In the writers’ group, we were presented with five prompts to loosen our creative memory and write.
“Take 15 minutes to jot down a story or experience. We’ll have fun reading them. Choose one.”
I chose, “What were you thinking?” Several writers chose the same prompt.
“What were you thinking?” became stories about accumulating junk and being burdened by stuff with no benefit for us today. It’s amazing what we’ve collected over a lifetime that seemed important at the time we acquired it.
Some of us began scaling down in our 70s. I refused to go to any more garage sales no matter how enticing they were. In the past, I bought things because they were a good deal, never to use them, only to store them away. What was I thinking? It was a bargain, and that made it OK.
My Sweet Al isn’t there yet. He wants to go to garage sales. He’s still hanging on to things. He finds enjoyment sorting through his little purchases, looking at them, moving them around and forgetting where he put them.
At 80 and 90, who has the physical energy to do anything with all that stuff? Our kids worry that they will be saddled with our fun and frivolous years of collecting. They have already warned us that a roll-off dumpster is on its way and they will send our special finds to the dump. Our treasures mean little to them.
One writer said she had five waffle irons. What was she thinking? Another writer talked about the filing cabinets filled with slides, pictures that can’t be used today. Another had made friends with her books and she couldn’t let go. After all, they were friends.
It’s all interesting since the majority of our writers’ group is between 60 and 90 years old. Everyone has gathered so much stuff they will never use, but can’t turn loose.
That is how it is with my art. I have five cabins filled with oil and watercolor paintings and painted furniture. I still have art supplies, every size of frame, a mat cutter and mats, 50 art books on how to paint using different techniques. I could never pass up a good bargain on a frame. Never knew when I might need it.
In my cabins sit two art tables and three large easels. One easel belonged to a well-known artist, Claire Goldrick. She probably wondered where that big beautiful easel was. How can I turn loose of that one? She did, but I can’t. None of my art supplies have been used since I started my new creative endeavor, writing. I haven’t picked up a brush for the last 10 years. But when someone says, “Just have a garage sale and sell your paintings for $10 each,” I recoil inside.
It has become a moot conversation, with a strong, “No.” My art represents 50 years of my life. I love my paintings and I’d rather give them away than have someone buy them because they are a bargain. They need to love my art. If they don’t, then it’s not for them. My life isn’t a bargain or a garage sale find. Oh, me. What has become of “Me?”
I am very aware that the dumpster is waiting in the wings to take my art things away. It’s just a matter of time before I step off stage for another leading actor to take my place, namely my son.
“What were you thinking?” The writing assignment stared me in the face. I couldn’t turn to my own undoing with my art, so I turned to my muse, my Sweet Al. He is always a story to be told. I immediately remembered the conversation I had with my daughter over the weekend.
I asked her, “Have you seen the closet? Your dad’s shoes are scattered all over the closet floor. What was he thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
I asked Al what he was thinking—why his shoes were out of the rack and on the floor?
He had a reasonable answer. “I was trying to find a pair for church.”
“Yikes. You have taken all 48 spaces in the three racks. Four pairs of cowboy boots on the top of the shoe rack, not worn in years, and winter boots lined along the wall, not to mention totes of hunting boots.
You have every kind of tennis shoes imaginable, polished wingtips, black and brown Florsheim from the ‘50s, slip-on loafers and six pairs of house shoes. Your shoe fetish has gotten out of hand. Surely you could’ve found one pair to wear to church.”
There’s always a reason. Maybe not rational, but a reason. I think I know what Al was thinking. In his hey day, he was a very successful salesman. He never left the house without his shoes polished. He believed that his polished shoes made him look successful and he sold more insurance. He was successful because his shoes were polished.
In his younger days, he would sneak a new pair of shoes into the house. He would put them high in the back of the closet. On occasion, he’d pull a pair down from the almost out-of-reach shelf. When I asked him where he got those shoes, he would reply, “Oh, these old things, they’ve been up in my closet forever.”
So, there you have it. Al’s shoe fetish takes up one closet we share, my art takes up five cabins. We can’t turn loose of them.
Final brushstroke: Well, I know where I’m going to start purging. I’m going start with Al’s shoes. I’m going to bag them up and give them to the homeless. They will love them and will look successful.
Views expressed do not necessarily represent those of The SUN.
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