Clutter has always been an issue for me. It’s a known fact that creative people aren’t organized. There, I said it. We can’t help it. Everything we see has so much potential. You know, for use in that project, one day. I came by this problem genetically. Growing up, my father had a legitimate junkyard on our property. Our house was on 3.5 acres. It was a red brick home that started out in this world as a church on Buckner Boulevard in East Dallas. Daddy had it moved to our property in sections. I cannot recall whether the church was free or just extremely cheap, but everyone said the moving it part was expensive. I’ve never been good at estimating distance, but Daddy reassembled the church, sans 4 of the 7 gables and the stained-glass windows, about half a football field from our single wide trailer, which became a 70s rural version of a Pods container. We just used it for storage. For instance, that’s where daddy kept his professional bacon slicer. Seasonally, he would drag the slicer into the kitchen and slice our bacon from whatever part of a hog bacon originates. Where the hog originated, I cannot say.
He was a near expert mechanic, this father of mine. He had the fixer upper cars sitting around to prove it. There was this enormous blue Buick my mom used to drive. I think it was a late 50s model. I recall the tailfins being spectacular. There was a Corvair he was always trying to revive. It was tiny, rusty, and red. We christened it The Little Red Chigger. There was a flatbed truck, a massive tractor, and a garage full of greasy gears and amazing metal toolboxes that reminded me of a card catalogue for nuts and bolts. At one point, my mother lost her mind over the mess. It was decided that daddy would relocate his automotive wasteland to the little half acre in the back. Here’s the deal. He eventually finished every project, used every bolt and nut, and found his way through the muck, right to the treasure. That was my dad: slow and methodical, unhurried, and always triumphant. It’s your fault, dad. I grew up seeing the value in a bunch of stuff.
You should see the floor of my guest room. Actually, you can’t see the floor of my guestroom. I’m prepping for a massive decluttering, which really means I’m going to squish the stuff in all the bins down with my knees so that a bunch more stuff will fit on the top. Here’s the deal. That plastic container of antique baby dolls that fell apart – I really am going to buy the right sized rubber bands to tightly connect the arm hooks to each other inside the porcelain doll body. That late 1800s portrait of the little boy in a velvet suit that, thankfully, didn’t shatter when the picture hook disintegrated and caused it to fall from the wall – I really will figure out how to secure the sides of that 144-yearold frame. I think that’s the downfall of a creative person. We accumulate hobbies like a post-menopausal woman grows chin hairs. It’s a lot. Don’t ask me how I know this. If only I could be as patient with the clutter of others the way I am with my “collections.” Take, for instance, the little object that has been the source of such frustration for me lately. During the Christmas holiday, my granddaughter brought home a tiny figure of a purple present from her church class. “Didi, it’s to remind me that Jesus is the real gift.” A month later, I was wishing someone would remind her to take the thing home. No more than a half inch tall, this tiny monopolysized box kept showing up constantly. I would purposefully place it inside of the grandkid’s shoes, prop it on top of a pile of laundry I had done for them, even tuck it into a box of treats destined to go home with them. That little plastic present had a way of remaining behind. I have launched it across the room when folding t-shirts. Do you love to pop the tshirts in the air before you line up the shoulders and do the fancy fold? I sure do. I have stepped on it barefooted – way worse than a Lego. I have even accidentally swept it into my purse and seen it skitter across the self-checkout section of Walmart, only to be brought back to me by a smiling, blue vested attendant. It seems that the harder I try to get rid of the box that was meant to remind an 8-yearold girl that Jesus is the real present, the more it haunts me.
This morning, I spotted a treasure on the curb. It was trash day and my daughterin- law, who lives with me, had decided to throw away a massive wicker basket. I knew, immediately, it was the perfect basket for my front porch. Sure enough, it slid right underneath my potting bench like it was meant to be. I poured the other things in the basket back into the trash can and made my way to the porch. As I was placing a bag of potting soil and all my gardening tools inside of the basket, I noticed something wedged in between the wicker braiding on the bottom. There it sat, that tiny purple present. I hadn’t seen it in weeks. Oddly, I wasn’t upset this time. I was relieved. I haven’t been acting like Jesus is my truest, best gift lately. Some things are clutter. Some things are treasure. It’s best not to confuse the two.
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