Stuff: Still Releasing

 

Ice packs for cooler, June 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

Considering that all my stuff can fit into my car, I am chuckling to myself this month, as I finally let go of some odds and ends that I've been carrying around. There are no items so small that they can't get in one's way, eventually.

My three hard-sided ice packs

Jeez, I have schlepped these baby-blue blocks all over the damn place for years! And every blessed time I pull them out of my freezer to place in a cooler, I feel resentful and I have this exact thought: "Not only are these completely worthless to me once they are no longer cold, they continue to take up space after they're spent, and then I've got to carry them back, where I'll return them to the freezer where they will sit and do nothing some more." 

The ice packs are now in the donation box here in my Longmont bedroom. 

The penultimate tipping point that foreshadowed their eviction: A while back I employed my new and wondrous strategy for keeping things cold in my coolers: glass jars that I fill with ice. When the ice melts, the water remains enclosed in the jar and I've got clean cold water I can drink, already in a vessel that I can drink from. But I can also use these jars to keep other liquids in, like soup. Or stuff I want to keep dry. They are multi-purpose. 

The final tipping point: Sister Murphy's freezer is already so full that I can barely squeeze in my frozen veggies, much less these prima donna ice packs. Consequently, they simply squat in my bedroom and do nothing.

Out you go! 

One-cup coffee bags from motel. Unknown vintage from past trip. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

These three, individually wrapped, one-cup coffee packs from a motel

Who knows when I collected these coffee packs from a past road trip. The Lost Summer of 2021 maybe? No matter. What matters is that I don't need to collect this kind of shit anymore. Because:

• I carry good instant coffee with me on any road trip, so all I need is water to make some good coffee. It doesn't even have to be hot water, sha.
• I've even got some mediocre instant coffee in the single-cup sleeves.

This past Friday morning, I brewed all three baglets. 

Complete!  (As the Georgian police officer said at our supra in her Fiat. And, by the way, "fiat" comes from the Latin meaning: Let it be done!)

The pretty yet profligately wasteful swag, #1

I do love swag. I'm talking the freebies one gets from community fairs and the like that local organizations distribute to advertise their missions. 

I've put one new item in the donation box, with equal parts sadness and irritation. I loved everything about the item: 

• The serene green exterior
• The utility - we can always use a reusable cup, right?! 
• How its size would let it so prettily in my car's cup holder. 

I mentally clapped my hands in childlike joy when I saw it on the tabletop of a community fair. "Are these free?" I asked. "Yes!" they said. "Oh!" I exclaimed in happy gladness, but in my head, the "oh" sounded like "ooooh!"

Reusable drink cup from Boulder County Board of Elections. May 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

But later, upon my return to Murphy's, when I pulled the cup out of my sunflower-yellow knapsack (swag that I'd gotten in Las Cruces), to wash it before my first use, I saw this piece of paper inside: 

Washing instructions for cup. May 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

What. The. Fuck. 

I felt not only crestfallen, but pissed. 

I can only wash it by hand but I can put hot coffee in it, right? Right? Maybe? Maybe not? 

I can microwave it so that the contents might be super hot, right? Maybe? Maybe not? 

The moment the warning paper is gone from the cup, then no future user will have any clue that the cup can't be in the top rack of a dishwasher. Because there is NO WARNING on the cup itself. Furthermore: Many wheat straw products ARE dishwasher safe. 

Just not this one. 

To the Boulder County Elections Board: Fail. 

 

The pretty yet profligately wasteful swag, #2

In Mobile, I happily accepted this perky utilitarian pandemic-era hand wipes bauble: 

Wet wipes swag from community fair in Mobile, Alabama. 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Today, I pitched the second of the two I received. The first one - the wipes dried out not long after I broke the seal on the container. This second one - the wipes are so tiny, they're almost useless for their purpose. And to be encased in such grand plastic - wasteful. 

Lesson learned for me: Think before I get carried away by cuteness. Is it really as useful as it looks? Do I already have enough of whatever it is? Do I already have an alternative form of the item that is less wasteful in its composition? In this case, specifically: I have an ample supply of hand sanitizer. Furthermore, I already have several receptacles for sanitizer that are refillable. This particular gewgaw did not add any value to me. 

Finally, I think I have outgrown hotel shampoos and soaps

While here in Longmont, I'm using up the small cache of motel shampoos, conditioners, and small soaps that I've collected (and schlepped around) in my travels in the past several years. 

Although diminutive, they still take up space. Besides, they are brands not of my choosing, but of the motel chain's choosing. 

 

Stuff: Five Things I'm Really Glad I Bought

 There are a few items that have proven their right-of-place to this minimalist's small space.

The bottle sling

This stretchy, over-the-shoulder bottle sling bag accompanies me on almost every outing. I bought it at the White Sands National Monument back when I lived in Alamogordo. So 10 years ago. Specifically, it is a Chico Bottle Sling (made from 100% recycled materials). 

Not only do I put a bottle of water in it when I go out, but there's a roomy pocket where I usually insert a small bottle of sanitizer, a paper towel, and salt packets. These items cover three very important bases: 

Sanitizer: Good not only for COVID-care, but for cleaning my hands after using a public toilet, which, if I'm wearing my bottle sling, is likely to be a porta-potty. Or a wilderpee.

Paper towel: Not only useful for its intended purpose, it also serves as ersatz toilet paper for the aforementioned porta-potty, where one frequently discovers the lack of toilet paper. 

Salt packets: Getting something to eat when out and about, and not having salt to season it is a cruel bedevilment from the gods. (I've even written a poem about salt.)

Chico bottle sling. Bought at White Sands National Monument, New Mexico. Credit: Mzuriana.

I also used it during my Lost Summer of 2021, when camping, to carry cleaning wipes to disinfect the toilet and sink surfaces. Trust me when I say I'm not a germphobe, but ... COVID.

Chico bottle sling. Buccaneer State Park, Louisiana. July 2021. Credit: Mzuriana.

The folding table

Well, I've featured my folding table many times in the past decade+. It's my office, my dinner table, and my campsite work table. It's the table I bought for $6 at a friend's moving sale. It is exactly the right size and weight for my needs, and fits into my car beautifully. 

My folding table. Lake Catherine State Park, Arkansas. October 2017. Credit: Mzuriana.

Terry wristbands with zipper pocket

I originally bought a trio of terry wristbands for when I went dancing in South Louisiana. 

Terry wristband with pocket. Credit: Amazon

But after COVID hit, the wristband really shined for me. Instead of carrying a wallet and a purse to most activities (during the early-days lockdown) and shopping forays, I could just wear this, tucking in my driver's license, a credit card, and some cash. I use it almost daily now. 

A beat-up ol' leather waist pack

Oh, how I am so ready to release this! I continuously look for a replacement, but thus far, like Goldilocks, I can only find ones that are too large or too small or too something else or not enough something else. 

I did, actually, buy another one, but it's too bulky for my everyday wear.

So my unlovely, worn, black leather waist pack stays with me. I bought it at a thrift store, hell, probably close to 10 years ago. The damn thing. I don't love it at all, but I can't part with it. 

It's just the right size to fit:

• Phone
• Camera
• Glasses
• Pen

It only has the one pocket. A zipper closure.

The wheeled tote 

I bought this for a very specific purpose, not imagining just how multi-purposeful it would be. And it's goshdarn pretty, too. And it's insulated-ish and water-proof on the inside.

Blue floral, insulated, rolling market tote. Credit: Mzuriana

I bought it especially for the Tucson Food Rescue program, the fruit-and-vegetable mecca I visited every week. 

But then I put it use as an excellent weekend travel bag. Being wheeled and lightweight, with an exterior pocket - perfect! 

Prius caRV camp bed and market tote. October 2019. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

In Mobile, I use it every week to schlep my groceries up a short flight of stairs to my building, then the elevator, then to my apartment. 

My caRV dining table

My steering wheel dining tray. August 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

I press this into service on every road trip for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Slides easily into the open crevice between my console and the front passenger seat when not in use.

It's especially good for dining al Prius on rainy days like this:

Some other posts on stuff

2010: Just Stuff (a sad story from when I prepared to go rootless)

2010: Progress Report: Stuff Divestment: Did I Make the Deadline?  (On "guerilla stuff divestment" and "how interminably tedious it is to divest myself of the most mundane things")

2018: Ferguson, Missouri: Winding Down (nostalgic views of my rooted home)

 

Stuff: Trials and Errors in Alabama

Before I left Tucson at the end of May 2020, I edited my stuff to the barest of bare minimums so I could car camp in ChezP while en route to wherever my new digs would be for the year. This approach contrasted with past years, in which my criterion for how much stuff I schlepped from one tourist-in-residence to the next was that it fit into my car. 

 

Car packed for move to El Paso. August 2016.

 

Below are minimizing actions I took before my Tucson exit:

• Reduced flatware and tableware to four or fewer pieces in each category
  
• Cookware released: Cooking pots and pans, plastic spatulas/spoons, silicone oven mitt, cutting board
  
• Kept only one bath towel
• Bedding released: Airbed and its accompanying electric pump, fitted sheets, all pillows except one, pretty comforter, a knitted throw
  
• Travel items released: Two coffee thermoses, smallish Coleman water jug
  
• Also released: Smallish fan

 

Now that I've been in Birmingham for awhile, I can assess my mistakes and wins.  My first assessment on same is here.

Mistakes

1. Keeping only one bath towel

One bath towel was fine right up until the day I went on my road trip in October. Wanted to take a shower the morning I left Birmingham for Texas, only to realize, oh, right, my sole bath towel will be damp, so instead of packing it up, I'd have to drape it over stuff in the car while I drove.

On the other hand .... On a road trip, I can lay bath towels atop my coolers to protect my cooler(s) from the heat and sun pushing through the windows or just to cover up items that opportunistic thieves might think appear interesting enough to break a window for. 

I should have kept two bath towels.

 

2.   Keeping only one pillow

In theory, my decision to insert blankets and linens into pillowcases and use these as pillows was a solid one. But they aren't comfortable and they're also kind of floppy. 

I should have kept two pillows. 

 

3.   Bed

I don't regret giving away my airbed and pump. It would have taken up too much ChezP real estate for this year's interregnum between Tucson and Birmingham. Just as importantly, I learned how much I valued a comfortable bed! My experiment with a stretched-fabric cot, topped by my ChezP's foam cushion, has been a comfort failure, and not one I want to suffer through for a year. I hereby reject the punitive adage: You made your bed and now you gotta lie in it.

 

                                                        Bed fail in Birmingham. October 2020.

 

I ordered a new airbed and electric pump after I returned from my Texas road trip. Same brand for the third time: an Intex Twin with Raised Pillow. I like that it's almost the height of a real bed. 

I again sleep like a queen! 

3. Cookware

I grow weary of thrift-store cookware that doesn't sit evenly on stove burners, oven mitts that don't quite do the job, and no-scratch spatulas with dubious chemical integrity.

It is time to invest a little dough into decent kitchen tools I can use in a bricks-and-mortar or on the road. 

So the mistake in this case wasn't that I released my Tucson cookware and bought "new" in Birmingham; it's more a mistake in lost time and unreliable results from thrift store hunting and buying each time I move. It's the latter I intend to rectify. 

4.   Tableware

I made no mistake in reducing my number of dinner plates to two from four. My mistake was the size of the dinner plates I was using. They were too big. They were too big to fit into my decades-old, Girl Scout ditty bag to dry after I washed them. They were too big to fit easily into my camp kitchen box. 

 

Vintage Girl Scout ditty bag at campsite, Lake Livingston State Park, Texas. October 2020.

 

Notwithstanding the pretty, pastel turquoise color and the pleasing curvature of their lip, I left them in Livingston.

I could do so because I'd already found their replacement:

When I landed in Birmingham, I undertook my annual search for a replacement broiler pan with which to roast my boneless, skinless chicken breasts or thighs, my zucchinis, my squashes, my potatoes, and my yams. I found a taped-together assortment of metal ware that included not only the PERFECT size broiler pan (fits well into a kitchen sink for washing!), but two sets of toaster-oven pans, which I didn't think I needed (and I don't have a toaster oven).

But the petite, rectangular toaster-oven pans are cute as kittens, in their way, and I'm using them as my new plates. I can't use them in a microwave, but no matter. I don't have a microwave. (Hahaha! This reminds me of how, in Ferguson, I didn't have a stove!)

My wins

I should have dispensed with fitted sheets long ago! They are a pain in the ass to fold after laundering, they are a pain in the ass to put on an airbed, and they're too big for my ChezP "bed."

Although I had some sentimental attachment to the flatware, one of the two thermoses, and the Coleman jug that I released, the storage space they didn't consume in my car and kitchen cabinets dried my nostalgic tears. 

My decision to furnish my Tucson (and future) apartment with camp gear that I can also use for road trips and camping was a good one! My bedside table is a collapsible camp table. My bedside lamp is a camp lantern (powered by rechargeable batteries). My comfortable living room chair is a backpacking chair. My ottoman is the medium-large plastic bin that houses my camp kitchen, topped by a pillow. 

 

Living room ensemble. Birmingham, Alabama. October 2020.

                               

Related stuff on stuff

"Office" chair

Every year, I buy a new-to-me chair for my "office." Usually, I do find a chair that is the right height for my loyal folding table, and is comfortable. But not always. This year in Birmingham, I bought a very solid, pretty, wooden dining chair. But the seat is just a little too high for my folding table, which means that every day, I'm slightly uncomfortable when I work on my laptop. 

I'd like to find a sturdy, folding camp chair with the correct seat height, provides good support for my lower back while sitting for long periods, hold up to daily use, and which will not take up too much space in my car when I use it for camping and moving. 

 

                        My office 'desk' and chair in Opelousas. Louisiana, March 2015.

 

 

Cardboard boxes

I'm experimenting with the use of cardboard boxes for shelving and side tables. This practice holds promise for future living set-ups.

 

 

Birmingham, AL: Stuff

 

                                        Living room ensemble. October 2020.

 

Since 2010, I've lived as a tourist-in-residence in seven places:

1. Caucasus Georgia
2. Alamogordo, New Mexico
3. Lafayette, Louisiana
4. Opelousas, Louisiana
5. El Paso, Texas
6. Ferguson, Missouri
   
7. Tucson, Arizona

Until this year, it was my tradition to haunt the thrift stores for furniture in the first months of a new locale. The furniture typically included: 

1. Floor lamp + desk lamp
   
2. Living room chair
3. Side table(s)
4. File drawers

But this year, after a severe edit of stuff when I left Tucson, I had two new goals: 

• Add as little furniture as possible to my Birmingham nest without feeling deprived in tangible comfort or intangible vibe
• See how well I can incorporate my Chez Prius 'furnishings' into the apartment so that the stuff I do have serves me in both venues
  

Now, about two months in, I've had mixed results. 

The good: furniture

• Cut considerable time and energy visiting thrift stores in the annual hunt for furniture that I'll only keep for a year, and then have to unload when I move on.
• For every trip I've not taken to a thrift store, I eliminated exposure to COVID-19 risks.
  
• My living room chair is a comfortable, collapsible, lightweight backpacking chair that I bought in Tucson, which performs double duty in my apartment and ChezP, and I won't have to unload it when I leave.
  
• My bedside table is a sturdy, collapsible, lightweight, camping table that I bought in Tucson. Like the chair, it performs double duty and I won't have to re-home it when I move on. 
• My bedside lamp is a cute, diminutive, battery-operated camp lantern, with three brightness settings, and for which I use rechargeable batteries. Again: double duty and no need to offload it when I leave Birmingham. It happens that my Birmingham apartment has ceiling lights in all of the rooms, so I haven't had to buy additional, freestanding lighting. But if I did, I'd already planned to buy another battery- or usb-powered light source. Another advantage of my camp lantern is that if I want more subtle lighting, I can easily place my lantern anywhere in my apartment. 
• There's an Aldi's in Birmingham, and there I found robust cardboard boxes to serve as an ottoman and a shoe shelf. 
  

 

The good: other stuff

Before leaving Tucson, I reduced my place settings to two dinner plates, two salad plates, two small bowls, and two soup bowls. I pared my flatware to four dinner forks, two salad forks, four spoons, two soup spoons, and two dinner knives. I don't miss the additional items at all. 

I'd had two and a half sets of twin-size sheets since I lived in Alamogordo: four flats and two fitted. Before leaving Tucson, I released the fitted sheets. What a hassle-saver in folding after laundering and in making a freshly changed bed!

The disappointing: My bed

It's the least comfortable of all the beds I've had so far. I placed my ChezP foam pad atop a cot that I bought at a big box store in Birmingham, my first night in my apartment. I thought the inclusion of the foam pad would offset my past cot experience, and it has, to some extent, but not enough. Oh, how I miss this bed and this bed and the vintage, bed-spring cot + thin mattress that my aunt gave me! 

The air mattress I used in Opelousas and Ferguson as my guest bed, and in Tucson as my primary bed, was very comfortable. Because of its bulk and my ruthless editing of stuff before I left, I gave it to a friend before I left. I do not regret this decision, as I saved precious real estate in ChezP and, just as importantly, learned an important lesson with the cot-purchase mistake. 

I don't know yet if I'll try some more strategies to add comfort to my bed, or if I'll just spend the money on a new air mattress. 

 

 Overall: stuff evaluation

I feel good. 

Sometimes I smile when I look at my Spartan surroundings. For now, it suits me.

 

Stuff: Goodbye Khakis

 

Goodbye khaki pants that I never loved but wore so many times.

Is there one word that describes this: something you dislike but you keep using again and again and again and again because you don't have something to replace it with yet and you can't justify releasing it because it is still in good condition? 

If there is such a word, then I could write this post in one sentence:

I finally pitched my [insert special word] pants somewhere between Jackson, Mississippi, and Birmingham, Alabama, because their deterioration had finally allowed me to do so without unsettling the bones of my Swiss Mennonite forebears.

Goodbye khaki pants that I never loved but wore so many times.

Stuff: Releasing More 2 in 2019

It was only last month that I wrote Stuff: Releasing More in 2019. Letting go continues.


The stick

Years ago, I received a walking stick from someone who'd whittled the bark off of it before presenting it to me. I have carried this stick with me for more than 10 years. My mother used the stick on some of our road trips. One of my descendants hiked with it in New Mexico. I transferred it from the trunk of my 1995 Camry to my Prius at the beginning of this year. But where there had been affection at the time I received the stick, in recent years, there have only been troubling thoughts  related to the giver. Each time I see it, touch it, move it from one spot to another in my car, the stick signifies darkness. It does not belong with me.

This morning, I pulled the stick from my car, walked it over to the dumpster, and leaned it softly against the dumpster's hard metallic wall. I felt pretty sure someone would claim it.

A couple of hours later, I saw the stick at its new home. The young woman who lives below me - she'd propped it just outside her door.

I smiled. She will know none of its history. For her, the stick will represent a goodness, and I am glad of it.

Happy anonymity

Installing Texas plates onto my car meant I had to let go of my glorious Land of Enchantment plate. A piece of art, that plate. Its turquoise sky, cheery sunshine lines, coral center within the Zia - displaying it on my car had been the unexpected realization of a wistful dream I had years back to be the owner of such a plate.

I could have kept the "Happy Town, USA" license frame that showcased my connection to Opelousas, Louisiana, but it obscured too much of the Texas plate.

Besides, in this time of too too much information about ourselves being siphoned into barrels owned by those who want to sell to us or to sell us, I welcome bland anonymity on my bland gray car with its bland, grayscale plates.

I've got the photos for remembering my colors.    

Stuff: Releasing More in 2019

My stuff on a table at Rami's in Keshalo, outside Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia. September 2011. I released the "headache hat" a couple of years ago.

My goal when I leave Tucson is to carry in my car only what I could comfortably live with if I were to live in my car.

This raises - lowers? - my bar significantly from my past relocations. Til now, my relocation rule has been: If it fits in my car, it can come. Spare space for sleeping in the car or taking on a passenger was not a criterion.

Compliance with my new standard demands radical evictions.

Some of my stuff in Opelousas, Louisiana. All released back to the wild when I left. February 2016.

Pillows

For several years, I've carried four pillows with me.

Their ride ends in Tucson. Too much squishy, fluffy mass that serves only one purpose - to rest my head or raise my feet.


Oh, I'll still have "pillows," but blankets, towels, sweaters, and linens are what will fill their cases.

This will eliminate:

1. The mass the 'real' pillows would take; and
2. A large bin that has stored my blankets and linens in past moves.

Cutlery

Each of us carries assumptions that are so internalized, we don't know they exist. They are like gravity - always present, but never noticed.

To my surprise, I evidently harbored an unexamined belief that one's household "must" have cutlery place settings for eight, at least.

But after watching countless youtubes on #vanlife, #hotelprius, et al, and observing vehicle dwellers' claims of only having one or two forks and spoons - just enough for themselves - it struck me.

The "it" crept in by spurts.

First: Why have I continued to carry eight dinner knives with me? They are long and they are heavy. Yet I only use a dinner knife to scoop a plump line of Miracle Whip Light out of a jar.

Second: Why do I need table settings for eight? I rarely entertain, and when I do, it's just for one or two people, and, once every two years or so, four people.

Conclusion: I'm not ready to reduce my cutlery to one or two place settings, but I am ready to cut it down to four. I will make it so.

Surprise: I mourn this. Not enough to change my mind, but still. I bought my dinner cutlery before I was married. Before my child was born. I love its weight, its sturdiness, its clean lines.


Small appliances

I'll wave fond goodbyes to:

• Toaster
• Coffee maker
• Cheapo stick vacuum 
• Broom

Clothes

I am observing which items of clothing malinger in the closet for months on end, not paying rent.

They'll have to go.

Same for shoes.


Downsizing

Some items I need, but in a smaller size than I currently have, such as:

• Document file box
• Camp chair
• Camp kitchen box (this, too, will cause separation pangs)

Out with the old 'n big and in with the new 'n petite.



There will be more acts of attrition as D-Day approaches. Probably a few tears, too.


Speaking of binge-watching #vanlife, etc. youtubes: Out of the bajillions I've now watched, the one below is the most charming. I see why it harvested MILLIONS of views:

A plethora of related posts on my stuff here: Losses, break-ups, and acquisitions.





 

Stuff: Goodbye, Georgia Towel

My Georgian towel. May 2019.

This towel looks homely, doesn't it? Colors dimmed and dull, threads worn, edges frayed? The colors, even when they were fresh, never fashionable?

It's not a soft towel, and that's why I favored it, because its ridged texture felt like a luxe exfoliating cloth on my skin after a shower. It's the towel of hearty Svans of the Caucasus Mountains.

I brought this towel back from Georgia, the result of a swap of towels with my hostess in Old Rustavi, Nely. I gave her one of my softer, thick towels in exchange for this thin, austere one, because I'd become so fond of it.

After eight happy years with my towel of the Caucasus, yesterday was the day that I cut it into rectangles so I could re-purpose it into cleaning rags.

I'll toss it away, bit by bit, after I distribute some of its Georgian DNA, accompanied by scouring powder or bleachy spray, over my kitchen and bathroom surfaces in the Sonoran Desert, far from the Black Sea.

An honorable end to its years of service to softer humanoid surfaces.

My Georgian towel. May 2019.

Stuff: Lingerie Vegetaria

Peaches, pears, and jicama in lingerie. February 2019.

I bought a trio of reusable mesh bags for bagging produce at the grocery store.

Peaches, pears, and jicama in lingerie. February 2019.

Placed my peaches, pears, and jicama in the soft folds of the bags.

The round fruits and fresh-skinned jicama peeked like brides from their wedding veils.

Or cheekily from white-netted lingerie.

Peaches, pears, and jicama in lingerie. February 2019.

Peaches, pears, and jicama in lingerie. February 2019.

Being green can be sexy.

Goodbye, Dear Old

Hwy 380 outside Carrizozo, New Mexico - Valley of Fire vista. October 2012.

Last week, it came time to say goodbye to a stalwart friend. 

Being rootless and, therefore, a minimalist by necessity, I don't have a lot of stuff. And I don't think I have much emotional attachment to the bulk of the stuff I do have. There are exceptions, however, due to sentimental memories associated with an item, or by the longevity of our relationship.

Here, I said goodbye to a crossover bag that had accompanied me to so many festivals and travels.

My "festival" bag.

Here, I said goodbye to an airbed. To my accumulation of Mardi Gras beads. To my cherished, red chairbed.

My red chairbed in New Mexico and Louisiana.

Here I said goodbye to my Nokia brick phone (and its symbolic content of human connections, literal and figurative) given to me in Caucasus Georgia.

My Nokia "brick" in Caucasus Georgia. 2011-2012.

But today my goodbye is big. Really, really big. 

I've had to say goodbye to my car, my 1995 Toyota Camry.

The car I bought when it was already more than 10 years old. The car I bought when I lived a whole different life than I do now, a rooted one, when I had a:

• Mate;
• House; and a
• "Regular" job. 

I bought the car with a little more than 80,000 miles on it. I'm releasing it with more than 240,000 miles on the odometer.

It was a comfortable car. Because it was an older vehicle, I had no worries about someone singling it out for nefarious doings. I loved all things about this car except for three - the:

• Stingy cupholder that was far too particular about what it allowed in its space;
• Low ground clearance, which made it not-so-handy on uneven roads (well, sort of roads); and
• Expensive sensitivity of the driver's side door handle. (I think I bought THREE replacements.)

I saw the world in its side mirror.

Sunset view from my side mirror, I-10 from Texas to Louisiana. September 2017.

 And through the rear mirror.

View of Monument Valley through my rear window. November 2008.

• I ate breakfast, lunch, or dinners in it. I snacked in it.
• I spilled stuff in it. 

• I slept in it.
• I camped with it.
• I got lost in it.
• I found my way in it.

• I meditated in it, solved all of the world's problems in it, imagined futures in it, re-imagined pasts in it. 
• I sang in it, swore vile epithets in it, cried in it, laughed in it, worried in it, yelled at the universe in it, and asked it questions it could not answer.

• I parked in it, crept in it, sped in it.

• I laughed with others in it, argued with others in it, and enjoyed companionable silences with others in it.

• I saw suns rise and suns set in it.

• I saw innumerable dead creatures on the roads from it.

• I drove by hundreds of past death scenes in it, memorialized by descansos, crosses, signs, flowers.

I loaded, unloaded, loaded, unloaded, loaded, and unloaded the Camry.

My car packed for year in El Paso. August 2016.

My car packed for year in El Paso. August 2016.

Goodbye, dear old.



A slide show:

Stuff: That bucket

Although a minimalist, I am not immune to shiny things.

Years ago, a folding bucket - or its pretty sister, that folding sink - called to me. I wanted one. It took effort to walk away.

But recently, I walked into my neighborhood Aldi's and saw something similar to this:

I brought her home.

I am only human, Lord.

Ferguson: Winding Down

Stuff of times past, Jefferson City, Missouri. 2009.

It's mid-September and my year in Ferguson will end on October 31. Time to wind down.

In my annual winding-down times, these are my thoughts:

• What have I accomplished? What am I proud of?
• What haven't I accomplished? What do I regret?
• How was the year different from what I thought it would be? In which ways better? In which ways disappointing? In which ways surprising; neither better nor disappointing?
• What do I want to do before I leave? 

I inventory my stuff. Make preliminary decisions about what to with it before I leave:

• Consume?
• Return to the person who lent it to me?
• Give it away?
• Toss?
• Sell?
• Take with me, at least for the next leg of my annual relocation?

In my inventory check thus far, I know that one of my tasks will be to organize my electronics paraphernalia. For example, do I really need all six ethernet cables that skulked into my space like feral cats? Isn't it time to let go of that years-old, European-currency router? And that peaceful, Caribbean Sea-colored, turquoise Otter phone case (that cost me a pretty penny!) that fit my old smart phone, which is of a size no longer being made? Time to just let it go, let it go, right? And, yes, it's time to say good-bye to my geriatric HP laptop that I actually replaced two years ago.

Stuff of times past, Jefferson City, Missouri. 2009.

 

Some past inventory experiences

• On leaving El Paso (2017): Releasing More Stuff
• On leaving Opelousas, Louisiana (2016): Sold My Stuff - Again
• On leaving Alamogordo, New Mexico (2013): Consuming the Remains
• On leaving Alamogordo, New Mexico (2013): The Release Cycle Begins Again
• On leaving my rooted house in Missouri (2010): Progress Report: Stuff Divestment

Portable: Exercise

Resistance bands

Not long ago, my mother spent time at a rehab center. The physical and occupational therapists introduced her to resistance bands. During my mom's sessions, I'd sometimes do the resistance band exercises with her.

Hoo doggies! I loved how effective they were at flexing the muscles, how easily I could change the amount of resistance for a stronger or gentler workout, and, of course, how portable they are.

I bought my own set of bands. The different colors have different levels of stretch resistance, with green the strongest and red the gentlest.

Although I get a fair amount of exercise with dancing and walking, which gives my legs a workout, I've really neglected my arms. The resistance bands are perfect for building muscle strength for these sad appendages, and I've been using the bands every day since I bought them.

Being a nomadic sort of gal, they are perfect for my rootless lifestyle.

Rootless Relocation: Releasing More Stuff

Sunset over Juarez from UTEP parking lot. July 2017.

August 2017

My itinerary upon leaving El Paso:

1. Big Bend National Park for a few days of camping
2. South Louisiana for several weeks
3. On to my next year's home

In moves past, I've loaded my car to the max, but this relocation from El Paso to my next one-year destination is to be different.

The goal is to strip down to the barest quantity of stuff I can without breaking into tears. To fill only my trunk and an easy-to-get-to amount of stuff in my back seat. To have no need for careful placement to ensure window visibility for safe driving.

Some of the items I've schlepped around the past few years have exceeded the return on investment to justify their use of the limited real estate in my car. Such as:

• Upright vacuum sweeper
• Broom
• Swiffer mop 'system'
• Giant plastic storage bin
• Pillows
• Cheap but eye-pleasing rounded-edge hangars in colors of turquoise, coral, and apple green (en masse, they take up too much space and are awkward for packing, but obviously, my decision to leave them in El Paso causes some wistfulness about our impending separation)
• Some kitchen paraphernalia
• Three coffee mugs
• Over-the-door hook apparatuses (very, very useful, but like the hangars, too awkward and bulky to make the cut this time)
• Small appliances 
• One of my two camp chairs
• Cleaning solutions, spices, etc.

Large items that have made the cut to go with me include:

• Airbed
• Cot with mattress
• Folding table that I bought from a friend at her moving sale many years ago
• Camping gear and its storage bin

El Paso: A Relocation Memory

Packed for relocation to El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

August 2016

I just re-discovered pictures I took of my car, packed with my worldly goods, prior to leaving for my year in El Paso.

Packed for relocation to El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

That green blanket? I bought that ages, ages ago at a farm auction in Missouri. Could have been among a stack of textiles sold in a lot for a couple of dollars. I like everything about it: the color, the texture, the size, the warmth, its provenance.

Packed for relocation to El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

The aluminum frame above and the blue-and-white mattress below? My nonagenerian aunt gave this to me several years ago, probably having no idea that it would serve as my main bed at times.

Packed for relocation to El Paso, Texas. August 2016.

A related post: 

Rootless Relocation: What I Left With