 |
| Rasta being quite comfortable |
Hoarders come in various versions, but the pathology amounts to the same thing: amassed quantities of stuff that often still carries its original price tag and/or packing material, piled up in ridiculous quantities, often never used and with no place to be properly stored, and challenging the hoarder’s health: financial, and/or physical, social, and surely mental/emotional.
One could call such a person a collector if the items hoarded are expensive, or beautiful, or unusual in a rare-and-gorgeous kind of way, until the hoarding starts to make itself obvious: you can’t take a shower or bath in the hoarder’s house because the bathtub is piled shoulder-high with empty boxes “that might be useful some time,” or the piles of bed linens that used to belong to beds that no longer occupy the space and that don’t fit any that do, or the stacks of bath and kitchen towels that were once a relative’s, but might be useful, even though our own have arrived and are too numerous for the available space, and so are now occupying the bathtubs that were emptied of empty boxes by people who don’t understand. Stained pillowcases, frayed throws, stacks of boxes of staples, and too many expensively-framed pictures – mostly prints – to fit the wall space available, even if you had someplace to store the extras and changed them out 3 times a year. I stopped counting beautiful, unused kitchen towels at 250.
This kind of hoarding deteriorates quickly: 29 empty tissue boxes carefully stored, in which to put “the tissues I prefer”; broken things that were once lovely but are now rusted or moldy; a shower curtain covered in insect poop and eggs that was once very pretty and “I can get it clean again, you have to bring it to me”; sets of a parents’ dishes that fill all the available space so our own must reside in boxes piled high in the laundry room – not a single saved plate for memories, but 12-place-setting sets that will never in a million years be used again if they ever were used even by the original owners. Seven cake stands; dozens and dozens of scented candles, in spite of our asthma; enough underpants to wear a clean pair daily for 3 months without running out; 50 pairs of shoes; moldy, mildewed books stored for too long in the heat and humidity of a garage; rusted ancient tools and kitchenware, when new, good stuff is available; empty little cardboard boxes with pretty designs on them; empty glass bottles by the dozens; dozens of vases; cans and bottles of beer we don’t drink.
The list goes on and on, and the originating experiences that have combined and aged into the current pathologies are all understandable and things we can sympathize with; and the excuses for “collecting” so much stuff are even almost reasonable, until you look at the whole world of this person: thrift (except the collecting has led to financial straits), memories and emotions, being an army brat with no real home until middle-age, buying stuff being one of the only things we still have control over as our body deteriorates, various interests – even a form of creative art. But then a cousin opens yet another cupboard in the garage and a too-full pile of books falls out and knocks her over; the friend is forced to don elbow-length gloves, a face mask, and double-bag the disgusting bath curtain because the owner, who is ill, is threatening to drive herself to the site and remove it herself; the asthmatic owner can’t part with mildewed items that are making her cough her lungs out; she can’t part with cast-iron cookware that she can no longer lift, and continues to use the scarred and marred and toxic Teflon-coated cookware that belonged to Dad; and when presented with a clear either-or situation (either you get rid of the old towels and half the 150 newer ones of your own, or you won’t have enough room for any of your own and your guests won’t be able to use the bathtub”) a decision can’t, just can’t, be made and we want them ALL and damn you if you can’t make it happen! – and the pathology becomes very clear.
I’m sad and afraid for my dear friend, who is suffering with physical issues that won’t improve, and that are beginning to affect her memory, will-power and stamina. Acquiring stuff is about the only thing she still has control over in her life. She uses that stuff to create lovely little vignettes: a carefully chosen china teacup and saucer, placed on a carefully-folded linen lacy cloth, with a very special tiny teaspoon balanced on the saucer, placed at just the right angle on the chair-side table where she sits every night: a selection of rocks or cones or shells arranged on a lovely plate surrounded by special, beautiful postcards or little framed artwork or a tall jug – her art, pretty much the only art she has stamina for.
And oh, how angry she’s going to be when she discovers how Cousin and I edited her stuff!
As you can tell, I’m back from Florida again, and it’s even more of a Third World Country with an attitude and a cesspit than it was the first time I went there in the spring. Delta variant surge? Who cares! Masks? It’s too hot! Vaccinated? Eh – if I am, no need for any care! If I’m not, it’s probably all a fake anyway.
NOTHING nice happened in Florida this time. The crow was nowhere in sight. Everyone I met was originally from PA or NJ. The humidity was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and hope never to experience again. I came home exhausted and I’m quarantining and will get a Covid test before going back to work.
My garden, during the two weeks I was gone --- was it really only two weeks?? --- has turned into a green mass. I can see the rhubarb’s going by, but there are still some peas coming, there are yellow lilies in bloom, and golden rod, and Black-Eyed Sues in masses, and bright orange California poppies everywhere. The garlic is mostly ready to be pulled, as are the onions. I picked one summer squash; the chipmunks took out yet another tomato plant; the Husband pulled my shallots so those are also hanging to dry in the kitchen. The catnip’s in bloom, weeds and grass everywhere, balloon flowers big and beautiful this year, raspberries ripening and blueberries too. Dill has headed up and is everywhere; summer savory is wildly everywhere as well, growing out of pebble walks, in beds, in the lawn. My lawn is a lovely purple, because it’s more thyme than grass, and the thyme is in bloom, as are the heathers. Scarlet runner beans are flowering; fava beans are podding; vines are traveling. The chipmunks left me two sunflowers that are too large now for them to damage.
I’m exhausted and haven’t made it all around the garden yet, but far enough to see some of the colored lilies are also in bloom and that the constant rains have broken all the delphiniums that were tall and beautiful before I left. The asparagus has all ferned out and is tall and lacy. I can barely see one of the wind go-rounds from the window, the plants in front of it are so tall. My leeks are starting to look like leeks; there are tiny beans on the green bean plants; I need to go examine the peach and pear trees. Bees were having a grand day yesterday.
I’m exhausted and my week of quarantining may not be sufficient to regain my energy. I have a tall pile of papers and notes to go through. Today I intend to lie on the couch and sleep through old DVDs; and start sorting stuff of my own because, you spend two weeks packing and shifting a hoarder’s stuff, and you discover you need to empty out more of your own stuff. It worked that way this spring; it’s going to work that way again this fall. Yardsale redux!
My new big question: she’s housebound: what on earth do I send for birthdays and Christmas now I know how little space she has?
Two photos here: this is what the bedroom I lived in after the move looked like; that's an inflatable mattress I was sleeping on.
It's probably not going to change in the next many months.
Followed by a much happier image from home: flowers amongst the woodpile!
