It’s funny the things we keep. We have been going through sheds, rooms, and closets around our place to get rid of stuff. Stuff of all kinds. Stuff we thought we’d always need in order to have the memories. But mostly stuff. We started in January when my Grandpa Campbell died. After sixty years of moving from ranch to ranch in both cowboy and management jobs, a person would think that he wouldn’t have had much stuff. Wrong. My dad, Aunt Diane, cousin Brian, brother Ben and I went through everything. We took what we needed, and they’re still getting ready for the yard sale. Now, we’re going through OUR stuff. My dad pointed out a big box of mine that had in it FFA plaques, photo albums, rodeo numbers, etc. I went through it. Every plaque I had from my FFA days went into the trash can. Number one, I’ve got one shadow box full of the pins that go with every one of the plaques. It takes up a space on the wall that is eight inches by ten inches. Number two, they’re just plaques. Plaques that have been sitting in a box for twenty years. I think I can let go. Then I went through the photo albums. I kept the pictures that had me and friends posing in certain places, rodeo pictures, and that was it. I literally threw away ninety-nine per cent of the photos I went through. They were of places, not memories. So, I figured I’d get rid of them. I kept a picture of me getting baptized in a water trough with a horse named Buckeroo Blue getting ready to drink out of it. And I kept the picture of me winning the round on the same horse later that day. Those are keepers. I kept an album from a trip I took to Washington, D.C. It has all the letters I wrote, research projects, and all that. I put it on a shelf in my office. We got rid of cassette tapes: George Strait, Garth Brooks, Baxter Black. For one, I don’t have anything to play them on. Furthermore, I can get the songs I like of the internet and not have to store the tapes. Then I got to the high school year books. Actually, I found junior high and high school year books. I couldn’t find my senior year book, and it’s actually the one I’d like to keep. The other ones, I missed the signing parties, and I really don’t care a whole lot for the junior high ones. What does a guy do with those? I told my dad I really ought to keep all this stuff so my kids can go through all of it when I die. He responded, “So they can go, ‘Why in the world did Dad keep all of this crap?’” That’s when I started pitching. Trophies, pictures, and scrapbooks littered those boxes, and I realized that nine tenths of it was just junk. I’ve got things that do mean something. Furniture my grandpa has built. My Uncle Roy’s bronc spurs. My great grandpa’s original brand slip. Saddles and tack that all have some personal meaning. But when it really comes down to it, most of it is junk. As I began to throw things away, I sang the part of “The Old Rugged Cross,” that says, “’Til my trophies at last I lay down.” I realized that the things that really matter are the memories, the relationships, the stories, not the certificates, plaques, and buckles. Most of the buckles I’ve won have somehow disappeared over the years, but not the relationships. Most of the stuff we keep is not all that useful. Most of the memories we keep make us who we are. I suppose some things we keep because they remind us of certain places and people and times in our lives, but I’m realizing that if they’re just sitting in a box in a shed, then I really don’t need them. Right now, we’re building some rail fence around a little pasture out behind the house. The pasture needs a fence. Mandi’s family’s place is replacing a bunch of rail fence with barbed wire. The rails were split by Mandi’s great-great grandpa, John Trimble about 130 years ago. They’re still in good shape, and they’re free. And they’re useful. To me, that’s worth more than a box full of bad pictures of generic places. I kept the ones that mean something: Dally Taylor, Bill Schonely, and me in the broadcast booth at Pendleton; Mary Wachter, Melinda Wachter, Katy Blanchet and me on the bus to the National FFA Convention in ’90; me on the rim of the Grand Canyon in January of ’95. Those are pictures that will actually be worth something. I threw away the one of the Navajo market, the one of the Dallas Mavericks game, and the one of the skyline of Fort Worth. They don’t really matter much. So, now there’s a box full of plaques, pictures, and stuff ready to go to the dump. All of it meant the world to me at some point in my life, and now, it’s just trash. In Matthew 6, Jesus tells us, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” I’m beginning to see where my treasure lies.
Posted on: Mon, 10 Nov 2014 04:32:34 +0000
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