Right Whale.  Chimpanzee. Kordofan and Nubian Giraffes.  Black-footed Ferret.  Red Panda.  Tapir.  Peruvian Black Spider Monkey.  Galapagos Penguin.  Okapi. Hawkbills Turtle.  Giant Otter.  Tasmanian Devil.  Amur Leopard.  Bluefin Tuna.  Sumatran Elephant.  Addax.  Black Rhino.  African Wild Dog. Dugong.  The Middle Child. 

Wait a minute . . . middle child?  What does a middle child have to do with a list of endangered animals near extinction?  Simple.  Like these endangered critters, the middle child is nearing extinction.  Disappearing. Becoming a thing of the past just like the Tasmanian Devil and the Bonobos.

 

Up through the 1970s it was common for American mothers to have three, four, or more children.  Today, according to the Pew Research Center data, nearly two-thirds of mothers have one or two children.  Because it takes a minimum of three children to create a middle child, the demographic of the middle child is shrinking.  Several factors have pushed this shift: the cost of raising children has skyrocketed pushing families to have fewer; women are choosing to have children later in life which limits family size; and lifestyle choices focusing on work and personal lifestyle flexibility—too many children cramp that lifestyle.  Whatever the case, the middle child is vanishing.

 

With the demise of the middle child a holiday is lost—Middle Child Day—celebrated every August 12^th.  I suppose you did not know that . . . but who cares?  In the disappearance of the middle child lost is that child who is neglected, resentful, lacking drive, possessing a negative outlook, and feels as if they do not belong.  At least this is the common myth of the third child’s personality.  Also lost is the mediator/peacemaker, the emotionally strong, risk-taking, less likely to buckle under pressure, and independent child.  Gone, leaving behind the ambitious, over-achieving, adult pleasing, rebellious first born and the pampering, needy youngest siblings . . . but who cares?

 

Did you know that Warren Buffett, who is worth $154 billion, is a middle child?  Princess Diana was stuck in the middle . . . same with Michael Jordan.  Abraham Lincoln was another.  In fact, 52% of all or our nation’s presidents were middle children.  Charles Darwin—middle child.  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a middle child.  Same with John F. Kennedy.  Throw into the mix Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg.  Susan B. Anhtony.  Peyton Manning.  Madonna.  Yea, I know . . . who cares?

 

I’m not too sure that the middle child will be missed when that day of extinction comes.  Outside of those who study psychological and sociological trends of humanity, I do not think many will waste much brain time or energy thinking about the middle child.  The first born does not.  Neither do the last born.  It’s a middle child problem and there are fewer of them each year.  The middle child is going the way of the dodo.  Who cares?

 

It saddens me whenever I come across a list of creatures that are going extinct.  Sad to see them disappearing.  After all, they are God’s creatures.  They are important.  They are loved.  So is the middle child.  Maybe someone need to create a non-profit to save the middle child . . . something like the “Jan Brady Middle Child Fund”.  Or maybe create a Go Fund Me page to benefit middle children.  Get some celebrity sponsor like Madonna to plea for middle children like Sarah McLachlan does for the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA).  Surely something must be done.  What would the world be like without the middle child?  Think about it . . . middle children are people too.