Ruthless is not my middle name…

Puppets and Marionettes from Long Ago

When it comes to downsizing, I’m having just a wee bit of trouble.  Not with “current-day” (meaning the last 25 or 30 years) stuff — clothes that have lost their mojo; dishes and cookware we never really liked or got the hang of; tools or implements that just need a little TLC to be useful again.  Nope — those things are easy-peasy to recycle to Good Will  or to a thrift store or even to a friend who has an art project in mind.

For me it mostly the written word — books, letters, documents, research notes, news clippings about the family — that I find difficult to part with.  For Nyel, it’s tools and “projects” that he began but has never quite finished — things tucked away in the garage that he still kinda wants to do but…  I don’t know if you call our problem “hoarding” or “inertia” or “terminal nostalgia.”  Whatever it is, our watchwords have become “Be ruthless!”

An Invitation from Gordon in Anguish Languish

The hardest of all are the Years of Whimsy — probably the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s.  They were the years I was beginning to teach, that I had friends among the old beatniks of North Beach and the hippies in the Haight.  They were the years when I moved up here and oversaw the building of my house designed by Noel and constructed by Ossie and his new-to-the-area sons-in-law Wolfgang and Guenter.  They were the days of letters written in Anguish Languish, of costumes worn in and out of Peninsula Players productions, of puppets and marionettes or a jester’s marotte sitting atop the wooden toilet tank (pull chain variety) or peeking out from the books along the shelves in my office.  And they were the years when Nyel and I were newly together.

Re-reading, re-visiting, reviewing are all slowing me way, way down.  But what a lovely and re-invigorating time it is.  Ruthless or not.

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