This afternoon while Jon was trying to nap and Pfluffer was trying more steadfastly to keep him awake, I went outside. I haven’t spent much time outside this summer, in attempt to not aggravate any of the symptoms I am facing.
It would be rather unpleasant if I were to fall while Jon was on a mission to Target. I’d likely just “stay put” since I falter when standing and would need assistance just to get up and brush pine needles off my robe. Today though was different.
I was craving the quietness of outside, here in the hinterlands. My soul needed recharging. My aura had become tarnished. And the time had come for me to take back at least a semblance of control in managing my health. Perhaps it was the garden angels that lured me outside like sirens of the pines. I sat down at the table that, for over a decade, had been my private smoking lounge. My intent was to meditate a bit and, later, watch the five new kittens frolic.
Sitting outside, though, doomed me from the start. My thoughts drifted toward the challenge of packing, should we move. The more I obsessed about the inevitable details, the more rigid and arched my body became.
At that point, I visualized all of our “stuff”, collected over many lifetimes. I began mentally noting all of the collections that would require special handling and care. Of course, I eventually made partial lists of said “stuff”, but left them all to my memory so I could prolong any denial and avoid a commitment.
Neither Dr Markle nor I are “Hoarders Without Borders” but we share healthy penchants for porcelains, books, and regional pottery. The following includes probably 2% of what we’ll eventually face:
One hundred and seven undoubtedly “special” mugs and coffee cups, nineteen Majolica pitchers, thirty-five candle sticks, and my fifty-two 19th C. figural humidors. My calm and determined other half collects Frankoma, currently numbering well over three hundred pieces. Similarly, Henry and I have a weakness for Roseville, especially the Pine Cone and Luffa series.
Together we own huge quantities of over six patterns of dishes including Queensware, Vietri, Fiesta, and Singapore Bird. Most of the pieces are in the storage room; we only have four kitchen cabinets and about 175 sq/ft of counter-space. Did I mention Jon’s prized casserole dishes crafted by local potters? Or my nine cookie jars? The list could go on almost ad infinitem.
I best include the over 2,000 books, 1000 Christmas ornaments, 23 different medications, and an eclectic mix of original art, lithographs, and emotionally-charged photographs. The Twelve Noble and Apostolic Pusses of Marklewood currently number ten, five of which are plump, active, and extremely friendly kitties. The indoor clowder, that is perhaps a little heavy on the pride side, includes Pfluffer, Henry, Claudja (named for disc diva Ms Barry) and Hermione, as in Gingold.
By that point I grew quite weary of and melancholy with the entire notion of relocating … anywhere. Yawning and stretching, taking a nap seemed ideal. Fortunally both Jon and Pfluffer were sound asleep. (Or, as we say here in the deeper annals of the South: “That don’t make no never mind!”)
As I carefully with full, yet slow precision made my way to the front stoop, I hummed “I’ve Got a Little List.” Thank you, KoKo. Incidentally, Mitchell Butel, of “Avenue Q”,with Sydney’s Opera Australia sings the most engaging version albeit with a few changed lyrics. The inclusion of both modern Pop references and society’s quirks balances the operetta’s awkward political incorrectness.
My best advice these days to young adults is a passionate “Do not collect. Do not collect. Do not collect!” I’ll repeat if necessary.