Procrastination: the action of delaying or postponing something or the practice of doing more pleasurable things in place of less pleasurable ones. I confess, I have become a procrastinator.
Art was a collector: coins, stamps, wooden boxes, figurines, books and anything that struck his fancy. After we were married and he was moving from his house to mine, our kids were helping us with the boxes from his attic. As one box came my way, Val (Art’s daughter) cautioned me not to open it. Of course, I did!
“I don’t believe this!” There were nine empty Chock Full O’Nuts Coffee cans.
“Never know when I might need one.”
“Forget that, Arthur! Into the recycle bin they go.”
Most of the larger collectibles are in the attic, carefully packed in numbered boxes—I have a master list that catalogs the contents of each box. Just the thought of going through that many boxes—I have a few of my own—makes me tremble. I keep putting off this overwhelming project until tomorrow, until the next day, until the next week, the next month. However, I have a plan that a couple of the kids think might work: Once the weather cools down—the attic is now a sauna—when one or more come to visit, we will bring two or three boxes down and go through them. Depending on the contents, there are several organizations that could benefit from donations; perhaps there is something that one of the kids might want. So, we will give this plan a shot. Side effects may include: getting together more often, laughing at some of the “treasures” and reminiscing about the past.
That being said, we come to the garage or Art’s once-private hardware store. Again, his collecting aspirations were in plain view: metal shelves holding multiple packages of Soft Scrub, dish liquid, specially treated wiping cloths, Miracle Grow Plant Food, etc.—Art’s favorite place to shop was BJ’s. There were also jars of nails, nuts, bolts and screws. Much of this we divided among the kids—I sure didn’t need six tubs of Soft Scrub! We can’t forget Art’s custom made scooter, which only needs the battery charged to have it up and running. He enjoyed the freedom the scooter gave him. Under Art’s supervision, Joe had cleared out half of the garage. It needs one more “sweep” and I think I’ll be in good shape.
At dinner the other night, Joe and I were discussing how to complete the “garage task.”
“Let’s get the scooter running so I can sell it.”
“No, keep the scooter.”
“No way am I keeping the scooter; I don’t intend to ever use it and it is taking up precious space.”
“Ma, listen to me. You know I’m looking to buy a house upstate with lots of land. If I find what I’m looking for, we can get you settled in a Granny Pod or something similar. You’ll need the scooter to get around! I can even make a nice path for you to hustle back and forth to my house.”
We had a good laugh over this; it was tongue-in-cheek and wishful thinking on Joe’s part. In my imagination, I saw me speeding along my private road in a Bermuda blue scooter, flying the American and Marine Corps flags behind me. What a sight!
Back to reality: The boxes will come tumbling down in the fall, and the scooter needs a new home!
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