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!