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.
