Pictures in an album

One of my many current projects combines my family's packrat problem with my attempts to declutter.

Sometimes you don't want to get rid of things that have sentimental value, but keeping them in a box, buried deep in a closet, serves no purpose.  If things are hidden away, and  you never see them, is there really much point in still having them?  (I know, there are exceptions to every rule, but hear me out).

My family took lots of pictures.  They had them developed, and then they put them in boxes, albums, more boxes, folders, envelopes, and, occasionally, frames.  They did this for decades.  And then they died.  Without ever having gotten rid of one picture, much less the negatives.

And I got the them.  All of them.  Boxes and albums and folders and envelopes and frames worth.  In addition to the ones I'd scavenged myself over the years.

These pictures were a huge part of my childhood.  Whenever I was visiting a relative, I always asked to look through the picture box and made them tell me stories.  Same with my mom -- if I was bored, it was always, "Tell me a story."  At least until I got old enough to dig through them and make up my own stories, which was sometimes even better.

I realized recently, while I was cleaning out the living room closet, that I had almost two full copy paper boxes of old photographs.  WTF?

In addition to all those pictures, I had two vintage photo albums, the kind with the cord ties and black construction paper pages.  Two BRAND NEW vintage photo albums, because apparently they were too good to ever use either.

Does anyone still even make those little paper corners for putting photos into albums?  I'm sure they do, but after wondering for a few minutes, instead I dumped all the pictures on the floor (should have taken a photo of THAT), did a quick sort for duplicates, blurry photos, crap I didn't want and cemetery photos (family liked to take pictures of headstones with flowers for relatives who couldn't attend funerals -- thankfully someone had already culled the photos from the viewings, because I really didn't want to run into any dead relatives), and then I started in with putting the photos in the albums.

I started with my great-grandmom and my great-aunts and grandfather, because that's where the photos started.  I'm working my way through my mom's early childhood at this point, and I've just started the second album.  I think by the time I get through the second one, I'll have dealt with my own childhood.

And I'm doing something unspeakable.  I'm not using little photo corners.  I've taken a glue stick to all these precious hundred year old photographs and you know what?  I'm the only one who's probably ever going to see them -- or value them -- so who cares?  They're a lot more protected in an album than they were getting all creased and torn in boxes, and I'm having a really good time going through them and deciding how to place them, and which ones to keep and which ones to throw away.

I'm also not having a problem throwing photos away.  If there were 10 pictures taken at the same family birthday party, I don't need to keep all 10.  I need to keep one or 2 that have everyone in them, or a particularly good shot of someone I loved, but the rest of them can go in the recycling.

It's actually very freeing.  If I'm going to keep a museum to the past in my house, and we all do, in some form or another, it's going to be a curated museum, with the pieces chosen and displayed just so, in a way that can be enjoyed.

And the rest can go, with my thanks.  Their work here is done.

Letting Go

I'm still wandering through my house, throwing things out, sending bags to the thrift store (a belated exchange for all the bags I've carried home), handing off to friends, and I'm about to start a (hopefully) profitable relationship with Craigslist.

But last Friday, I did an event in Philly with another crafter, and he's getting these plates.  He was kind enough to give me a ride -- the event starts at 2:00 p.m. and my knight in shining Subaru isn't available until 6:00 p.m. -- and he makes really amazing jewelry from old china.  

I have a plate rail in my dining room, lined with old plates in blues, browns and reds.  These are extras.  The top left is mutton dressed as lamb (new plate masquerading as old).  There are two chipped Blue Willow plates, a brown-and-white transferware called "Royal Mail", which I already have 3 of on the rail, and the red Asian-inspired plate.

That one has a story.  A former co-worker went to Spain at least 10 years ago, and asked what I wanted.  I asked for pottery -- preferably folk art style, something that definitely said Spain.  She brought back this sort of Red Willow-looking plate, which is lovely but not what I wanted.  I thanked her, because it was a gift and it was nice of her to think of me, much less schlep a plate all the way from Madrid, but I've never found the right place to display it.

And it's gone now, because I realized that the gift and the gratitude and the memory are sufficient; I don't need a plate that I'm never going to use, stored away in a cabinet that could be holding something else.  It's going to make some lovely jewelry, and I might even treat myself to a piece of it -- it might not look good on a plate rail, but I'll bet it will be lovely on a silver chain.

That's what I'm working toward

I know I've mentioned that I’m trying to clean out the house of all the family and previous-owner related stuff, and also a lot of what I've accumulated over my 15 years in this too-large pile of bricks. I have vague yearnings toward a smaller house with more ground attached, and even if that doesn't come to pass (as it well might not, reality and jobs and things being what they are), I'm still moving forward as if moving were in our future, just to give us a little more space in the space that we have.

Whatever you want to call it – decluttering, destashing, minimizing, downsizing, decrapifying – it's all really hard.

And it shouldn't be this hard. Why are we so attached to our stuff? And so much of it? I can see my attachment to certain things that have sentimental value, or that I've made, or that were given to me by someone I care about, but some of it . . . why was it so hard to clean out the junk drawer in the kitchen? Why did I get sweaty palms thinking that someday, I might need that pack of thumbtacks, that box of toothpicks (both never opened), that extra, extra, extra Phillips head screwdriver (in spite of having 2 full tool boxes already)?  If I throw it out, and I need it, I probably will still have one, and if not, I’ll find something else that will do.

In the last couple of months, I've taken about 10 shopping carts worth of crap to the thrift store, including a small, square black-and-white TV. Really? Why was that still deep in a closet? It worked, but who cares if it does? I don’t replace technology just because it gets a little outdated, but a black-and-white TV with tubes – even I have to draw the line there.

The closet's going to be the hardest part yet. Almost everything left in it is something I've made, and even if it doesn't fit, or it’s not flattering on me, I remember how much work went into it, or how much the fabric cost, or where I was when I bought it.

 But I think I'll feel better once I do it. Every time I take another load out of the house, I feel like I've lost weight, and I have, even if it's just off the joists and in my head. Sometimes I think less can be more.

And that’s what I’m working toward.