It’s hopeless, I thought as I left the storage facility. The only object on my pushcart was a large terra-cotta planter that we’d use for this summer’s beefsteak tomatoes. All the rest of our stuff remained.
My planned curtailment of our family’s belongings had a higher calling than thinning the herd. I figured I’d tackle the big-ticket items first, with the notion that getting rid of them would serve us twofold. First, reduce the storage space needed, thus allowing us to rent a smaller, cheaper unit. Even more significant: The selection I had predetermined as worthy of resell would inject some much-needed Benjamins into our meager boat budget.
First up was to persuade my wife, Jen, to sell our freestanding fireplace. The vintage steel model has a gleaming white enamel finish and was manufactured half a century ago. It looks great in our apartment, but without a flue (and local laws that forbid adding one), it’s just a large tchotchke. Surely, we could part with this mid-century modern stalwart, right?
No go.
Next, I eyed the molded plastic chairs that Jen scored for a song some 20 years back at a garage sale on the east end of Long Island, N.Y. Designed by Eames and made at Herman Miller’s Michigan furniture plant, they were bound to entice plenty of collectors who may want to add them to their homes. I sent Jen a photo with a question mark, and received a one-word reply.
Nope.
Unwilling to make this a useless trip to the storage facility, I managed a solid reorganizing of our stuff, but nothing made the “to sell” list. I grabbed the planter, locked up and left, thinking that perhaps a face-to-face conversation would be more fruitful.
When I arrived home, I saw a medium-size, square box with a handwritten address made out to me in the foyer. Several vinyl records that I had ordered from a collector in the Midwest had arrived. I was thrilled until I realized my hypocrisy.
I have a collection of about 1,000 pristine records. My wife indulges my passion for these albums, which occupy significant space. She never once brings up the fact that I could listen to all of this music from anywhere on earth with a streaming service.
I often stream music in the car and on the water, but I’m not ready to part with the collection I’ve amassed since my late teens.
Along with the records, I shelved the conversation about our belongings in storage.
We have a ways to go before we become empty nesters, ready for the next adventure. Could our golden years be spent as cruising nomads? Maybe, but first, we have to figure out how to extricate ourselves from a life of things on terra firma.
This article was originally published in the July/August 2024 issue.
