Use It Up, Wear It Out, Make It Do When I was in elementary school I had a close friend named Clifford. His father was an inventor--I believe he came up with an early device that measured the amount of water in the ground, but I cant recall anything else he might be famous for. The family wasnt rich; they had enough, I suppose, but they never went out to eat and they always seemed to wear the same clothes, year in and year out. Very utilitarian, and this was back in the 1950s, long before the ecology movement, probably even before sustainability appeared in Websters dictionary. Anyway, Cliff and I went to school together, and after school wed often sit around at his house and throw his ten cent balsa wood glider into the air and try to make it do loops. He also had a kind of pinball game of baseball: you pulled on the knob and it shot a round metal ball through a series of hoops and where it landed, well, that was either a single or a double or a home run or an out. Many happy hours were spent tugging at that knob and sending the little ball hither and yon. And then, when I graduated from the sixth grade he moved away and Clifford went from being a close friend to a distant memory. He came to mind the other day, however, when I was dredging through our garage, which is stacked high with boxes from our old house. This is stuff thats been tucked away in storage for months-- clothes I will never wear again, books I couldnt bear to read, plates too ancient to soil or clean. In a word, I dont want this stuff. If I could, that is, if I wasnt restrained by the bonds of marriage and nostalgia, Id gladly set a match to it all. Worse yet, I packed everything in so much bubble wrap that none of it is damaged or broken. It could be worth a fortune; it could also be worthless, and therefore, I have to choose: if it wont fit into our new digs theres Goodwill or the garbage can or the future garage sale. Hats, masks, games, shampoo, umbrellas, pictures and postcards from people Ive long forgotten-my whole life comes gurgling up from these wretched boxes. Clifford, I think, wouldnt have lived this way. He had his foibles, but they didnt seem excessive. I know this because years later, after I got my drivers license, I made a trek out to visit him and his family in their home. It looked very much like their old place. Cliff was older, but even at seventeen, he hadnt changed all that much in my eyes. What did astonish me though, was his possessions: he still had the pinball machine in his room and also-I know you wont believe this --the ten cent glider. And the pinball machine still worked, and damn!--the glider still flew. To his credit, however, Cliff said he didnt use them so much anymore. You know, there comes a time when even a kid must put down his toys and get on with life. Thats the big lesson I took away that day. Now, where did I put those matches? Andy
Posted on: Sat, 02 Nov 2013 18:53:21 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015