TRASH AND STASH

MAY 13, 2019 – Among our idiosyncrasies are the dichotomous traits of “trashing” and “stashing.”

On one hand, we design obsolescence into our “durable” goods’ to ensure that they won’t be that durable, and all the other stuff we buy comes with loads of packaging, which winds up in the trash . . . along with all the other stuff we buy.

On the other hand, we’re stashers. We keep filling our homes with stuff to replace the stuff we trash. We can never have enough stuff.

Then there’s hoarding, the ultimate in stashing. Hoarding is what squirrels do in the fall—gathering up acorns and stashing them away for the winter. When the acorns fall and daylight diminishes, the nut-sized brain of every squirrel tells the animal to start hoarding. For squirrels, anyway, hoarding is all about survival.

Humans are hoarders too. The difference is that for squirrels, survival still requires a stash of acorns, whereas in my human example, collecting golf balls on my daily walk around the local golf course is the vestigial extension of a survival trait. Since I don’t golf, my hoard of golf balls will never have anything to do with my survival.

In our family, my great grandfather was the Godfather of hoarding. In the 1880s, he started a moving and storage company. He did quite well for himself in the business of storing stuff. My grandfather grew the business further through the first half of the 20^th century and thus became Godfather II.

One summer during college I worked for him. “Worked” is putting it charitably. By that time, the man who had been a titan of the American moving and storage industry was well beyond his prime. My job, it turned out, under the direction of my uncle, Godfather III of hoarding, was to tidy up my grandpa’s office—mostly when Godfather II wasn’t around to interfere.

Grandpa’s capacious workspace had become a veritable hoarder’s den. One “acorn” type was the cheap pen—hundreds of them strewn throughout the office. Early one evening when Grandpa was off at a Mason’s meeting, I decided to tackle the pens—trying out each one before tossing it in the trash or . . . in an empty carton, which I’d labeled “working pens.” Few pens—but still, a lifetime supply—went in the carton.

In the midst of my “trash or stash” pen project, Grandpa walked in.

“Grandpa!” I said, caught off guard. “I thought you were at the Mason’s!”

“We were short of a quorum,” he said. “What are you doing with my pens?”

“Sorting them,” I said. “Working pens go in the carton; ones that don’t work, I’m throwing away.”

“No, no, no,” said Grandpa, as he reached into the wastebasket and pulled out a fistful of old Al’s Pure Oil Station-like pens. “I can get refills for these.”

Upon reflection I think now is the time for me to trash my stash of golf balls. I don’t want to be called Godfather IV!

© 2019 Eric Nilsson