|This box of sheets followed me home from who knows where. How many sheets does a Burro owner need, anyway? And what about that rocker—any takers?|
I've never been much impressed with stuff, whether it belongs to other people or to me. I've never considered myself very materialistic, nor do I enjoy conspicuous consumption. I've always figured it was nice to have things, but sometimes it was nicer not to.
|The only stuff Cassie likes is dog toys and biscuits. She worries too much about everything else—she might have to guard it or something.|
But I can remember my first longing for a material possession, and I was pretty young, so I guess I'm human after all. I was about 11 and desperately wanted a beautiful hand-tooled saddle with German silver trim. I pined for that saddle and hoped and wished and even got a job working lunch time in the school cafeteria, washing dishes.
Finally, my parents actually got the saddle for me. It was a rare thing to get something that nice and made a big impression on me. I decided mostly that the wanting was better than the getting, because stuff is never as cool as you think it's gonna be, even when you're 11 and you just got the best saddle in the universe.
|I really like this oil painting of the desert in Western Colorado—do you think it would fit in the Burro?|
I've owned four houses to date (along with the bank), and they were all pretty nice. Having a house has a lot going for it, but it's also a great way to store all the stuff that seems to follow you around when you're not looking. You accumulate this and that and before you know it, that stuff's snuck up on you and moved in and you have a houseful to support. Like they say, it owns you. Thus the birth of that great American institution, the yard sale (it's probably how you got a lot of that junk in the first place).
Fulltime RVers know exactly what I'm talking about. That stuff follows you around for years and you have the darndest time getting rid of it. You may think you're done, only to remember those boxes in your kid's basement, the ones you forgot to label and can no longer recall what they contain.
I have less than one week to get out of my current rental cottage and move into my little Burro. I thought I had everything under control, having gotten rid of so much stuff since selling my last house. (I could write a book about that alone. I really didn't have that much stuff, it was just hard to part with, like my Navajo rug collection.)
|The only stuff I really like is wild stuff, like this dead juniper snag up on the San Rafael Swell in Utah.|
I don't know where this stuff came from, and I sometimes think it replicates itself like a bad virus when I'm not looking. It's good stuff, but I don't want it anymore. I wish I could kindly tell it to go away, but it looks like I'm going to have to dump it at the Goodwill store and then drive like heck so it can't catch up with me. Seems kind of inhumane to me, but I know somebody else can give it a better home.
But not to worry, it will probably catch up to me again, even if in another form. Dang stuff.