Stuff

by Jay ClarkiNSTUFF

We all have it, don’t we? Call it what you will: personalty, junk, books, furniture, coffee cups, photographs, clothing unworn for years or outgrown, memorabilia, souvenirs, letters, etc. Take a walk around your abode and do a quick catalog of what you have amassed and continue to retain in your life. Is your list long or short?

I figured out that in my lifetime, I have had mailing addresses at 22 different locations encompassing 12 different cities and towns in six different states over 76 years. I’m uncertain that all these moves were the result of nomadic instincts, boredom, marital incompetence, or being run out of places by popular demand. In any event, I’ve had more than my share of chances to accumulate an esoteric pile of “stuff.” I could never be classified as a convert to minimalism, but I am increasingly willing and even eager to at least begin to shed “stuff.” I’d like to think that it is not an affectation and that I am really inspired by the theologian Jacques Maritain, who commented, “How much there is in this world I do not want.” It was probably a foregone conclusion that the guy would be an anti-materialist since he’d taken a lifetime vow of poverty. Being a theologian, he probably was referring to having no interest in fame and adulation. I’d be happy to forego those things too and would be totally content with not being either infamous or generally detested. So, it would seem that I am a minimalist, if only in terms of my aspirations. Two years ago, prior to my most recent change of address, I began the threefold process of junking things, saving things, and setting aside items I hoped my children would accept, appreciate, and preserve. I surprised myself by throwing out my High School, College, and Law School diplomas. The last two, expensively framed, hung on my office wall for decades, assuring clients that I was, in fact, a real lawyer. Going forward now, I’ll be unable to prove my former professional status. On the bright side I figure I’ll be less likely to have to hear any more of those abominable lawyer jokes. I could not part with my Foreign Service Commission signed by LBJ and Dean Rusk in 1966 and appointing me to the “Diplomatic Service of the United States” because they both reposed “great trust” in my “ability, prudence, and integrity.” I kept this because I found their confidence in me misplaced a bit but still delightful and to counter the opinion of many who know me that I am not very diplomatic, but rather blunt. So that stayed out of the growing junk pile. Next, I kept my Military Officer’s Commission even though it’s pretty obvious in retrospect that this was no big deal. The government would make anyone a 2nd Lieutenant during the Vietnam War as they kept losing them. I gave some of the Vietnam stuff to my sons: a Montagnard knife, the fin of a Russian 122mm rocket that missed me (thank you, God) but made Swiss Cheese of the Jeep next to me. Next, I’ll divest myself of the framed photo of

me and my friend in Cambodia. He was a Commandant (Major) who was later executed by the Khmer Rouge. I gave one of my kids a brass salute cannon that was last fired by my Great-Grandfather and namesake for the benefit and delight of his eight children sometime in the 1890s. I’ll keep the photo plaque of my Barrington High Hall of Fame football team, not because it’s proof of my athletic prowess on the gridiron, but rather because it is the only the athletic award I ever received. I’ve told the kids that it should be placed in the

I am increasingly willing and even eager to at least begin to shed “stuff”

family equivalent of the Smithsonian and When asked her favorite part of the Book Fair, treasured forever. Baker-Smith replies, “The fifteen minutes the chilIf hoarding is a mortal sin, I am consigned to the fires of hades for eternity because of my lifetime accumulation of books. These tomes pose a real problem. In some cases I feel that they are my best friends – loyal, entertaining, enlightening dren get to pick out books before the opening whistle.” (The official start of the Book Fair begins at 11 a.m. but children are allowed into the book tent at 10:45 for exclusive browsing time.) “It’s wonderful to watch children being fascinated and inspiring. I’m really loathe to desert by books,” continues Baker-Smith, “going down my little collections of poetry, of Irish the rabbit hole of a story, and sitting down on the grass to read in an age where everyone is looking at screens.”

After so many decades, it is understandable that many stories surround the Westport Friends If hoarding is a mortal Book Fair. It is rumored that, in the early years, one book-browser discovered a first edition of Moby sin, I am consigned to the Dick which he bought for fifty-cents. The next year he sheepishly returned to make a donation to the fires of hades for eternity Westport Friends telling them he sold the book for because of my lifetime “a lot of money.” The Book Fair is also full of traditions, including accumulation of books the honorary “Blowing of the Whistle” to signal the official opening of the book sale. history and literature, the biographies “It is a great honor to be chosen,” says Greg and the novels that I fell in love with in Marsello, citing this as his favorite part of the Fair. a lifetime. Those law books I have not For Gretchen Baker-Smith, the annual night-beyet disposed of, will soon hit the road fore-book-sale “Chopping of the Tabbouleh” is one or the dumpster. I also inherited some of her fondest traditions. The tabbouleh, a type of wonderful sets of old books from my Lebanese salad, is sold to the public in a flatbread lawyer-uncle who was a collector. I asked wrap every year on opening day (along with other one of the family if there was any interest light luncheon items, beverages and snacks). in them and was asked, “What color are “It takes a small army of people to chop the salad they?” Given the fact of e-readers, there’s every year,” says Baker-Smith. “But people have little enthusiasm among the young for even leather-bound volumes other than for decoration in built-in bookcases. This, I suppose, is progress and as such, is something old men should not seek to enjoin or abash. come to expect it.” over the years, many customers have expressed their relief to Baker-Smith, saying “I was so afraid [the tabbouleh] wouldn’t be here.” “Probably my favorite part of the Annual Book Fair,” says Deanna Chase, “is Saturday evening after There’s the issue of the old (2001) the huge, long day” (volunteers arrive about 7 a.m. Porsche 911 convertible that sits in my to help set up) “when we finally have time to just garage. My willingness to have this driven sit under the tent and reflect back on the day, relaxaway by a family member is predicated ing with friends.” upon my accelerating belief that I look The Fifty-Fourth Westport Friends’ Book Fair offiridiculous driving it. (I did have a 911 in cially opens at 11 a.m. on July 11, rain or shine. The the past, but then I was age-appropriate sale will continue through Sunday, July 19 and will for the thing.) More and more I think that be open from “dawn to dusk.” my operation of the car, top down on a The six-for-a-dollar paperback books may be purglorious summer day, is the third of a trio chased starting at 10 a.m. on the opening day and of ridiculous social gaffes by old men. the children’s book section opens exclusively for The first being guys with their gray hair in ponytails and the second, those wearing baseball caps backwards. All three are probably silent cries for help, love, or attention. Here’s the catch: the 911’s a six kids at 10:45 a.m. Book prices range from one dollar to five dollars a book, with the average cost being $1.50. Light lunch, snacks, and beverages will be sold on the opening day of the sale. speed. It has a third pedal, called a clutch, If you haven’t yet experienced this celebration and is thus inoperable by any of my issue. of books and community, you need to. Bring your family to the Westport Friends Book Fair and start your own summer tradition. you won’t be disappointed. Continued on next page

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In fact, the Times just reported that only 22% of American drivers can drive a stick. I have three sets of golf clubs hanging around. They’re really good clubs, but those should go if only to preclude me from continuing to embarrass myself. Young people have little time for golf. Nevertheless, I am inclined to go through the motions, present them to grandchildren, and express my very fervent hope that they be able to operate them better than I. Unfortunately, I cannot include any of the thousands of golf balls I have purchased over the years, as most are long MIA.

As for clothing, there are two problems: size and style. In my prior life I was expected to wear a uniform consisting of a two-button jacket with matching trousers. We used to call this combination a “suit.” In fact, the very word has become a pejorative – a slur flung at stodgy, bourgeois males who give others orders. I gave a slew of them to the veterans center but have since concluded that very few Fall River vets have any real need of these staid fashion sets. Those that I retained will not fit any of my issue because of their waist size and will be of little interest as they are so rarely worn anymore. Off to the dump with them! I told my partner that I should buy one good suit to wear to funerals and to eventually be buried in. This flagrant elder abuser informed me that I’d only need a jacket as they don’t put pants on corpses. This was an entirely unnecessary comment. Nevertheless, she did pique my curiosity and my research confirmed her claim. The next day, I told her that pants were still required when I attended the funerals of others, so there! If I’m successful in proceeding with my dive into minimalism, there will be little in my estate other than a lifetime of scribblings, unpublished with but a few exceptions. These poems, essays, stories, and, of late, rants, should probably accompany me into the crematorium as a sort of kindling. Sorry, this is getting maudlin. As I think about it, death may be the subliminal motivation for ridding oneself of “stuff” as one approaches the abyss. In this regard, I find my Mass attendance has improved over the years. An atheist British writer described the sight of old

people praying in a London RC church at midday as those “who were cramming for finals.” In fact, getting rid of stuff may be Christ-like. A recent Gospel was the story of Jesus sending the apostles out into the world and admonishing them to take neither food nor even a spare pair of underwear with them. So there’s a Christian exhortation to “travel light” and not get too hung up on “stuff.” Buddhists, too, would urge this. I’ve seen their saffron-robed monks wandering the streets with empty rice bowls, relying solely on the charity of strangers for food. If that be the case, my intent is to continue to both cram and to divest myself of “stuff.” The cold, eternal fact is that, in the end, you can’t take it with you, wherever you’re headed. Or better still, as I heard from an old Irish priest quoting his long-time undertaker friend, “Pat, in all my days, I’ve never seen an armored car following a hearse.”

I told my partner that I should buy one good suit to wear to funerals and to eventually be buried in. This flagrant elder abuser informed me that I’d only need a jacket as they don’t put pants on corpses.

Jay ClarkiN is a retired attorney, Vietnam veteran, father to three, and grandfather to five. He lives in Swansea.