Favorite Things Editorial Oct 2008

8/14/2019 Favorite Things Editorial Oct 2008

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My Favourite ThingsI’m learning to part with things. My life is full of too much stuff. I am a packratextraordinaire. My house is a museum to the flotsam and jetsam of a family life

being lived. I’ve got short stories my daughters wrote, their report cards and lots of artwork they created. I’ve got Mother’s and Father’s Day cards in addition toValentine, Birthday and Christmas ones. It’s too bad they’re not all together in theone spot.

There’s mail, magazines, professional journals, newspapers catalogues and papers stacked around in no apparent order on most flat surfaces. The buffet andend tables host multiple pictures of family and friends. There are drawers and

boxes of all sorts of photos. The shelves are overflowing with collections of books,miniature porcelain shoes, purses and houses, plus souvenirs and artwork fromother countries (I need more shelving, and hooks while I’m at it.). Photos and art

fill any available wall space. There are enough clothes, shoes, boots, hats, scarves,gloves and purses here that we now refer to my closet as the Wardrobe Department.

To some, I am surrounded by a lot of clutter, but to me it’s my life and itsmementoes. I have a hard time letting go, but I am trying. I recently culled theWardrobe Department and gave 8 garbage bags to the Thrift Store (all good stuff and dropped off during business hours). It’s hard to part with tangible bits of the

past especially with my memory the way it is these days.

I look at uncluttered houses in magazines, and as much as I admire them, I knowto me they don’t look lived in. Nobody could accuse my house of that. For themost part, my house is organized chaos and I can put my hand on needed things,unfortunately not always when I need them. If I could ever get back the cumulativeyears I’ve spent looking for keys, I’ll live to be a hundred.

In keeping with the decision to lessen my stuff, I decided to part with a machinethat has so many memories it still gives me pleasure to look at her. Today an erahas ended and I sold my 1982 Mustang. I’ve had her almost half my life.

I love that car. It came to me innocently enough. My first car was a Horizon TC3.First day I had it the gear shift came out of the selector, my first clue of itsupcoming Lemon of the Year Award. It went through 15 wheel bearings; shortedout its own battery; blew fuses, the radiator and the cylinder head. It took metricand standard tools to work on it. At 1 ½ years its doors wouldn’t always open andI’d get in through the sun roof. I sold it when it was 2 ½ years old for $900. This



was only because one of my brothers came out and nixed my plan to turn it into agreenhouse by filling it with soil and plants.

A friend’s brother worked at a Ford dealership. I thought I’d go see him about acar. He told me they had a nice Mustang on order. It was 8 cylinders but not a gasguzzler. I could get it for a great price. I impetuously bought it sight unseen, just a

picture in a brochure with technical stuff about 0-60 that didn’t mean much to me. Ididn’t know the expression muscle car and he never mentioned it.

I went to Corner Brook to pick up my new car; so lovely to look at this 5 LitreMustang GT. I got in to drive away and stalled it the first try. I felt the guyswatching were judging me as a female driver and the next go I took off from thedealership leaving a strip of rubber around the block. I had planned to spend thenight with friends and drive to St. John’s the next day. Tooling around town, I fell

in love. I had just ended it with a fiasco fiancé and this car was going to be adelightful replacement. I immediately aimed her for St. John’s and arrivedexhilarated by how she handled.

My brothers seemed very impressed with my choice of car, and as each took her for a quick spin, they stalled her first go. It hadn’t me; it was the racing clutch thatI could now work perfectly after a burnt rubber offering to the gods.

The summer of 82 was filled with weekend road trips. I was single and one of mygirlfriends would come along, or I’d go alone with my dog, Tobias. When Vinceand I started dating, you could even say I test-drove him. We left Port aux Basquesearly one Friday morning, took turns driving and pulled into Ottawa Saturdaymorning for a wedding. We left for home the next day to catch a Monday crossing.At the end of the trip we were still laughing and having fun. I knew then I couldspend the rest of my life with this guy.

Each spring when she came out of storage the calls from young men would start.They were all after the same thing- my car. This impressed my oldest daughter wholiked to drive in the car with me. My youngest always ducked down so no one

could see her. To her this old car was just that an old car. I always said I wouldn’t part with her and would some day have her restored. But this year I realized with adaughter in University and a seasonal business with year round bills that theMustang had slipped in my priorities. I couldn’t bear to watch her become a rustingrelic of my former life. I’ve sold her to someone who can navigate E-bay like anexplorer and find what she needs to bring her back to glory.



My Mustang is gone. I feel a pang. We had a lot of fun together, but that time of my life is over. My husband is delighted he doesn’t have to dig out a place for her in the garage this year. There’s lots of his stuff out there. Yes, our house overflowswith things, and as I part with something that once was an important part of my lifeI come to a realization. The things that matter most to me aren’t things.

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Favorite Things Editorial Oct 2008