Life: the many stages of stuff
Our lives can be divided into stages according to our relationship to stuff.
In the early years, stuff is temporary, ever-changing. We have clothing, but we can’t keep it for long, because we’re always outgrowing it. Likewise, toys and books. Even the bed keeps changing: first a crib, then a little bed, then a bigger one. And all of this stuff is really owned and paid for by those indispensable others, our parents.
We’re happy to leave it all behind when we go off to college or emancipation through work. We take a bunch of clothing and books, and a few electronics, and we’re off into our new and exciting life. But we still don’t have all that much stuff, not till we get an apartment—especially that first non-student, non-furnished apartment, one of our very own, or even of our (as in a couple) very own. Then we enter the age of stuff-amassing.
For myself, this era began shortly after my marriage, when after a year of living with in-laws my husband and I moved into a small rented house. We unpacked the wedding-present stuff that till then had been stored in boxes in the attic of my parents’ house. We got some hand-me-down stuff from my late grandmother, furniture and pictures and well—stuff. And we finally bought some new stuff of our very very own.
We started small. A couch, an inexpensive one at that. Brown, in classic 70s style. Some cookware. Posters to be framed (couldn’t afford any real art). A bed, naturally.
Now, we could walk through those stores in Boston and not just be window-shopping. We’d be buying, and even though we were limited (and always remained so) by an adequate but relatively modest income, we could look, and dream, and make decisions based on what we wanted, not just what someone’s hand-me-downs dictated.
It was a fun time, not the least of the reasons being that we were young and had most of our lives still ahead of us. We were developing our style, which is always an “interesting” experience for a couple, because there’s not necessarily a meeting of the minds on that score, and unless one member of the couple defers to the other, it can be the stuff of bitter stuff-battles.
My new husband and I were lucky: we tended to agree on things like that, and a lot of other things besides (unfortunately, not on everything, since we ended up getting divorced well-nigh thirty years later, which I think is a pretty good run). Our only real stuff disagreements were over some raggedy curtains (husband liked them, I didn’t), a certain pencil drawing (husband won; we purchased it) and our flatware (I prevailed—and then received a small vindication when we split the flatware in half at divorce time because we both had grown to like it so much).
Those years of stuff were years of growth. We probably had an average amount, as stuff in America goes. Our son, when he came along (and don’t get me wrong; I’m not putting him in the “stuff” category) received his requisite portion of ever-changing stuff, and then later some of our hand-me-down stuff for his first apartment.
As he entered his teen years and then left home for college, we were in what one might call the steady-state of stuff. Nothing much needed to be bought, but not a whole lot was weeded out, either. We didn’t even realize that’s where we were. The signs, in retrospect, were that stores featuring furniture or the latest kitchenware or knickknacks held no charms any more, not even for window-shopping. We’d sail right through them as though they carried equipment for some esoteric pursuit, like scuba diving, one in which we weren’t interested.
And then, not too long after that (and somewhat coinciding with our divorce), we entered the casting-off time. Moved into smaller places, and had to get rid of things because the storage just wasn’t available. And that’s where I remain today.
The first castings-off feel modest and liberating. But it’s also an odd feeling to sense that one is on a different side of the life-hill’s slope, the downside. I only have to look at my mother to see where it leads—if we’re fortunate enough to live that long, that is. She went from a house to a large apartment, then to a smaller independent living place, and now a single room (albeit a large and airy one) in assisted living. I sincerely hope the nursing home room is not in her future, but I’ve seen other relatives go there, reduced to just a few personal items and a lamp and picture or two. And of course, I don’t have to describe the next step, except to say that it proves you can’t take it with you.
I’ve noticed that the amount of stuff each generation considers obligatory and/or desirable has gotten larger, especially in the kitchen arena. My parents were comfortably situated, although not rich, but their kitchenware was modest compared to that of later generations. Equipment was generic rather than specialized—who’d ever heard of a breadmaker or a Cuisinart, or even a crepe pan or fondue pot (those twin favored-but-useless wedding presents of the era in which I got married)? They had knives and bowls and even a meat grinder (has anyone got one of those these days?) But a little melon-baller, an ice cream scoop, and a simple electric mixer were about the extent of the specialized equipment.
I’m not knocking stuff, by the way. And in one arena in particular—electronic—my own stuff quotient has continued to grow. Computer. Then, computers. Cell phone. Digital camera. Ipod. Little thingee to play the ipod when not attached to the ear. And the chargers, the chargers, the ubiquitous and ever-tangling chargers!
Hey! I like fondue.
Yeah Mike, Fondue is making a comeback.
Stuff is great. The problem arises when, like money, you love it too much – can’t do with less. People who panic when they can’t get a cell signal at any given time are in big trouble.
(As an aside I find it unbelievable the amazingly personal stuff people will talk about on their cell phone while standing at the counter in the convenience store. Do they think they are in the cone of silence from the old “Get Smart” TV show?)
If you can still turn off the TV or computer to read a good book – then there is hope for you. Unfortunately I think fewer and fewer younger people can do this.
I love fondue and it is a family favorite. However, inspite of having several specialty fondue sets stored away, I have evolved to using a glass Vision Ware pot on an electric burner that I sit out on the table…european ambiance be damned! I like to use the glass pot because I can do most of the cheese melting in the microwave which is quicker and more efficient…don’t have to put in so much time doing constant stirring. Also, the specialty fondue pots are a real pain to clean when the cheese burns on the bottom which always happens at the very end.
Well, I’m not all that fond of fondue. I do like cheese, and melted cheese, and bread, but something about fondue is just too much of a messy gluggy gloppiness. I never used my fondue pot, alas. I think I may have returned it. The same with the Salton hot tray.
I’ve got it all down to a back room that scares me to death.
…ever-tangling chargers!
If there is a heaven, it is cable-less, wireless, and battery-less.
My parents’ house burned to the ground in the Paradise Mountain fire in 2003, with all their “stuff” in it … everything, including all the “stuff” inherited from their parents, save for a few items grabbed from off the walls, or what my mother had the time to put into her car. In a weird way, it turned out to be rather liberating for her, because in replacing and refitting the house, she was able to get what she really liked (from thrift and second-hand furniture stores, mostly) rather than what she and my Dad had just been stuck with, all the way along – stuff that she didn’t really like all that much, but made do with because it was what they could afford, or because it was from the family – and couldn’t be gotten rid of.
There is a store not to far from my house that sells meat grinders. They have been on display for a while so I suppose people are buying them. They are next to the hunting equipment so obviously it is for people who process their own game.
I did buy a food dehydrator from there last weekend. Mom and I are planning on trying our hand at drying pears. And maybe peppers next summer if we can.
I’ve become aware gradually of the same attitude. 3 years ago no yard-or-garage sale was safe, no thrift shop unsurveyed, no sidewalk remnant with a ‘FREE’ sign passed by lightly. I would have seized a utensil, a vase, a chair, anything, because “it will go in my house someday.” Now I find myself not uninterested, but detached. I see it, even admire it but—can ‘J’ or ‘C’ use it? Does anyone I know need this? It’s beautiful, or useful, or in need of just a little work—but I no longer feel the drive to accumulate stuff for my future. Not a negative thing, more of an unburdening.
What is still impossible is to let my books go: maybe that will be another stage in my life. However, I won’t die for the lack of a Wedgwood cache-pot. Being unable to find a favorite poem or essay might do the job.
They had knives and bowls and even a meat grinder (has anyone got one of those these days?)
Of course I do!
To make venison sausage, haggis, bangers, sirloin burgers and steak tartar.
I also have a fondue pot, crepe pan and waffle maker, each of which get used a couple of times a month.
My family is a bunch of gastronauts: my 11yo stepdaughter loves Alton Brown….
My dad’s rule:
“Have you used it in the last 6 months? No? Throw it out!” So far so good. dad….
Of course I have a meat grinder!
I call it “new”, because it’s electric (Krups), but I’ve been using it for 9 years. Before that we (the now dissolved family of three) had a hand-motioned cast iron kind, with the sort of a cranking handle, which we brought in our suitcases from SU 17 yrs ago. Before we emigrated that meat grinder, in its turn, was referred as “new”, because I used the one my MIL had in her kitchen – the one with 1957′ stamp on the base. In fact, when I remember her, one of the pictures that pop in my mind is of her sharpening the 4-blade grinder knife on the edge of an enameled steel bowl…
I know of the pairing down process you described, Neo – from my own experience and my extended family, here and in other cities. Not just divorce, but emigration, too – that latter is more drastic: we landed in JFK with 6 suitcases to our name. Incredibly, we somehow amassed a housefull of stuff we had to spend months to get rid of when liquidating at divorce.
In my case I have a bit closer relationship with “stuff” than people normally do, due to my profession. Interior designer spends working time thinking about possessions, space layouts, color coordination, sources and construction details – not for a self, but for clients. And I know I’m much more flexible that most of the clients I worked for (boy, I can think of a few really, really rigid ones!) But the architects have it worse. For an architect his dwelling is a challenge. It HAS to be perfect. I’ve been to a few homes of architects…I can only say their families should be awarded sainthood.
Recently I wrote a bit about “stuff”, too. It’s been on our minds, apparently.
A fairly wise old man once told me; “You spend the first half of your life getting stuff and the last half of your life getting rid of it. If you were more care careful during the first half the second half will be more pleasant.”
When I bought a condo several years ago after renting an apartment for nearly 20 years, I got rid of a lot of junk before moving. One advantage of relatively little storage space is that you have to think twice before you purchase anything. Books are a potential problem, though.
Four decades ago my grandparents’ farm was sold, which included an auction of most good on the farm. One item which was gotten rid of, which I wish someone in the family had kept, was an airplane cockpit- seats plus instrument panel from WW2. My grandfather had taught instrumentation or some such during WW2, which explained why we had it. That cockpit was a great toy for a kid and his/her imagination.
Neo,
Cheese Fondue is not the only fondue. that being said I do like cheese fondue – with the cheese(s) wine, Kirsch, etc.
If you don’t like fondue – try raclette
dane: or a grilled cheese sandwich. Ymmm!
Neo – I moved on a boat to sail around the world 20 years ago and just moved from Spain boatless. All of my stuff is in boxes that take the space of a small storage. No furniture or kitchen appliances. I still think I have too much stuff. My family members are selling their big houses and moving to small condos. They are finding the paring down process very liberating. My mother’s house is so full of stuff I cannot stand looking at all of it. Pictures and paperwork on the hardest things to eliminate. Books are easy. Just pass them on– as hard as it is.
Of course we have a meat grinder; what else to do with most of the carcass when large game is taken? If not for sausage and ground meat (ground with bacon for the extra fat makes the most heavenly burgers), all but the tenderloins and some roasts would go to the coyotes.
About 10+ years ago, when I was buying things for my “newly remodeled” home, I was standing next to a couple who were loudly discussing their feelings about towel racks. He was past the point of exasperation and shouted “Are you saying I’m going to have to live with this towel rack for the rest of my life?!”
Two thoughts occured to me at that moment: “I’m glad he’s not my husband.” and “I would never marry a man who really gives a damn about towel racks.”
Good topic, Neo. I’m a pack rat, and so were both of my parents. I find parting with stuff wrenching, so I rarely do it.
I don’t have much emotional attachment to clothing or furniture, so that part is easy. But books, old magazines (notable Life and National Geographic), photos, and papers; that’s a different story. I can’t bear to part with them.
Whenever I try to clean out stuff like that, I always end up sitting there for hours looking through it and I invariably end up keeping most of it.
Gray Says:
September 13th, 2009 at 1:32 am
If I followed that rule my house would be frickin’ empty. 🙂
Moving every two or three years helps keep down the larger items, although the movers groan when I say “No, no entertainment center or giant couch – just 1500 pounds of books!” I keep reassuring the gentlemen that the books are not all in one box, but they still seem depressed. 🙂
We moved to Israel – and wound up raising our kids in a trailer in the West Bank.
We spent almost 10 years in just over 42 square meters – just under 500 square feet. Our “stuff” remained in storage until we finished construction of our own little
obstacle to peacehome sweet home.When we finally started unpacking the crates, we marveled at all this “stuff” we had carefully picked out, argued over, haggled for, proudly displayed –
– and completely forgotten we had, and got along fine without.
A lot of that stuff had defined us.
By the time we opened the boxes, we had built a close knit circle of friends who knew us – as we knew them – primarily by our actions, and the community we built together in those trailers. Opening those crates was like leafing through a yearbook.
A few dear pieces of tableware and furniture were welcomed back. Some “stuff” remains in the original boxes in our new attic. Most of it is gone – unmissed!