Lifestyle
The Museum of Me
Why minimalism isn’t the right word for me
In theory, I love minimalism. But one glance inside my house will tell you I’m not a minimalist.
Nor am I a maximalist, nor a materialist.
I’m something else.
I don’t know what, though.
I tried to be a minimalist.
Years ago, I moved to a smaller house and sold or gave away a lot of things. Many of them were things that I should have kept because I miss them now. Some have been re-purchased.
So, I’ve given up on minimalism. However, it’s not fair to call me a materialist, either. Almost all my purchases are things like food and toiletries. We barely ever purchase a new thing, and when we do, it’s because we’ve thought long and hard about it.
Whenever possible, I find old things to reuse or repurpose.
A case in point: I am getting rid of my old desk, because it did not meet my needs, but I replaced it with a vintage mahogany desk I got at a low price. It is such a pleasure to use this solid, well-made, beautiful desk. It will last as long as civilization does; perhaps longer at the rate we’re going.
They say things can’t make you happy.
But if things remind you of someone who passed away or of a wonderful time in your life, then yes, they can help make you happy.
Years ago my sister, Tracey, found a beautiful antique crystal chandelier at a sale and gave it to me. It now lights and beautifies our dining room. As some of you know, my sister died in a car wreck in April. So now, the sight of that chandelier always reminds me of her.
An additional memory attached to that chandelier came from my granddaughter, who when she was around 4 looked from the living room chandelier to the dining room chandelier and then said, in a very thoughtful tone, “One chandelier is acceptable, but two is just excessive.”
I love my antique typewriter.
One of the newspapers where I worked had kept the ancient typewriters they’d used in the pre-computer days.
I snagged one when they were getting rid of them. The scroll of paper says:
The dark night was stormy.
The night was dark and stormy.
It was a dark and stormy night.
It’s a constant reminder to me of the value of editing … whether you’re using an ancient typewriter or a MacBook Air
This brass microscope works.
I bought it at a yard sale for $5 when I was in college, living on minimum wage of $3.35 per hour. It has a small mirror that reflects and focuses the light. After the apocalypse, I suppose I can use it to look for parasites in the raw river water.
In the meantime, I think it looks cool.
This fun brassy-looking thingie’s purpose is unknown.
I bought it at a street market in Belgium the last time we were there visiting my husband’s family.
Nobody knew what in the heck it was. We still don’t. It’s on display, though, and maybe somebody will recognize it and tell me what it is.
This marble-topped table was another newsroom freebie.
For some reason, the owner wanted to get rid of this marble-topped table that had always been in the newspaper office.
Fine with me. It’s in my living room now. It’s one more reminder of the happy days of my former career.
This tiger means a lot to me.
My mother got this free from the Del Monte company. She worked for a food brokerage company and would commonly receive special items in return for selling specific amounts of food. If I remember correctly, she sold a crap-ton of canned green beans to get this tiger.
Anyway, I was pregnant with my first baby at the time, so into the nursery it went. My daughter played with it extensively, and then her own daughter played with it. She named it after one of the characters in The Lion King. I don’t remember which one, now.
Yesterday, as I was helping my daughter dig out after the deluge of Christmas stuff, we encouraged my granddaughter to identify things that should be donated or thrown away.
My granddaughter came out carrying the tiger.
“Charity!” she said.
My daughter and I looked at each other, our faces reflecting each other’s pain. This tiger makes me think of my mom and of my daughter and then granddaughter playing with it. It makes my daughter think of her MeMa. She remembers playing with it and she remembers her own daughter playing with it.
That tiger is not going to charity. He moved to my house, where he will stay forever, or until I die, and then my daughter will have to take him until she dies, and then he’ll land with my granddaughter and so on. Maybe there will be more babies in the family.
I made a discovery when organizing my granddaughter’s closet.
She has lots of dress-up clothes and costumes. I thought one such piece was just another princess costume. But when I turned it right-side out and realized what I held, I buried my face in it and cried.
Back in the early 1970s, my sister was the flower girl in our uncle’s wedding. My mother sewed the little lilac dress for her. I thought the dress was long gone, but unbeknownst to me, my little granddaughter had it all along.
It was just such an unexpected moment. The raw emotion took me by surprise. Both my mom and my sister would have been pleased to know my granddaughter has enjoyed it. We’ll take very good care of it from now on. Perhaps my niece (my sister’s daughter) will have a little girl someday.
I like music but I don’t like a lot of modern stuff in my Victorian house.
You won’t find a TV in my living room. Nope. That kind of thing does not belong here. Nor do other electronic modern thingies.
Thus, I bought an empty Victrola cabinet to hold my husband’s turntable. I like listening to jazz on vinyl at night. I do not like looking at the turntable.
This way, everyone wins. I’m a genius, yes?
Clearly, I need to become famous.
I have the portraits of the ancestors who, about 150 years ago, came to this country from Germany to Bluffs, Ill. I have a quirky antique umbrella that belonged to my grandmother. I have all the quilts my mother made. I have the baby outfits of my children, myself, my mother and her mother. What can be done with them?
Give it another generation or two, and the house will be so full of keepsakes that there’s no room for new underwear or coffee cups: It’ll just be old keepsake stuff from wall to wall.
Fortunately I’ll be dead then, so it won’t be my problem.
My son already admits he’ll hire a service to pluck out anything valuable and then to toss the rest into the dump.
Obviously, I have no choice but to somehow become famous asap so this house can become a museum. It’s on my list of things to do, right after losing 50 pounds and learning to speak Dutch.
So yes, my house is a museum. Admission is free, but if you admire anything, you’ll be expected to take it over when I’m gone.
If you got through this one, here’s another one you might like:
About Michelle Teheux:
I’m a writer and editor in central Illinois. Find me on LinkedIn.
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