While other writers have been talking of clutter in these pages, I’m ever-so-slowly getting rid of everything. Giving it away mostly. I’ve been shrinking into smaller places for the last ten years, since my marriage broke up.
Well that’s not quite true. The first time we broke up I moved into the tiniest studio apartment ever. It may have been a sign of things to come.
The final time we broke up I moved into a two-bedroom apartment exactly one kilometre from my ex. The older kids came and went freely; my youngest stayed one week with me, alternating one week with her dad.
I left all of the furniture and a bunch of my stuff in his basement because it was my own damn fault the marriage failed anyway. I thought he deserved as little disruption as possible; not to have insult added to injury.
Two years later I bought a condo and brought some of my grandmother’s furniture and artwork to decorate the place, alongside some pieces from my oldest daughter, and a painting I myself did at age 14. They still hang on the walls in my considerably smaller apartment in Victoria.
It would be difficult to part with the art, the antique shaker-style tallboy that was my great-grandmother’s, likewise her mink stole I wore to the opera last year. But I could do it. The artwork I would give to my children.
The things I want to keep are what memories are made of: love affairs, personal achievement, camaraderie and triumph over odds. Most of all though, they are practical things that can be used to create such moments again.
Item 1: climbing rope, harness, helmet.
I had a lover who taught me how to climb. As soon as I roped up and touched real rock, I knew the climbing would last longer than the affair, and it did, for ten years. He instilled in me a passion for the outdoors I never knew I had.
Item 2: Joe Rocket armoured jacket, helmet and boots.
I had a lover who was a biker. We hiked the Grand Canyon together, he bought me the jacket and I learned to ride. I loved it, but I have neither time nor money to get a bike of my own — at the moment. He showed me the passion of open twisty roads, mesh tents (to see the stars), outdoor showers in the desert and two wheels vs four.
Item 3: Ladies Jazz golf club set, cut to my exact height.
I had a dear friend who took me golfing the year I really learned how to golf. I was in “management” and I kept getting thrown into the tournaments the VPs didn’t want to enter, so the other women managers and I took lessons.
My friend’s name was Danny. He was a stellar bagpipe player, scotch swiller, deep-fried-Mars-bar eater, best gay friend ever. He and another friend were in sales, and I became a reliable fourth (they taught me to always let the client win, another valuable golf lesson). We all three snuck away to play the par 3 at lunch sometimes.
He also showed me that gay bars are the best place to dance the night away, that bad scotch tastes OK in good coffee on a windy and cold Saturday morning on the back nine, and that loneliness can kill. He just wanted to be with someone, but he was raised a Mormon in a prairie town and he didn’t really know the best way of going about it.
That’s my theory anyway. He was murdered a couple of years after I moved to the West Coast. I don’t care to know what happened exactly, but he was found dead in the apartment of some guy half his age, who was then remanded to psychiatric care. The only thing I know for sure is I miss the hell out of him and it is a fucking shame on the Universe that he is dead.
These things, then, I cannot give up. I could give away everything else, but I will keep my motorcycle jacket, my golf clubs and climbing gear.
Adding to my gradual shedding of stuff, I have already noticed subtle signs of approaching menopause. That’s right: The Change. By the time my youngest daughter graduates from High School (in a year and a half) I might be in the midst of a hormonal tsunami. Not only will I be in the throes of Change, I will be completely debt-free, essentially childless and most likely still single.
My prediction? I will buy a truck with a camper and tow a small trailer behind me to hold my bike and gear, chase the sun, trade off climbing, golf and riding days until I can’t dress myself any more.
Sounds like a great retirement plan to me.
Photo Credit
“Biker” kamshots @ flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.
i will see you on the road!
Those things that mean something are the only things worth hanging onto anyway. They’re your life as you chose to live it — not merely possessions.
I like your style! And Danny sounded like an amazing person.