I cut a supply of one-inch stubs of masking tape, hang them from the table’s rim, use them to affix tags to the appropriate books.
We write and tape and pile, getting ready for the rummage sale. When we have a reasonable stack, I wrap it with green twine, tie a tight knot, swing it into the far corner of the family room, and we begin again.
Some of the books are used books, books that we gleaned, crowing triumphantly, from clearance racks or community sales or library bookstores. Those books may have names written inside, and inscriptions. When there are identifying characteristics, addresses or phone numbers, we take the Sharpie and blot that out. But sometimes the inscription makes us pause.
“Matt wrote in this book,” Jim says, “for Dad.”
He moves that volume to the keeper-after-all pile.
I do the same when I find a book with Kim’s name on the fly leaf, written in her unique and lilting hand–Kim, gone this past spring, loved and greatly missed. She wanted me to have this book. She wanted me to read it. I put it with the keepers.
But still. By the time we are done, James and I have bundled up many, many books, marking those old friends ‘.50’ or, ‘$1.00.’ There are clean spaces on the bookshelves, which Jim undertakes to organize–fiction in the living room, non-fiction in the family room. He swoops and dances, formatting alphabetically by author. As he works, the shelves transform from groaning boards, homes to jumbled, jammed-in stacks of random, anonymous volumes, to pleasing, inviting vistas.
We just have too many books.
My friend and colleague Cindi sent out an email: Would you have any interest in participating in a yard sale to benefit my daughter’s swim team?
It seems like a pretty sweet deal. We pack up our stuff according to a firm style-guide provided by the planners, who stipulate size of tag, and placement of info, and how to affix the tags to objects. We drop them off at the school between 9 am and 7 pm on the appointed night. We’ll sort and place on drop-off.
Then they’ll sell our stuff. There’s a five dollar fee to take part. If we work a volunteer shift, we’ll get 80 per cent of the take from our items. If we don’t volunteer, we’ll get 60 per cent. And, sale over, the planners will send all things unspoken for to appropriate charities.
It’s a win-win-win. We support the swim team. We make a little cash.
We get rid of stuff.
I pull old electronics out of a drawer and jumble them all together in a box. I’ll have Mark go through them, determine which components, if any, we might ever need again. Then I’ll ask him to determine which components someone else might ever need again.
We’ll tape tags onto those that others might possibly use: N600 WiFi Dual Band USB Adapter….50 cents. A landline set with two phones. A tiny tape recorder. A long-since needed modem.
Why did we keep all this stuff?
Why did we buy it in the first place?
We sort clothes according to strict instructions. Hangers hooks must go to the left, like a question mark. Shirts must be buttoned. Every item of clothing–even shorts–must be on a hanger. Labels should be safety-pinned to the upper left-hand front.
We joke that we have an evilly magic closet or two: when our clothes go in, they fit. And then, one day, they don’t fit. Obviously, the closets shrunk them.
We put hangers into twenty odd men’s dress shirts, size 16 and a half–33/34. We button them up; this sale won’t brook any shirts missing buttons. There are shirts in every hue and stripe–peach and mint and navy, black and gray and blue. When the back of a chair fills, Jim takes them downstairs and hangs them on the drying rack, where they wait to be delivered.
Dresses. Slacks. Skirts. Shorts.
We package up office supplies–three boxes of perforated name tags, unopened, that could be printed via laser-jet. Two thick stacks of USPS stamps for use with a home postal system. We no longer have that service.
Three hole punches. Mechanical pencils.
We put loose items into sturdy storage bags and mark them, “Assorted office supplies. 50 cents.”
We pull mismatched china, glasses, old pots and pans, from their storage shelves, mark and pack them. I take table linens from a drawer, iron them neatly, place them on hangers.
We stack the goods in the back corner of the house, by the door we seldom use. The piles grow to shoulder height.
I feel satisfied and accomplished: we are purging, clearing space. This feels good.
But then I think: we just have too much stuff.
I remember going to a conference where a Native American Catholic nun spoke. She was wearing a blue dress. It was one of her two dresses, she said; blue to honor the virgin Mary. The other dress was red, and it reminded her of Christ’s sacred heart.
She bought both dresses at thrift stores. She didn’t need more, she said; one to wear and one to wash. Any more would slow her down.
I look at the growing stack of stuff in the corner. I think of money spent, time involved, storage space clotted with unused things. There is something, I realize, something overdone and obscene about this.
We have cleared spaces. We will take those things to a place where they may do some good, where they will be donated if they do not sell.
But how long will it take us to fill the empty spots on the bookshelves, the open spaces in the drawers.
How much do we need?
How much does what we have slow us down?
I have to turn my back on the stack of rummage sale goodies.
Rummaging: lightening the weight of stuff.