I might be a minimalist, but at times I can get a little crazy. One of my favorite cousins wanted a hard-to-find cookie. Instead of a sleeve, I got him an entire case to celebrate.
All my life I have used the “6 month or a year rule” to throw things out. Even when I didn’t actually throw it out, it didn’t control my emotions. I could throw things out without much consideration.
Granted, one of my weaknesses used to be electronics and related supplies. At one point, I had 1/2 a decently-sized closet full. They didn’t get in the way of anything but it was an unnecessary amount of “just in case” philosophy in action.
Having lost my stuff several times in fires probably deserves some of the credit, too, though. After watching Hoarders, it occurred to me that most of the crazy hoarders on the show use loss as an excuse to be a packrat. In my case, the opposite happened.
Another thing about me is that I NEVER sell things that I no longer want. There were a couple of exceptions when I was younger and I hated it, especially in one case when the TV I had sold went out almost immediately on a friend from work. If I have things that I no longer use, I give them away. I’ve given away treadmills, recliners, computers, DVD players, all while in good condition. I’m not saying that for a pat on the back. I’m saying it because I think it’s the best way. Unless you are starving or desperately need the money, giving your stuff to people who will use it is the best possible option for everyone.
Most minimalist sites seem to encourage you to sell your stuff – and that’s fine for most people. At least you are getting rid of it. But what better way to get a boost by surprising someone with “free” ?
Lately, without any fanfare, I have been throwing at least 1 thing a day away, usually more than 1. I’ve done it for three months now.
My wife knows that I am cleaning out or organizing but I don’t think she knows how far it has went. There have been many items that I have simply tossed when I should have given them to someone. An example would be the Gem Saloon whiskey glasses. But my desire to rid myself of them couldn’t be ignored, so I tossed them when the urge struck.
Likewise, I discarded almost 1,000 pictures this week. I scanned anything I wasn’t absolutely sure about, just in case. I backed them up on another computer and in the cloud before actually tossing them. But it’s yet another box in the closet that will no longer be there.
Even though many people don’t understand it, I had long wanted to be able to perform marriages. After months of procrastinating, I recently finished all the paperwork, went to the courthouse, and became “legitimate,” so to speak. The State of Arkansas decided to allow me to pay the fees and register to perform marriages.
It still seems surreal to me. Literally speaking, I now have minister credentials. It will be interesting to see how a few people respond. On the other hand, there were a couple of people who never offer anything other than criticism – their derision was to be expected. Those who would be malicious in their criticism are the same people who make weddings sometimes hideous spectacles instead of a simple joining of two people
Part of my reluctance was due to my cousin Jimmy who has been ill for well over a year. He had been putting off getting married. I had told him to let me know when he was going to tie the knot. Although I might be wrong, I think my sudden ability to do weddings might have pushed him along somewhat.
Whether I ever perform a marriage or not, it is no longer a question of getting the details accomplished. I would hope that I might help people see that there’s no need for expensive, complicated weddings. When the hoopla of the event fades, all that is left is the daily routine and, hopefully, lasting love and patience to temper it. Daily life exacts an angry toll on most people.
As I’ve aged, I have started to learn that arguing over language or words can be fun, especially if I learn something. One thing I hate about myself if I catch myself doing it, though, is being one of the asshats mentioned in the Slate article linked above.
As Matthew J.X. Malady writes: “Those who use their advanced knowledge to embarrass or humiliate others are the absolute worst. Yet, for whatever reason, language bullies don’t seem to get this, or they don’t care. Either way, they are out there at this very moment, lurking, lying in wait, ready to pounce. (They know you used the word nonplussed improperly the other day, and you will be hearing from them shortly. So prepare to feel dumb.)”
To avoid most encounters with language bullies, all you need to do is to avoid internet forums, comment sections, and similarly anonymous writing. I’ve learned that most language bullies don’t really practice their art directly to one’s face. Some of it is due to the realization that they know they are being asshats and the other part is that being clever in person is devilishly hard to do in real time.
The goal for all of us should be to wait until a language bully emerges and lashes out. At this point, our efforts should be focused toward pointing out the stupidity of their attempt and making them feel as if they are on the defensive. Not because they are right or wrong, but whether they are behaving right or wrong.
It will make language more fun for us all.
Linnaea Mallette http://goo.gl/uxzm5M I know this is an outdoor mural, but imagine something such as this inside your house.
The older I get, the more I am intrigued and even convinced how much more interesting our lives could be if we would have wall murals in our houses. Murals are great along public walls, in restaurants or in art galleries.
As an addition to one’s home, I think they could not only be interesting, but a cheaper alternative to traditional walls, paintings or decorations. Granted, I would prefer ones painted by members of the family, friends, co-workers, etc. Otherwise, support an art student or local artists by giving them permission to do the best they can, or even to surprise you. Murals can be “fixed” with a coat of paint. That’s not true of most decoration or style ideas in a house.
I know that we are supposed to be trapped and confined by our irrational obsession with “home value” and treat our lifeboxes as if they are nothing more than an investment to be devoid of interesting quirks and adornment. (By the way, I think “Lifebox” would be an ideal alternate name for the word “house.” It almost mocks the nature of what a residence is versus what it could be…)
(Another sidenote: we could convince HGTV to start another word’s creation: Crazywall. It would be used to indicate that an area or space has been deliberately done in a creative, crazy way.)
The title of this post seems rather obvious. But it’s not. Being around so much personal death in the last year has beaten this into my head.
You know that person that just drives you nuts to think about? She could be the one who seems holier-than-thou at church. Or he could be the guy who does no work, gossips, and then acts like everyone is out to get him.
These people will probably outlive you. They might publicly claim that it is a shame to hear of your death. But, secretly, there are those people who will internally rejoice in your passing or have feelings of relief that you are no longer sharing oxygen with them on this planet.
And that’s okay in the scheme of things.
I think this is absolutely true for almost everyone. I really do – and it’s probably unavoidable.
You should take a moment and think of the person you most dislike and visualize this person sneering at you after you are gone. It won’t make you feel better, but it will give you a glimpse of the utter futility in wasting your life or worrying about people and things beyond your control.
|Al Johnson and James Buck Terry|
|40th Reunion Picture (Note he used “Arthur” again the picture)|
My paternal uncle James Arthur Terry was one of those people who experienced the weirdness of name issues. I always called my dad’s brother “Uncle Buck.” Even though his dad (my grandfather) was also named James Arthur Terry, no one ever put a “Junior” on my uncle’s name. At risk of offending the family revisionists, he did not understand why my birth name had been botched so badly or why my mom and dad added the “Jr.”
Throughout my Uncle Buck’s school years, he used “Arthur” as his first name, even though James was his actual first name. Below is a picture from his high school graduating class. He’s the third from the right on the very bottom.
|Brinkley, Arkansas 1951 Senior Class|
It wasn’t until he moved away that he started using “James” or “Jim” in any real sense, not when he had a choice.
My Uncle Buck also named my cousin Jimmy, his son with his second wife “James,” but used “Lawrence” as his middle name to avoid any issue with the “Junior” nonsense. My cousin Jimmy didn’t like the name “James” very much and preferred Jimmy. Adding even more oddness to the story, my first cousin Jimmy names his only son Noah James Terry, reversing the first and last names of his aunt’s husband James Noah.
While many people called him “Buck,” much of the Brinkley family called him “Buster” instead of “Buck” or “James.” I can’t remember why those chose yet another name over either of the most common alternatives.
|James Arthur Terry and his first wife and 3 kids|
|James Arthur Terry and one of his favorite trucks, in Memphis, TN|
One of the things that I have always enjoyed doing is making hand-crafted boxes for kids. I’m not going to kid you though, no pun intended – some of these take me hours and hours to make. But I’ve never been disappointed in a child’s reaction. Many times it is very rewarding to see the parent’s faces, too, as they well know that the gift is a huge investment of time and thought.
(Sidenote: the entire process can be done with any size box. It can also be done with crates, dressers, tables, anything you can imagine.)
Usually, I buy unadorned wooden boxes from Hobby Lobby, the source of all things interesting. 🙂 You can use almost anything, though, especially if you don’t mind sanding or experimenting. Wal-Mart carries a very limited number and styles of wooden boxes in the craft/office areas in their stores.
I use tape to section off random portions, layering alternating colors as I hand paint, after removing the hinges and all hardware that might be one the box. Sometimes, I will paint for about 30 minutes each day to allow for the paint to totally dry while at the same time giving me the ability to ensure that the tape doesn’t pull on the paint as I remove it.
The key thing I recommend is to STOP worrying about telling yourself that you aren’t creative or don’t have the ability. I’ve found that many times I’ve learned something new when I make errors, even monumental ones.
One I’m more or less satisfied with the paint job, I then apply letters, painted characters, googly eyes (those eyes that come in packets and have black and white eyes that roll around inside the circular eyes), coins, colored letters, scrabble pieces, dice, small cars, anything and everything that is colorful or interesting. Some of the best ideas resulted from having a limited supply of interesting things to glue or attach to the box. When using wooden boxes, I can usually find a way to more easily apply some of the craziest objects using a variety of small screws.
Please forgive me as I write about my ideas and personal viewpoints. None of us agree on much of anything in this modern world. This blog is to share what’s going on in my head, not to lash out or make anyone defend their own heartfelt emotions or ideas…
Each of us is allotted a set number of years, weeks, months, hours, days and minutes.
During those millions of minutes, we all have an opportunity to share our selves and our lives with everyone around us, both with those we love and appreciate and those we merely tolerate in the background of our lives.
It’s up to us to succeed or fail in adding meaning and purpose to each encounter with our fellow human beings. We can talk face-to-face, on the phone, via email, or through pictures. Now, more than at any point in human development, we can maintain contact with anyone we want to.
Although I’ve said so many different ways, I simply don’t “get” funeral viewings. I’ll grant most people the exception that it became tradition and therefore lingers as a tradition as a result. But the mere idea of preservation and display of someone’s body for viewing after death is irrational and weird to me. All who know me agree that I am in no way disgusted or bothered by seeing a corpse. It’s just not something that bothers me like it does many people. Without trying to offend anyone, I can relate to someone’s wish to see someone immediately after death and before embalming and preparation. That is somehow natural and understandable to me. The aspect of another person processing another person’s body for display is what seems anachronistic and alien to me.
For christians or those believing in an afterlife, the body should almost be forgotten in one’s grief. If it is truly just a vessel for one’s soul, I can’t understand either the expense or process that lies behind the viewing tradition. Our memories and feelings are still very much with us.
For all of the funerals I’ve been involved with in the last few years, no one wanted a viewing. Yet, all of them except one were subjected to being viewed after preparation and embalming. Their wishes were not honored. And yes, I know that funerals are for the living and to allow them to let go of their loves ones.
If someone truly wishes for a viewing, this decision is weird to me. But to have a viewing for someone who had specified that they don’t want one and to perform a viewing anyway is especially troubling for me. I know that tradition and expectations are difficult things to deal with but each person should have the final vote, if possible.
I would ask only that anyone involved in a funeral take a long look at ‘why’ you might vote in favor of a viewing.
Below is a story written by my childhood friend Mike. He wrote it a few years ago and it is one of the best examples of nostalgia short story form that I’ve ever read. Not only because I’m involved, either. I later did a revised version, but this one is the simplest and most direct.
It was the summer of 1981. Reagan was in the White House, Styx was on the radio, and I was about to enter junior high school, about to cross that bridge from elementary school just like the Billy Goats Gruff. The promises of junior high school, with its class changes, personal lockers, real sports teams, and cheerleaders, beckoned like the green grass of the far meadow. The threats of junior high trolls- adolescence, puberty, and ninth graders- were nowhere in sight yet, especially on that hot August day. What was in sight was a financial quandary. I needed twenty dollars to rent a trumpet to participate in band, which was another cool thing about junior high school. A kid could be in a real band with a real instrument making real music, and I’m not talking about one of those plastic flutophone-recorder gadgets from grade school, either. Real instruments.
The only problem, however, was that my mother did not have twenty dollars. I know, because I pestered her until I was sure that she was not withholding the money to keep her house noise-free. She remembered quite well the flutophone days. I had no other prospects lined up, and I certainly didn’t have that sort of cash stashed away anywhere. Things looked bleak to be sure. Then, like a messenger from Heaven above, my dear friend, Bobby, came to my door to announce that my problems were solved. Bobby was a couple of years older and already in band. Bobby did not need the money for instrument rental, however, because he played the French horn. The French horn is a school-owned instrument, with no rental fee required. He told me that we had been offered a job that would pay us each twenty dollars, exactly. All we had to do was mow five acres with a high-wheeled Yazoo mower. Five acres, a push mower, and twenty bucks apiece, I thought. What could go wrong?
Five acres, you say? I exaggerate not. These five acres were on the side of hill, too. I mean really on the side of a hill. I am not telling some “when I was in school we walked to and from in the snow uphill both ways with old men throwing rocks at us” story, either. And if you aren’t familiar with the Yazoo push mower, suffice to say it is probably the heaviest push mower made. Mowing with a Yazoo is like pushing a Chevette. But with visions of financial gain and future trumpet glory, Bobby and I accepted the job.
On the first day of mowing, we arrived at the homestead and got to work right away. Five acres does not mow itself. All day long we mowed, one pushing the Yazoo while the other rested, switching when the first got tired. We mowed. We mowed forever. It was the longest day of mowing that I have ever known. As heavy as the Yazoo was, it seemed to gain weight as it ate each strip of grass. Each strip was hopelessly thin however, and progress was slow. If only the cutting width of the mower matched the length of the machine, then we could have finished in a third of the time. It became dreadfully obvious that the Yazoo, while a fine mower, was not the best choice to push mow five acres with.
Finally, the day was coming to a close as the sun started to lower in the west. We had only succeeded in mowing about half of the five acres. Weary from the day of labor and daunted by another day of the same, we decided to take a break. I couldn’t help think that the builders of the pyramid had it easier than we did. I was willing to bet that the rocks they moved were lighter than the Yazoo we were pushing. We stood exhausted near the top of a steep slope that was near the north end of the property, overlooking a small creek that bordered the estate. We rested comfortably after a hard day’s work, but little did we know that a near-death experience was waiting for me at the bottom of that hill.
I have tried in retrospect to determine just how the discussion between Bobby and me came about, but I can’t remember how or who or when the question of debate arose. I only know that a theory was proposed, either by Bobby or me, that a person could ride on top of the Yazoo mower down the hill, jump off of said Yazoo, and stop the Yazoo from plummeting into the creek below. A part of me believes that I was duped into defending the belief that it could be done. Whether that is true or not can only be answered by Bobby, but he either does not remember or does not want to disclose such a thing. After a time of spirited debate, it became apparent that a real life test was needed to settle the argument and determine a victor in the dispute. As I was the advocate that the feat could be accomplished, I was the obvious candidate for test pilot.
I climbed atop the Yazoo and sat upon the motor. The sweat forming on my brow was not from the heat of the August day. I was internally trying to find a way to bow out of the experiment. Bobby, sensing my second thoughts, quickly challenged me with words that no self-respecting twelve year-old can back down from. My fate was quickly sealed as I gave a gentle push with one foot to get the Yazoo going. As the red mower quickly picked up speed and rocketed down the hill, I learned three things: No other mower would “handle” as well as the Yazoo with the high wheels in the rear, no man in history has ever traveled as fast on a Yazoo push mower as I was, and NO MAN, EVER, could ride the mower to the bottom of the hill, jump off, and keep the Yazoo from flying into the creek.
The mind is capable of great thought in time of approaching peril. I realized quite quickly that I had left out an important factor in my earlier argument. The Yazoo was not mine. And though I knew that I could not stop the Yazoo, I knew I must try. I had a terrifying glimpse of my future in which I would have to mow these same soul-eating acres for the rest of my life to pay for Yazoo. The bottom of the hill rushed at me, precious seconds lost. At the bottom of the hill, I jumped off of the mower, and grabbed for the handle. With speed and grace and skill that I have yet to match in my lifetime, I was able to successfully dismount the machine and grab the handle. Instant joy turned to instant horror as the Yazoo jerked my 115-pound body horizontal to the ground. A bystander viewing the scene at that split second might have marveled at the sight of a flying Yazoo push mower and the airborne young boy trailing quickly after it. Thankfully, I was unable to hold on to the mower, which flew over the six-foot drop into the creek below.
I turned to look at the top of the hill. My former friend was gasping for breath in a silent scream of laughter. I had to make a choice: Return to the top of the hill and beat him to death or save the Yazoo from a watery grave. I decided to kill Bobby later as I slipped down into the creek below. Luckily, the water was only a couple of feet deep. I tried in vain to push the mower up the steep face of the drop-off, but 115-pound boys cannot push Yazoo mowers straight up a cliff of six feet. Bobby had since made his way to the bottom of the hill. The tears streaming down his face were not in sympathy for me, and every time he regained any semblance of composure, a mental replay of the event would start the laughing fit once again. I turned the Yazoo down-stream and waded the mower to a low bank where I was able to get the mower back on the ground it was meant to mow.
The Yazoo would not start. “My God in Heaven,” I thought. “I will have to mow this stupid five acres for the rest of my life: My own personal Purgatory to pay for a push mower.” I quietly pushed the Yazoo up on the porch of the residence. Luckily, the owner was not home, and my mother picked us up minutes later. My wet clothes were explained by a voluntary swim in the creek to cool off from a long day of work. She seemed to buy the story. The story I would have to sell the next day would not be bought as quickly. I had already planned to play dumb as to the reason the Yazoo suddenly didn’t work. “Worked fine yesterday,” I would say, with a stupid twelve year-old look on my face. Bobby, who shared half of the guilt, agreed to stick with the same story. The Yazoo had just died in its sleep, or so we wanted the owner to believe. We thought it might work, as there was not visible damage from the ride. The story was our only chance.
I did not fall asleep easily that night. I practiced my lines until finally the exhaustion caught up with me, and I slept. The ride to the estate the next day was like a slow walk to the principal’s office. The homeowner had already left for the day, so all of my rehearsing would have to wait. Just to go through the motions, we pulled the cord of the mower. In true Yazoo fashion, it started right up and mowing continued, with a joyous and thankful heart I might add. I learned later that a wet spark plug had been to blame. An eternity later, the five acres was finished and twenty dollars each was paid. No mention of the Yazoo land speed record was said to the owner of the land and the mower. Nor was this tale told for many years after. God had saved me from death and debt, just like He usually does. I also learned many other things from the experience, including the toughness of a Yazoo, the importance of thinking things through, and the beauty of the French horn. It’s a school-owned instrument you know.