The Others at Myristica

/ By / In / 4 Comments

Because I’m an animist (one of the reasons I was so enthusiastic about Dana’s Shinto post) I don’t collect “stuff” so much as welcome new pals to the posse.

Julie and I are minimalists with penchants for toys, books, and outsider art.  (And ground hogs.  Our resident groundhog, the latest of many generations, just passed through the backyard gate on the way to his burrow under the shed.)  Our house is small, so the crew congregates. We don’t get into appliances.  No air fryer or microwave, but one well-loved set of Le Creuset picked up over the years at yard sales, and a stack of Lodge cast iron skillets acquired the same way, except for the ten-inch skillet which I got from my landlady in Deale, Maryland in 1974, an oysterman’s wife and pot grower, who said, as she gave it to me: “I’m gonna give you this skillet since you like to cook, but you ain’t goin’ anywhere with it until I teach you how to season it.)

Oh, we thin books that “didn’t grip”, and take used clothes to CC’s Closet, the local community services store, although I get about 15 to 20 years out of pants and shirts (old clothes know how to drape when you’re standing and envelope when you’re sitting, or better, napping).  But we’d never abandon our tchotchke pals.  We save abandoned tchotchkes who like our looks.  Myristica (the name we’ve given our home, after Myristica fragrans, and its bond of nutmeg and mace) is a safe house and rehab center for others.

Our others have stories.  I use my grandmother’s bread and batter bowls, for baking cookies and bread.  When my mother married my father, my grandmother gave her the wooden spoon I use.

Many years ago, I met a beautiful old woman while waiting in line at a fruit stand.  She was luminous.  Silver hair, glowing skin, wore a honeydew green cotton dress and a thin white, violet print cardigan. We got into a conversation about making biscuits.  Compared shortenings.  I said I liked butter.  She advised lard. (Which I tried but stuck with butter. Crispier crusts.)  Then she gave me a “I’m gonna let you in on a secret” look and said: “Use bowls and utensils that have some baking history.  They know how to bake.”  I told her about my bowls and spoon, and that my friends who dropped over for biscuits on Saturday morning called me Aunt Jo-Mamma.” We laughed, simpatico.

Julie and I know a new recruit when we’re in a shop and hear it say something like “Hey! Get me outta here!”  We also love objects found serendipitously on the street or in the woods.

Julie is a fantabulous artist and craft person.  Look closely at the featured image (the north and west walls of my nest).  She made the dolls lining the top of the woodcarving of three dancing men (which she also painted), made the dolls on the top of the box theater hanging on the wall, and drew the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus.  Who downsizes love?  Many others in Myristica.

There’s a quality to others that often gets dismissed when they’re only seen as materialistic stuff.  Sometimes when I feel uncertain or vague about what I’m doing, I look at the things I’ve collected, and they remind me of who I was at the time and help me bring into focus qualities I want to maintain, qualities I had when I obtained them, feelings that are still fine, not useful, life is not a utility, no matter bidness jive about “human resources.”

One more look at the picture.  Beneath Sargent’s portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson is a twig wedged on top of the carved white cat face. I found that twig wobbling in water near the bank of a reservoir in Raccoon Twp, PA, in 1969.  That twig, the water, the light, and the buzz, said, “ya know, life is tres groo-vi,” and it’s always helped me remember that.

We’ll all get out of here in a box, but here’s to a long, loving wear out.

Stuff – The Tyranny of Things: A Treatise on Material Malaise

/ By / In / 10 Comments

 

Right, let’s talk about stuff. You know, that ever-expanding collection of… well, stuff. It’s the creeping crud of capitalism, the flotsam and jetsam of consumerism clinging desperately to our lives like a toddler covered in ice cream. We buy it, we hoard it, and then we spend the rest of our days muttering darkly about “where the bloody things went?”

First, there’s the daily stuff: The sacred spatula that you wouldn’t dare flip a burger with anything less. The coffee mug emblazoned with a motivational quote so generic it could inspire a sloth to, well, maybe open one eye. These are the comrades in our domestic drudgery, the trusty tools that prevent us from burning breakfast and starting a personal crises over matching socks before 8 am.

Then there’s the stuff that arrived with a flourish: The juicer you used once and now emits a whimper whenever you approach the cupboard. The bread-maker that promised artisanal delights and instead dispenses lukewarm indigestible bricks. These are all the emperors with no clothes, the empty promises that gather dust bunnies faster than a tumbleweed in a ghost town.

But the real fun starts with the unmentionables: The “collectionables” we hide from guests like state secrets. That kind of cute porcelain frog collection Aunt Mildred insisted on inflicting upon you. The “sentimental” Beanie Babies that haven’t seen the light of day since Princess Diana was alive and relevant. These are the skeletons in the consumer closet, the things we hold onto with the tenacity of a toddler gripping a soggy Cheerio: ”mine, mine, mine”.

So, what do we do with this ever-growing mountain of…stuff? Some folks become organizational wizards and overlords: Purchasing containers within containers, color-coded chaos with labels that would make a librarian weep with joy. Some people can locate a single paperclip from 1997 with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. The rest of us, frankly, just shove it all in a cupboard and pray it doesn’t develop sentience and declare a garbage rebellion.

Then there are the purge-aholics: Fueled by Marie Kondo, the queen of organizing, and a healthy dose of self-loathing, they embark on decluttering crusades that would make Attila the Hun blush. One minute your house is overflowing with knickknacks, the next it resembles a monk’s cell – all clean lines and an unsettling air of judgment.

Personally, I fall somewhere in the “burying my head in the sand” school of stuff management. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Until, of course, that inevitable moment when you need that “special” screwdriver to fix a leaky faucet, and discover it’s been mummified under a rogue yoga mat and a box set of “Cheers” DVDs.

The truth is, there is no one easy answer. Stuff is a relentless tide, washing over us and threatening to drown us in a sea of spatulas and porcelain frogs. But hey, at least it keeps the metaphysical dread at bay for at least a little while?! So, the next time you find yourself contemplating the meaning of life while surrounded by enough coffee mugs to share with a small village, just remember: you are not alone. We’re all slaves to the tyranny of stuff, united in our glorious, messy humanity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my spatula and a very, very, very important pancake.

–30–