Stuffstream

When I was a preteen, we visited my aunt in Alabama every summer. Verleane "did hair," as she called her job as a beautician. My uncle Bunch was a dairy farmer (Yes, Bunch. His real name was Nathan.) He had built a beauty salon on the back of their house, between the house and the milking parlor, just for Verleane to "do hair." I loved her shop. It was full of what I thought were guilty pleasures. Bottles and bottles of shampoos and conditioners, hair dyes, permanent wave chemicals, straightening chemicals, hair rollers, bobby pins of all sizes. Verleane also "did nails." So, bottles and bottles of nail polish, in all colors, but probably not black. Cuticle conditioners, buffers, nail polish remover, nail strengtheners. One afternoon, when my aunt and mother were drinking coffee and smoking in the kitchen, I went into the salon and painted my nails, then painted them again with whatever mysterious substance was in the other bottles on the tray. I has...

If you are oldish like me. Or you have spent a lot of time cleaning, you have probably used a feather duster. I prefer those new-fangled dusters like Swiffer. It always seemed to me that all a feather duster did was move the dust around, although manufacturers swear that if you have a duster with ostrich feathers, the dust is efficiently captured in the feather parts, whatever those parts are called You have to admit, though, that a feather duster is more lovely than a Swiffer duster, which is made of, I don't know, something plastic? Nevertheless, how do they get the feathers? Do they kill the ostrich first, and then pluck the feathers? What do they do with the undesirable feathers? What do they do with the rest of the ostrich? Who are "they"? It doesn't seem so pretty--in fact it seems downright sinister--if you think about the other "extraneous" ostrich parts. Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune with...

"Oh, no!" shrieked the Poor Little Rich Girl, a Damsel in Distress. "I must keep the Waterford crystal!" This is a true parable, no lie. Really, The Rich Damsel in Distress did, at the request of her Organizer, unload all of her glasses sets from her cabinets. The crystal goblets, the glass tumblers, the plastic tumblers, the beer flytes, the wine glasses, the beer steins, the shot glasses, the juice glasses, the jelly glasses. And this was just our Damsel's glasses, not the mugs from as far away as Iceland or as close as the local Egret's Nest (Hello again Mr. Egret!)or the plates, or the dessert plates, the bread plates, the soup bowls . . . . And Lo, the glasses covered the whole counter, a 6 X 4 foot counter, so that it looked like Lake Superior in the spring, the ice cracking and not flowing, all crashed together, but beautiful, the light glinting off the glass--which is really molten sand--but not glinting off the plastic tumblers, of cou...

Your Stuff Stream is the path that your stuff takes as it makes its way (or not) through your house, from the moment it enters your front door, metaphorically speaking, until it leaves by the back Along the way, it resides in various places, like your refrigerator, drawers, closets, shelves, counter tops, the bottom of your closet, clothes rods and hangers, boxes of all kinds, jars, mugs (often used to hold pens, not just tea or coffee), plastic bags, trash cans (hold not just trash or garbage, but rolls of wrapping paper or extra curtain rods, anything long and thin, really), file folders, ottomans, wicker baskets . . . . The list is long. As an example, sort of an easy one. (But really, none of this is easy.) Garbage. We take the lettuce out of the bag, wash it, spin it, break it up, pour salad dressing on it, eat it (For some, lettuce is just a vehicle for salad dressing. That's O.K.). Then, you know, we "eliminate" it, we flush, it goes to our septic ta...

Death Cleaning (Cleansing). The latest rage in decluttering circles. Change your life forever by purging your stuff circles. The last was Marie Kondo, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying up. (Nothing will change your life forever, or even for a day, usually. And magic isn't magic, either.) Death, then Life. Full circle, but the other way 'round.Though among some religious folks, it is exactly the right way 'round. (I'm a pagan. Just stick 'em in the ground and let them rot. Good for the tomatoes.) Post Humus Patti Tana Scatter my ashes in my garden So I can be near my loves. Say a few honest words, sing a gentle song, Join hands in a circle of flesh. Please tell some stories about me making you laugh. I love to make you laugh. When I've had time to settle, and green gathers into buds, remember I love blossoms bursting in spring. As the season ripens remember my persistent passion. And if you come in my garden on an August afternoon pluck a br...

I hoard boxes. All shapes and sizes and colors. Cardboard white banker's boxes, Brightly colored holiday boxes. Shoe boxes. Cardboard boxes that the butcher packs my half hog in after she (he?) has been slaughtered. Nicely frozen, I need to say. And he (she?) was a happy pig. My friend Lynne raised her. Free range. Grass (and the whey from goat milk--she also raises goats) fed. Lynne held her before taking her to the butcher. But I digress. Boxes. Even those not really considered a box. Plastic milk bins, wooden beer boxes, flimsy shirt boxes, with nicely folded tissue paper. Rubbermaid bins. Tiny jewelry boxes. Intricately decorated boxes of all sizes with beads or broken pieces of mirror. Carved mahogany boxes with satin lining. Actually, what I hoard are containers, not just boxes. I love bowls, too. Friends have said that the bowl represents the feminine, the female vagina. The container for the egg and the developing fetus, the full, bloody uterus. (We're cree...