A Little Bit Lighter

Our sad, sad swinging bench. Somebody needs to sweep under there!

Today  was the last day to donate items to my town’s annual “White Elephant” sale—a fundraiser every Labor Day weekend and the weekend after that—which supports the upkeep of our town’s historic schoolhouse.

I didn’t think that I had much to contribute—until I looked around and realized that, actually, I did.

There were the candlestick holders that I bought a few years ago at the sale but never used. A decorative plate that I purchased there, but that I didn’t end up loving as much as I thought I would. There was a salad spinner that’s been sitting on top of my cupboard for so long that it was dusty. I generally don’t buy whole leaf lettuce anymore; it’s easier to buy packaged greens, washed and ready to go: all spinach, or half and half spinach, or mixed greens. What was the point of keeping the spinner? Then there was a sharp knife designed for cutting bread, especially perfect for bread that comes fresh out of you bread maker. Except I don’t eat much bread anymore, and I haven’t had a bread maker for years.

I went out to the shed and unearthed an old hula hoop. Also a standing fan, which we used and were grateful for last year, but haven’t needed this year, since my good friend’s contractor husband sent his team out to install a mini-split system for us, providing both heating and air conditioning. The temperature today is topping out in the mid-90s. I remember last year and all the years before we had air conditioning, how miserable it got in our home in the afternoons. I am hopeful that somebody else can benefit from the fan, that it might help a little.

(Most houses around here didn’t have air conditioning when they were built, so we weren’t alone in this. The historical high temperature on this day in August was 85 degrees with an average nighttime low of 58 degrees. When the temperature drops to 58 degrees at night, houses cool down nicely; all you have to do is open your windows. But when nighttime lows stay in the 70s? It’s a different story. And if it gets to the 90s in the day without cooling at night, life can be pretty uncomfortable.)

There’s one more thing I donated today—possibly the most important thing, the most freeing thing. I donated the swinging bench that had been sitting on the back deck since we moved in. It’s wooden and metal and, when I first bought it a decade ago at a yard sale, was lovely—painted green and white. It is barely green and white now. The paint is peeling. It needs to be sanded and repainted. It needs to be loved. It’s something I should have done—but I recently realized something important: I am never, not ever, going to sand and repaint that swing. Just no. I don’t want to, don’t want to, don’t want to. Somebody else will do it, I am sure. Someone who wants to! Someone who is craftier. Someone who is not me.

I headed up to the community center where they were gathering last minute donations and ran into one of the pillars of our community. He has a truck and a trailer and was loading up items for the sale from the home of another community member who had passed away this year. We have a lot of elderly folks in our community; when they pass away, some of their worldly possessions end up at our town’s sale. I smiled and sort of begged, and he and his son drove down and loaded up the heavy swinging bench. He said, “This is a good piece! Solid. Real wood and metal. Someone will want it.”

Yes—yes they will. I am thankful for that.

There’s freedom there—a strange freedom in letting something go that is valuable, that is useful, but that is not meant for me. My good neighbor, who moved and who I wrote about last week, gave me some lovely wicker furniture, including a sofa that will fit in the spot where the swinging bench was. I will enjoy sitting there so much more—without guilt or shame (or splinters from the swing’s bare wood making their way into my backside).

That’s the thing about looking around your house with fresh eyes, really seeing what is there, and realizing that, well: there is a lot of stuff here, and I don’t need all of it! I have a relatively small home, around 900 square feet. There’s never a lot of empty space, but it’s a little emptier tonight—fewer things, more room. Those candlestick holders I never used, the decorative plate, a lamp that gathered dust—all are gone. And the swing on the deck, which made me feel bad every time I looked at it—it’s gone too. I’m grateful, and a little bit lighter.