Too much leftover stuff in the garage
| Saturday, Nov 26 2011 09:48 PM
Last Updated Saturday, Nov 26 2011 09:49 PM
Do you give the crutches away? It will be a year next Wednesday since my hip operation. Give them away and, the next thing you know, you have your feet amputated.
Last weekend, I found myself in the garage going through stuff. Dusty stuff. Not-being-used stuff. Begging-to-be-given-away stuff.
I had the garage door open, and neighbors passed by walking their two dogs.
"Don't say yes when friends want to give you something," I said.
They nodded and knew exactly what I was talking about.
"Even if it's free," one of them said, "it's not free."
You almost have to sift through your possessions every couple of months and unload the excess. Stuff that promises to protect us or add future pleasure will just as easily cast a spell on us. Ten is my number, as in I will give away 10 things. There is no significance to 10 other than if you reduce the inventory by 10, you stay five ahead of whatever is sneaking in the back door.
Golf clubs. A thoughtful gift from a friend years ago who detected interest in the game. I'd start with a few perfunctory games and then hit the senior tour. In a few months, I'd be swapping stories about my prostate with Arnold Palmer.
You'd think a nice bag of clubs sitting in a corner of the garage would help. It doesn't. When I look at the clubs, they remind me of something I said I'd do but haven't done. The clubs sing to me when I look at them: "You are weak and you have no follow through."
My idea was that I would play golf with the kids when they come home. I imagined us at the driving range, challenging one another with 75-yard drives. A day well spent on the links.
I hoisted the clubs into the back of the truck. Clunk. When I slung them over the tailgate, one of the woods, made from virgin persimmon, nearly came out of the bag and hit me on the forehead.
Beach umbrellas. Where did they come from and how many do you need? We have three, and now there are two of us. Unless we mounted the third umbrella on top of the other two, like a cheerleader at the top of the pyramid, we could surrender the umbrella.
The two-foot long shoehorn was next. I'd bought the shoehorn when I was half zonked on morphine after my hip operation. I was ripe for buying, and the smooth-tongued devil who came by my hospital room with the luxury toilets, sock jockeys and long shoehorns was ripe for selling.
The two-foot long shoehorn is good because you don't have to bend over and do a set of burpees in order to put on your shoes. It almost looks like a prop in a barbershop quartet. Lida Rose, I'm home again, Rose, with a long shoehorn in my hand."
How about the roll of blue and white linoleum we had left over from the upstairs bathroom? Maybe I'd add another bathroom. In my spare time. By myself.
Next to the linoleum was a box of small white tiles used for the Jacuzzi area. When I added the bathroom, I could make the ceiling look like the Sistine Chapel.
Finally, the crutches that I had used during rehabilitation. They had saved my life and almost taken it. They allowed me to drag myself up the stairs and then, a couple of times, I had nearly catapulted myself off the top stair on the way down.
I kept the crutches. You never know. No, you probably do.
These are the opinions of Herb Benham, not necessarily those of The Californian. Email him at hbenham@bakersfield.com.
