As its sole resident, it is entirely up to me what to keep in my home. The furniture and sundries filling the space are largely what came through the door on move-in day, a collection that serves the purpose reasonably well.
That said, my stuff DOES fill the space. While I could shoehorn other furnishings in, the rooms’ functionality would be diminished, cluttering and impeding domestic life.
As its sole resident, it is entirely up to me what to keep in my home. The furniture and sundries filling the space are largely what came through the door on move-in day, a collection that serves the purpose reasonably well.
That said, my stuff DOES fill the space. While I could shoehorn other furnishings in, the rooms’ functionality would be diminished, cluttering and impeding domestic life.
As such, I have struggled to resist the siren song of acquisition. Friends have offered items they no longer use, like a kitchen table wholly superior to what I have now. I demurred at the gift, if only to avoid the dilemma of what to with my current table, a pretty oak number with spiral legs that’s not well suited for kitchen use, but not useless or ugly enough to discard.
I’ve also avoided the lure of garage sales, fighting the urge to pull over and peruse someone else’s castoffs. If I stop, I’ll see something I like, not something I need, at a price point too enticing.
Perhaps the toughest temptation has been Things Left by the Roadside. If I don’t avert my eyes, my mind reels with wonder, as in I wonder if (item name here) is in good shape, I wonder if that would look good in (room name here), or I wonder if that would work better than (name of thing I already own).
But then came a couch. I already had one, but this couch belonged to a friend of a friend and did not fit into a recently-moved-into domicile and was purchased only last year, and they just want it to go to someone who could use it. Would I take it?
Despite my No Further Acquisition rule, I agreed. The next day, a strong pal with a pickup truck helped me haul the new sofa inside and the old one to the curb.
Slowly, my enthusiasm for the new couch grew. It was, honestly, more comfortable than its predecessor, and the micro suede fabric was more attractive.
But my former settee looked awfully forlorn there on the lawn. Despite its age, it was in top-notch condition, but the prominent, cheery “Good Couch Free” sign attracted no attention until late that afternoon. What looked like a mother and college-aged son stopped, briefly inspected and heaved it into their Ford F350, then drove off.
A welling of emotion at this occurrence surprised me. This was the couch my children played on as boys and sat on with girlfriends as young men. A couple of our dogs used it as their front window neighborhood surveillance observation post. It was the setting of the last photo I have of my brother, posing with his wife, my sons, dog, and me. That couch, full of memories, was now relegated to remembrance.
But perhaps the old couch was destined to make new memories. Maybe it is now in the college kid’s first off-campus apartment, hosting study hours, party guests, or sessions of video games and making out. And perhaps it is healthy to be less sentimental about this possession passing from my hands, like they all eventually will.
So, we move forward resolving to recall the past without being too attached to it. Plus, I have a new piece of furniture that functions better than the old. Maybe I’ll remember this next time I’m offered a better kitchen table.
Pat Grimes, a former South Bay resident, writes from Ypsilanti, Mich. He can be reached at grimespat19@gmail.com
