Stuff of Life | jennynoa

The Stuff of Life

This all likely began in the womb, but for the purposes of this story, I’ll say it was first grade. I arrived at school one day and was delighted to find that a thick paper ruler had been attached to the upper section of each of our desks. It was about a foot long and bore distinct marks, a simple sort of learning tool you could easily imagine in a first grade classroom. From that day on, I could hold up a piece of paper or a pen, or anything, and measure its length.

The appearance of the ruler was a lovely surprise. Something we all received, just for showing up, unattached to arbitrary skill sets. It was so equitable. Even at that age I knew how rare it was for no one to have to lose.

Being pathologically well-behaved, I was almost afraid to touch the gift, but the same wasn’t true for many of my schoolmates, who in no time had added their names and doodles, had punched holes, and drew squiggles, as kids do. It was some time before I felt brave enough to claim mine, and even then, all I did was slide my hand underneath it when I was reading, or during heads-down, or whenever I had a hand free to do so. Because it was mine.

Some weeks later, we arrived one morning to find that many of the rulers that had been vandalized had been removed, including mine. Obviously, our teacher had had it up to here with us, the ungrateful children who had not sufficiently appreciated the gift she’d given us. As punishment, we ruler-defilers were tasked with cleaning our desks of the ink and whatnot. There was no ink on my desk, just the telltale gum from the tape, the only sign that my ruler had ever existed at all. I needed to ask for the teacher’s help to remove it, which in retrospect is particularly galling. It’s like asking your attacker to help you get the bloodstains out of the rug.

Now, the winners in this little drama were the ones who were least impressed with the gift. Those that got to keep their rulers didn’t have to clean their desks, so they were rewarded, essentially, for never claiming their rulers as their own in the first place. Dullards. I loved mine, and I lost it. Because I touched it.

This is just one of the contributing factors in my very layered, complicated relationship with Things, particularly the Things I’ve been given by Others. Our teacher’s message was not, “I am giving you this thing. It’s yours now.” It was, “I’m entrusting this thing into your care, and you will keep it in mint condition until your death.” The problem is, I was already wired for that sort of attitude, and the experience with the rulers sealed my fate. I’m convinced it is why I never burn the candles that have been given to me as gifts, such that I periodically have to give away a small stash of acquired candles, and not because I don’t like them. It’s because I like them too much.

I have this ceramic egg with a blue-and-white design, about the size of an egg. We three Noa Girls each got one in our stockings one Christmas, back in the late seventies. We were tchotchke-oriented and happy enough to have another thing to call our own. I think I need to make it clear that the egg was not in any way a particularly favorite possession of mine. But I’ve seen to its care ever since. You have to be able to cycle your knickknacks, I guess? Give some away, acquire new ones … I can’t seem to do that.

I don’t necessarily want the egg, but I’m stymied as to what else I should do with it. Do people just throw this stuff away? It should be obvious by now that I am not one of those people. If I donated it to a thrift store, would it sit alone on a shelf forever? Who would buy it? No one, which makes me literally feel bad for the egg. But there must be someone out there, right? How do I find that person? These questions arise every time I uncover the egg, and in every case, it seems easiest to just put it back in That Drawer. Which is what I have done.

Both of my sisters are pretty sure they still have their eggs somewhere.

If we want to dig a little deeper — and I invariably do — this tendency to hold onto things was reinforced by my mother’s habit of cleaning our rooms for us when they got too messy and she was fed up. And by clean, I mean she took a garbage bag and indiscriminately threw away some of our belongings. A lot of stuff I liked went into the garbage. And for a while, at least, I had no recourse, no voice to argue. It’s impossible for me, even as an adult, to ask anyone to help me go through my things, or even help prepare for a move. In some way I am still standing there watching my mother throw my things away. Mortified by my choices, embarrassed by the mess.

When Mark very occasionally cleaned out a drawer or something, I carefully picked through the garbage to see what of my things he saw fit to throw away. I was not always rational. Of particular concern were the childhood things — the games, toys, gifts, the detritus of childhood, really. My things are a chronicle of what’s happened to me, they hold the memories. And my mother consigned a lot of that to the trash, including my childhood teddy bear. I couldn’t save him, and I am not saying it ruined me, but it ruined something.

Studies have been done in which a subject is given a thing and then is offered the chance to trade that thing for an objectively better thing. Most choose to keep the first crappy thing. That’s me. Backed by science.

When traveling recently I saw this young family. The mom held the kid’s hand, and the dad held the kid’s helium balloon. And he was being really cute about it, smiling at the kid, marching along with the balloon. Being a good dad except for the part where he was just holding the string in his hand. I was like, “Are you going to tie that string to your wrist, or do I have to do it for you?” Mister, balloons are famous for doing what you’re taunting it to do right now. Lose that balloon and you are going to ruin that kid.

My husband was not, despite his occasional wild hairs, much different from me in the collecting department, though naturally the stuff he acquired and kept differed from mine. We were together for twenty years, and in that time we gathered and moved our crap together across the country, all the way from New Jersey, like a glacier. And now he’s gone, so his stuff has been imbued with this weighty importance. “I belonged to a dead person,” it says, “and he sure loved you.” From the Civil War books to the concert ticket stubs, to his grandfather’s baseball encyclopedia, I want to do right by everything. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’m the curator of his collection, his history. It sometimes seems like a huge burden, both physical and emotional. That I’m ill-equipped for this task should be crystal clear.

I think about it all the time: who is going to clear out my stuff when I die? And how will I posthumously explain the egg?

“Did she leave a will?”

“Nope. Just a lengthy apology.”

The house I live in has been a rental for over thirty years, so it’s a bit shabby. I often fantasize about being able to buy it and how I’d renovate it, but I think this is just because I can’t stand the idea of packing and moving. Buying this money pit would be worth it to me to avoid that. Lately, I’ve begun to imagine a scenario where I’m forced to move because of the termites, or the pipes, or the wiring, or any of the other perfectly legitimate health and safety concerns that might condemn the place. And I think I would just sell everything, and start over again, somewhere far away, like England. Or maybe I’d drag my stuff out to the street and post a FREE sign. What I’d lose in potential yard sale dollars I’d make up for in not having to have a yard sale. Which is a fair trade, in my opinion.

Buyer, pitying: “How much for the egg?”

Me, panicking: “It’s not for sale! It’s a floor model!”

It’s clear this is about deservability. If I don’t believe I should have received the gift, that I’m worth the expense, then to sell or trade or give the thing away is to claim it in a way I’m not comfortable with. These things don’t really belong to me; I’m just their keeper.

And let’s not forget the Earth. How much landfill space should Jenny really get? That ruler is still biodegrading. It’s too late for the Earth, I very much fear, but it still matters to me that I’m not contributing more than my share. And yet, no matter what — and this was a huge epiphany for me — whether an item sits in a drawer or sits in a landfill, it is still taking up the exact same amount of space. On the bright side, it seems I’ve hit a crucial tipping point: I don’t want to keep the thing as much as I want it to be gone, finally. Better to confront it, move it along to someone who would like it, or just call it garbage and throw it away. And then stop collecting more stuff.

Happily, I am not paying these issues forward. I gift the children in my life by remembering the thrill of that ruler, that simple little something for nothing. And I’m pretty clear on this — it’s theirs to do with what they will. If the first act is to pull the thing apart, or roll over it with their Big Wheel, I don’t care. I encourage it. I don’t want them to keep it forever or attach special meaning to it because I gave it to them. It’s theirs to make their own. For gift giving, we’ll call it my ruler of thumb.