My late father knew every inch of Wyoming and he loved to drive his Dodge Ramcharger over the crest of Casper Mountain and down a teeth-jarring, dust-choked dirt road past Billy Mosteller’s place.
Mosteller’s house, barn and one or two other small buildings were all but swallowed up by broken-down cars, old tire piles, farm implements and all manner of odds and ends of various shapes and sizes guarded by a ferocious-sounding dog.
Dad used to laugh and crack another Michelob as we rolled past this kaleidoscopic testament to the adage that one man’s junk is another man’s treasure. But he also intended our excursion into a remote corner of Wyoming to serve as a warning about the consequences of not throwing stuff away.
I’m not a hoarder but I am definitely a saver. To make things worse — or better, depending on your perspective — I am married to a saver. Our home is a place with nooks and crannies and closets and a cellar containing stuff hidden from human eyes for months and unused for years.
We have an accumulated history of our own lives and the lives of two generations preceding us. The Christmas decorations include oversized cardboard candles that look like they belong on the set of “White Christmas.” Our daughter’s closet is a micro- museum devoted to her high school and college fashion styles and the “Ocean’s Twelve” poster I will never throw out — ditto to the Boston Bruins and John F. Kennedy posters residing in a safe spot in the cellar.
The Philco combination radio and record player that belonged to my mother’s parents ranks among my most prized possessions even though it doesn’t work. I can run a hand across the wood veneer and conjure up images of my grandfather hunched next to the radio, listening to reports about the Dust Bowl’s destructive march, and wondering if the onslaught will destroy his farm.
Like all savers, we adhere to a pattern mapping out the gradual absorption of an item into our home. The starting point is typically the kitchen counter or table where a piece of paper, a book, or gifts and Amazon orders reside for varying lengths of time before they migrate to the back stairs where I am prohibited from moving them pending spousal signoff.
Stuff unofficially receives “saved” status when it ends up on the second floor and “officially-saved” status comes when it gets carried up to the third. Our spring-cleaning ritual includes a grimy, sometimes profanity-laced, third-floor cleanout that sends a small pile of stuff down to the cellar where it sits for a few months before beginning a return migration upstairs.
To be fair, we have made notable full-court presses to get rid of our ever-growing accumulation. The hordes of stuff belonging to five different friends and relatives (including the late great Tim Ring’s piano) departed from our garage when structural work necessitated their exodus.
Half of the junk in the cellar has been cleaned out and thrown out and the circa 1970s exercise bike and circa 1980s Stairmaster got hauled off by a junk man. But plenty of other stuff remains collecting dust and the reason for its preservation is simple: It makes us feel good.
I get a soothing, comforting feeling from touching and looking at items from our past that conjure up memories. Books and knick knacks that Goodwill would reject occupy a special place in my heart, like the button I bought in a London flea market 45 years ago, and the baggie containing a pinch of dirt from the Little Bighorn battlefield.
Marie Kondo might stumble upon this column and vow to declutter my world. But she will find the ramparts and bastions of our savings sanctuary as difficult to storm as, well . . . Billy Mosteller’s place.
