My Stuff

Many of us boomers are dealing with our "stuff" - a lot of it.  I was prompted to write an article about it, which was accepted to run on GeezersGuysandGals.com on July 22, 2013. You've got to love the name of that site, right?

So, here it is . . . Enjoy!

My Stuff!

My husband and I moved around the country for over twenty-five years as we grabbed the swinging rope of a promotion, either his or mine. We didn't have children, so it was easy to uproot and go. Many times we only had a weekend to buy a house in an unfamiliar state. After everything was packed up by corporate movers, off we went. But we never dealt with our stuff. It went with us—all of it—right down to boxes of my music scores in the attic. I had been a voice major in college back in the late 70s. We even moved the beta hifi machine that didn't work, along with all the beta tapes of 80s music videos and first-run recordings of Dallas that couldn't be played.

This last move, though, was just for us. We took the time to sort through every bit of it. The banter sessions during the process were hilarious and priceless—and uncomfortable. Our possessions were an appendage. We never realized how much all of our stuff shaped who we were as individuals, and as a couple.

When I opened the boxes in the attic—the scores of my early life—I was heartbroken. Some rodent had fouled them with droppings. The brittle pages of beautiful music had been chewed beyond recognition. A tiny mouse had already made this gargantuan decision for me. It was time to throw them out. I set the boxes outside at the curb for the scavengers, and even they wouldn't touch them.

On recycle day, the rumble of the truck made my heart skip. I ran to the window to watch the magic of my college years grind away in the hungry teeth of the truck’s whirling cruncher. The recycle man heaved the boxes in the air. When the last box missed its mark and hit the rim, a cacophony of musical notes floated to the pavement like a dreadful symphony—Mozart mixed with Stravinsky; Bach melted with Brahms. Unthinkable!

I ran outside in a desperate attempt to help him. I scooped up the sheets and handed them back to the recycle man. He said, “Thanks, ma’am. I shoulda aimed higher.”

As I walked back to the house dejected, I spotted one soiled page left behind in the gutter. It was the opening of “Laudate Dominum” from Mozart’s Solemn Vespers; my debut solo back in 1979. It was also the year that I married my soul mate of thirty-four years. We grew up together—grew young together. I wiped the dirt from that one special page, folded it into fourths, and walked back into the house. I had aimed higher.

As if magnetized, I floated up the stairs toward the special drawer in my bureau. I tucked that folded square of paper beneath my lingerie. It would probably never be pulled out again, but that day had added another memory to its significance. The music got the respect it deserved. I was just fine.