Living Small with Lots of Stuff

A dear friend was visiting a while back and, as he looked around my tiny apartment, noted that I “have lots of stuff.”  Well, yes, I do.  And?  Okay, I have lots of stuff in a very small apartment.  There are two reasons for that, I think.

The first reason is simply practical: I moved from a three bedroom, two-car garage home to this tiny one bedroom apartment.  I downsized tons of stuff, but I still ended up with more than I probably need.  Especially books.  In this apartment, I have five bookcases—and a fair number of books stacked here and there.  But I started with over 3,000 (I counted them before moving) and feel pretty good about reducing them to what I have now.  Additionally, I just counted 60 pieces of art or memorabilia hanging on the walls (art, photos, plaques).  And again, I reduced the number before moving (and I have a stack of un-matted and unframed works I’m giving away as I’m out of room to hang more).

Secondly, there is genuine “stuff,” which I define as bits and pieces from my past—and which others probably define as tchotchkes.  But to me they are important reminders of what’s come before.  And at my age there is a whole lot more “before” than there will be “after.”  For example, looking up from the computer I see a framed announcement/invitation to a going away party some friends threw for me before I moved to Chicago.  More or less at random, looking around, I see ceramic pieces made by my sister-in-law, souvenirs of various trips to Port Aransas, a figurine given to me by a former associate, now deceased, and a wooden antelope given me by my great friend Donna, also dead.  And lots more.  How could I part with them?  Each one brings back an important memory.  When I’m gone, they will be just so much junk to be tossed away.  But they are staying until someone else has to figure out what to do with them.

When I was very young, the family made a visit to my Aunt Mabel.  Aunt Mabel was, according to family legend, the wild one on that side of the family.  At one point we had a photo of Mabel in a long beaver coat standing in front of her Stutz-Bearcat, although I haven’t seen the photo in years and assume it’s lost.  But when we visited, I was too young to appreciate what an interesting character Aunt Mabel was: just think of the stories she could have told.  And what I remember most is her small house was filled with, well, tchotchkes, every bit of space covered with items that clearly meant something to her, but to no one else.  Just like my stuff.  I have become Aunt Mabel!

My Brush with History

When you’ve lived 70 years, you’ve lived through a lot of history.  Most of that history is at a distance, something you read about but don’t experience personally.  But I did have my brush with history when I had a front row view of the ceremonies surrounding the funeral of President John F. Kennedy.

After boot camp in San Diego I was stationed at the Naval School of Music, which at the time was located at the Anacostia Annex in Washington, D.C.  I don’t remember exactly when I arrived at the school, but I was there on November 22, 1963.

A friend and I had taken the bus into town to see a movie and celebrate my 21st birthday—The Wheeler Dealers: it’s the small things one doesn’t forget, although I remember nothing about the movie itself.  Before going into the show I stopped at a watch repair shop to drop off my wristwatch; the man there said he just heard on the news that the president had been shot.  It registered, but I don’t think for one minute I believed him or that it was serious.  We went on to the movie.  When we left, almost instinctively, I looked up at the flags on the buildings; all were at half-mast.  I knew then the president had died.  I also knew that all military personnel would have to be back at the base.  We caught the first bus, and that’s my second and one of the most vivid moments of those days: no one on the bus spoke, most looked rather dazed, and many were crying.  It was a surreal and silent ride.

Back at base we were informed that we would have a small part in the ceremonies.  If you look at photos of the various ceremonies, you’ll see military personnel lining the street on either side.  It was called an honorary cordon, and because the president had been in the Navy, the Navy sections of the cordon were always nearest the ceremony:  we were outside the White House and we lined the street at the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery.  In the photo above I am one of the sailors on the right side of the street near the gate post at Arlington; I remember at one point I was very, very cold as I stood in the shadow of the post as the day moved on.

I don’t remember how long we stood at each spot, but at Arlington it was certainly for several hours as the cars of dignitaries came by as well as the body of the president and all that went along with that.  I think the time at the White House was much shorter.  But several memories stand out through that long day.

The most moving part at the White House, perhaps even more than the flag-draped casket, was the riderless horse with boots reversed in the stirrups. The horse was skittish, perhaps from the crowd, and it appeared the handler could barely control it.

At Arlington I was on a front row to see the cars of dignitaries go by.  I remember seeing Mrs. Kennedy.  And for some reason, I vividly remember Charles de Gaulle going by, perhaps because of his very distinctive profile.  At some point the sun put the shadow of the post over me and I became very cold. 

And then there was the single most significant moment for me: Taps.  Probably because of the cold, the sound of the bugle carried a long distance and I could hear it quite clearly.  It’s a melody that I, along with most everyone, can’t listen to without deep emotion.  Imagine hearing it that day.  And then on the sixth note of Taps the bugler broke the note—he made a mistake.  I can remember as vividly as though I had been there yesterday.  Perhaps because I was a musician and I had some inkling of the kind of pressure the bugler was under, I understood.  It was an emotional day for us all, and I can only imagine the kind of pressure he was under.  Later we were told that it wasn’t a mistake, that it was deliberate and was called a “sob.”  Not true.  It was a mistake, pure and simple, a mistake the bugler never denied making.  You can hear it as it was recorded that day at this site—and read bugler Keith Clark’s own account of that memorable and somehow significant mistake:  http://tapsbugler.com/a-bugle-call-remembered/.  You can also watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qbNfOpTx5CQ.

Fifty years have passed since that day, and we are still assessing the impact of the assignation of President Kennedy.  For those of us who lived through those times, it seemed to signal a falling apart, or, as Yeats put it, the center not holding:

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

We, both as a nation and as individuals, lost our innocence on November 22, 1963, and I for one was never the same afterwards.