My friend Bill asked me to come to Klamath Falls to help him out. I asked twice what sort of help he needed. He wouldn鈥檛 tell me, except to say, 鈥淏ring gloves.鈥�
He admitted when I arrived that he was afraid if he told me, I might change my mind and stay home in Eugene. But that would make sense only to a stubborn 82-year-old Midwesterner, a man determined to hold onto his pride even longer than his health.
He owns a house in a little town not far from Klamath Falls and last winter he had to evict the tenants. Times are tough everywhere, but small towns offer even fewer options for those who are struggling. The house has been mostly empty for several months. The job of getting it completely empty required gloves.
The couple didn鈥檛 leave the place in shambles. They didn鈥檛 exact any sort of revenge for their unscheduled and forced departure. It is, after all, a small town. But they stopped caring before they left, and the sadness of their unmet hopes filled several closets.
I know people who love a fixer-upper, who regularly sort through the detritus left by others. I suppose it鈥檚 something you can get used to, but I wouldn鈥檛 wish it on anyone. I could see the sadness 鈥� was it in or on? 鈥� Bill. Fortunately for me, I never met the couple who had lived there almost two years.
He must have been a tinkerer and she was a garage sale shopper. The deep fat fryer with the damaged electrical cord still had the sticker with 鈥�$5鈥� written on it. The restaurant-sized iced tea dispenser must have looked good on a hot Saturday afternoon, but it had gathered dust in the corner of the garage ever since. I knew at least one of them had wanted to get things organized, because I piled over a dozen storage bins of various shapes and sizes, most missing their lids, into Bill鈥檚 pick-up truck.
I counted 17 bags of bottles and cans. Collectively, they may have represented the couple鈥檚 retirement strategy.
After three days of cleaning and multiple dump runs, I came home to Eugene with renewed resolve not to ask or allow others to feel obligated to follow behind me with gloves on. I鈥檝e been on this campaign for a while now, but my vigor was renewed.
Last summer I pulled everything from my attic, lined it all up in my living room, had a yard sale, made several trips to various donation depots, and then rented and filled a full Dumpster. I started the same process in my pantry and fridge, determined to see the back wall of each.
I drank or donated the spare teas I鈥檝e been offering house guests since the Carter administration. I found a good rice recipe that will deplete my stash of tumeric, but I鈥檓 not sure I鈥檒l live long enough to drain my single spice jar of fenugreek.
I counted the hangers in my closet and promised myself that I would buy (or accept) no more. If I wanted to buy a shirt or a pair of pants, it would have to replace a garment I can do without.
Now I鈥檓 working through my stored toiletries, using all those tiny bars of so-called soap from decades of hotel stays. I never meant to keep them all, but I didn鈥檛 take the trouble to throw them out either. 鈥淛ust in case鈥� slowly has accrued into 鈥淚 need a bigger case.鈥�
I鈥檒l keep it up until I have only what I intend to have, or until I find I no longer care. So far, the smart money is on the former.
I鈥檝e taken this urge to its natural conclusion and I鈥檝e started shopping for my favorite spot to store whatever is left of my physical presence. There鈥檚 a plot on a knoll under an oak tree that caught my eye. My sons think I鈥檓 being silly and I hope they are right, but I鈥檇 rather be too early than too late.
