STUFF I’m
awash in a sea of stuff. Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not a hoarder by any stretch of the imagination. In fact one of my dearest friends thinks I’m devoid of sentiment because I occasionally purge my home of what I consider to be unnecessary and unwanted stuff. There are any number of categories of stuff that I have only the bare minimum of and have been known to run out of — for instance, toilet paper in the middle of the night. But if you need a coffee mug, I’ve got you covered. I didn’t set out to collect coffee mugs, but when you drink as much coffee as I do, you do tend to be drawn to them. And friends who know of your affinity for the brew think of mugs when gift-giving occasions come along. They do come in handy when my book club convenes in my home, but the cups have started to squeeze out the three sets of dishes in my cabinets. I could explain why I have three sets of dishes, but that seems reasonable when compared to the 30 or so pens I have acquired. Not throwaway pens, mind you (probably at
least a couple of hundred of those around). I’m talking about writing instruments that are works of art that I have purchased in places like St. David’s cathedral in Wales and a stationer’s shop down a cobbled street in Florence. The number of pens pales in comparison to the LPs and CDs I possess. It’s not my fault; I blame my parents for my eclectic taste which ranges from classical to classic country, from early rock to modern jazz. But the amount of music tucked here and there throughout my house is downright puny when we start talking about printed material. I have two newspapers each day coming into my home, and they compete for time with the 20 plus magazines to which I subscribe. And I have to admit to having somehow accumulated several thousand books, and yes, I said thousand. I have told myself and friends who raise the occasional eyebrow that I have reached the saturation point, that a book has to leave for each new one that crosses my threshold. And I mean it, truly I do, until I read a review of a
book I really need to own. And Lord help you if you get between me and the checkout counter in a bookstore. Besides, it’s only my ancient cat and I who have to pick our way around the teetering stacks. And I did nod in recognition when I heard comedian George Carlin point out that “a house is just a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get more stuff.” I recently read some advice from an investment counselor who said that buying more stuff just brings on a sense of futility. “We start to realize that when we buy something, not only do we acquire it, we have to learn it, we have to operate it, we have to store it, we have to maintain it, we gotta fix it, we gotta make payments on it, we feel guilty when we’re not using it, we need to upgrade it because it’s outdated, or maybe we need to sell it because we’re simply not using it.” I started to feel bad about it, but then I realized he was talking about his stuff, not my books.
—Charlene Tolbert Contributing Editor Posey Magazine She can be contacted at poseymagazine@aol.com