Musings on downsizing: particularly, heirlooms

Last November/December, my husband and I downsized from a row house into a two-bedroom condo.  I had so (SO!) many thoughts about this process, but at the time I didn't write much of that down because I was of course completely overwhelmed with doing the gazillion tasks with purchasing the new place, getting the row house ready for sale, and of course, downsizing.

(There was also the fact that I was getting ready for a surprise job that landed in my lap at the same time, but that's a different story).

At any rate, here I am 6 months or so after moving, and thinking about the aftermath of downsizing, and I have to say: thumbs up all around. I am happy to be in this compact space with things that I truly love around me, and also without nearly as much baggage to deal with lurking in storage or taking up space on shelves, getting in the way of those things I love.

In fact, one of my goals over the next few years -- once I finish up the surprise job that plonked down on me for the year -- will be to sort through about 3 or 4 bankers boxes of ancient family memorabilia to organize it, digitize it, and then get the physical copies the heck out of here.  These are boxes that I inherited from my grandfather, or that were sent me by distant relatives, all of whom knew that at the time I was interested in family history.  But the family history isn't nearly as compelling when it's packed away in a disorganized jumble in banker's boxes.

All this is to say, downsizing many other heirlooms was one of the things I am super glad I did before we moved (although some of these things hadn't exactly achieved "heirloom" status; I'll use that term because I'm not sure what else to call them).

I went through boxes and boxes of photos of my kids, sorted them out by who's who, and mailed each pile off to the appropriate kid.  I included a note telling them they were welcome to save the photos, share the photos, or toss them:  better to have that choice now than several decades from now, I figure.  

I took photos of the stuff in my home that I thought might have sentimental value for my kids, and asked them to let me know if there was any of it they might want to have now or someday.  There was actually very little of that.

As a side note, that's one of the aspects of "stuff" that my friends complain about: their parents insist on saving/storing/hoarding stuff because "you're going to get this someday", but it's things the kids don't want: furniture that's bulky/fragile/impractical, dishes that require special care, clothing or decorations that come from another era . . . even when the kids insist they won't want it, the parents insist they should.  My friends tell me they dread having to go through their parents' homes some day.  Meanwhile, the more stuff from our row house that we gave away or re-homed, the more my children said, "Thank you", because they won't have to deal with it themselves. 

And on the flip side, if the next generation really is going to appreciate something, there's an argument for letting them do so now.  If I live as long as my dad did, my children will be geriatric by the time they'll be reading my will together.  I'd so much rather they get to enjoy the things that delight them while they are still at the stage of building their own memories, and for those that have children of their own, while their kids can appreciate the stuff, too.

There's also this: inheritance drama can be real.  My sisters and I are a delightedly unified front, but my dad's second wife, who outlived him, has decided she doesn't want us anywhere near her home.  There are small things my dad left behind that I would love to have: his childhood photo albums and the albums from our own childhood, for example, so I could include those in my heirloom project.  There's a teddy bear I made him when I was in high school.  My sisters have their own wish-items, I know, of things that his wife doesn't want but is keeping nonetheless.  Maybe someday after she passes, we'll go through the home with her children and get access to those . . . but what a ghoulish, uncertain way to think about those things that would otherwise give me warm, fuzzy thoughts.  The whole process taints the memories that come with those objects.  That is nothing that I would wish upon my own heirs.

In the meanwhile, I'll just return to the fact that it's lovely to have a home space where I get to see things that I enjoy seeing, and where (most of) the things that I had been hanging onto because I think "my kids will appreciate this someday" don't have to wait for "someday" to be appreciated: I've already sorted those out and passed them along.

Tiny toys in tiny bags

 Here are (almost) all of the tiny bags I bring to church.

My sister made tiny drawstring bags that she used as gift-wrapping, and that started my collection.  After a while, I decided to switch to using up my stash of rescued zippers, and I love how they look like teeth once I add eyes drawn with a sharpie.  The zippers are much easier for small fingers to manipulate, too.

And why do small fingers matter?  Because this collection of tiny bags contains tiny toys.  I carry these bags to church, and pass them out to the children sitting in pews near me.

A toy in a bag is much more interesting than just a toy, and the kids have come to love the surprise of what comes in this week's bag.  I almost always get the toys back at the end of church: there used to be a matchbox car among this collection, but it apparently has driven away.

It's very easy to make these tiny bags, and now when I happen across a nifty tiny toy in a free box or such, I snap it up to add it to the collection.  I don't know who likes this collection more: the kids who play with them, the parents who mouth big "THANK YOU"s to me, or me!

Second-hand compliments: even better than first-hand ones!

Like many people I know, I try to remember to thank people for what they're doing: our department coordinator, the department chair, the people that clean our building or organize the behind-the-scenes computer systems. 

But here's a twist that I've really been enjoying: it feels even more meaningful when I get to pass along something that someone else was saying.  Like, the other day, I was talking to someone who I'll just call "Amy" here, and I mentioned a compliment someone else gave her: "I was over at the registrar's office, and they were talking about how they asked you for help with pre-commencement work because you're so good. They said, 'Amy's the bomb'."

And Amy paused, and then told me how much she needed to hear that: she'd just applied for a position that would have been a kind of promotion, and got passed over for it, and hearing that she was valued meant a lot at that moment.  I think the compliment felt all the more real because it wasn't face-to-face.  I mean, we're supposed to be nice to one another in person; it's a whole other level of compliment to know that people are saying good things about you behind your back.

One of the passages from the Bible that has struck me comes right after Jesus is baptized, and God says to those hanging around: "This is my beloved Son, in whom I take great delight".  What strikes me about this is that the introduction isn't about the role that Jesus takes on, but about the interpersonal relationship. 

After I read this, I started trying to introduce people I know that way: instead of "this is X, who runs with me," but "this is my dear friend X, who makes my life better by keeping me active"; "this is my one of my favorite pew mates; she always makes me smile"; "this is my inspiration as a department chair; we all know we're in good hands with her." In other words, I try to not just say who the person is, but who they are to me.  I love how much that seems to touch people. 

A salad gift

 Our CSA season is underway. (That's "Community Supported Agriculture", not "Confederate States of America", to be clear).

Back in February we forked over (heh) a couple hundred dollars, and now every week we get to pick up a giant box of vegetables, grown locally and organically.  When we signed up, we could have chosen "small, medium, or large": we chose "medium" for historic reasons, but that turns out to be a LOT of vegetables for just two people.  And when my husband is traveling, as he often is, I truly can't eat all the veggies myself.

The organization we order from calls each week's delivery our "share", and I've been taking that term literally.  I visited a far-off friend last week and took her a head of lettuce as a hello gift. I made a huge salad (recipe below) for our condo's bi-weekly patio party.  I'll be taking veggies to my daughter tonight when we have dinner together.

The friend I visited told me that one of her friends gives salad as a birthday present to her other friends.  We all loved that idea, and spent a bunch of time chatting about that idea.  I'm definitely filing that one away in my back pocket.

At any rate, having vegetables in my fridge that are not stuff I bought in the store, but are rather the vegetables farmers happened to choose to grow for me, means that the recipes I come up with to share can be rather quirky.  My condo-mates at the patio party marveled at the salad I brought: they asked for the recipe, and said in almost-admiring tones, "I never would have thought to put those things together!". 

Yeah, me neither.  Before yesterday, I never would have suggested a bok choy/fennel/radish salad.  But you know? It turned out great.

So here's the recipe:

The base: 

• hardy vegetables, finely chopped. 
• The recipe I was riffing off used Swiss chard, but as I noted above I had bok choy, fennel, and radishes. 

The dressing: 

• oil and vinegar (I used olive oil & cider vinegar)
• salt and pepper
• garlic, minced
• a bit of paprika (or jalapeño peppers, or something tangy)
• parmesan cheese

I think it's the parmesan cheese that's the magic ingredient; it really makes the whole salad incredibly yummy.  

I still have more of the bok choy and fennel, and I still have half a jar of dressing . . . and this afternoon, we'll be picking up our next box of veggies.  So I think I'd better start looking around for a friend who needs a gift of a salad!

The three things conversation

Every day at 3:14, I call N-son for the Three Things conversation. 

(Okay, actually, it's almost every day. Sometimes one of us is otherwise occupied.  Still—unless I shut it off because I'm in a theater or a meeting or something—every day at 3:14 my alarm pings, and I try to stop what I'm doing, and call N-son.)

The topic of this short phone call is to trade our stories about these three things:

1. Something that made you happy.
2. A good deed you did.
3. Something you're looking forward to. 

That's all we need to talk about.

The calls usually last 5–10 minutes; if it gets close to 10 minutes, one of us makes "Mama hates phone calls" noises (which is true), and we wrap it up.  Sometimes saying good-bye after a short conversation would feel rude or dismissive, but we both know that we'll get to talk again tomorrow, so it's okay to cut it short today.

I started doing this a bit more than a year ago, when N-son was feeling particularly lonely and left out, and I wanted a way to connect with him.  The fact that we've been doing this for more than a year tells you how much we really have come to relish this daily ritual.

There have been a lot of ups and downs during the year; some of these conversations have veered off into describing the downs.  I have reminded N-son that neither one of us has to pretend to be happy . . . but that even when things are going terrible, there are small good things, too.  You can acknowledge the hard times, while still using the glimmers of good as the rungs of a ladder to help you start climbing up out of the pit. And this seems to work.  There have been times I've listened to N-son rail angrily or dejectedly through a 15-minute rant about his situation, and then he paused, and said: " . . . . but there have been good things, too.  Here are my three things . . .".

I also like adding #2 (a good deed we did) into the usual mix of gratitude: I try to get us out of our own heads into thinking about other people and our world.

As someone who hates talking on the phone but who loves my kids, I have to say that I've come to treasure this ritual.  The fact that it's scripted makes it a lot easier than the "just saying hi/how are you?" conversation that I find so awkward; it's a good way to catch up quickly.  And during the rest of the day, we both look forward to the time we'll get to chat. Sometimes we go out of our way to, say, pick up a piece of trash from the street so we can count that as our good deed. Sometimes I get to tell another person, "I told my son that you were the thing that made me happy today," spreading the happiness even further.  In fact, my friends all know what the 3:14 alarm means, and sometimes they'll join in on the conversation if they're with me when it rings. 

And that's it: the Three Things Call.  And now I'm getting past my 10 minutes of writing, so I'm going to hang up this post.  Talk to you later.

Stiched handles, and plastic bag bans

Two thoughts on cloth-versus-plastic, when it comes to bags:

1.  Stitched handles

As much as I try to keep my possessions to the only-what-I-need-or-love level, I still seem to be swimming in a large collection of reusable shopping bags.  The handles on one such bag ripped out when I was carrying something very heavy, and I guess the normal thing to do would have been to toss the bag, but I lavished some 45 seconds of repair time on it nonetheless.  Once I had the sewing machine out for another project, it was a simple thing to sew the handles back to the bag.

Et voila.

When cities or counties ban plastic bags, they actually make the problem worse if they're not careful about what goes into the place of those bags: merely saying "reusable bags" encourages stores to give out heavier plastic bags, pretending that those are multi-use.  It seems like the magic words for effectiveness are "stitched handles": that tends to actually lead to reduced plastic use, reduced litter, etc.

2. Economic differences of bag bans

I'm in a neighborhood group that is urging our city council to adopt a plastic bag ban: I've been helping to write draft language and to argue for why our city needs such a thing.  One of the criticisms we often get from people opposed to such bans is that bag bans are hardest on the poorest in our communities.  Surprise/not-surprise, these arguments usually come from white, affluent people who don't normally go around worrying about brown, non-affluent people.  

I was glad, therefore, for this article on the changes to the Philadelphia bag ban: it addressed a lot of the concerns about implementing bag bans, charging for bags and the effect on communities:   

https://cleanwater.org/2026/01/06/philadelphias-bring-your-own-bag-bill-how-we-got-here-and-why-it-matters

An example of a key takeaway:

While the memo suggests exemptions or free reusable bags for low-income shoppers, evidence shows that broad exemptions increase food costs and litter in underserved communities unless reusable bags are widely available at no cost.

Three key findings support this:

1. Eliminating bag fees at discount grocery stores increases food prices.
2. Corner stores, common in low-income neighborhoods, bear the greatest burden when bags are free.
3. Urban neighborhoods adopt reusable bags faster than suburban areas.

So there's that.  We'll keep plugging away with the council, and maybe someday I'll have neighbors using cloth bags instead of plastic . . . I certainly have a few I could share with them!

"Commencement means beginning" . . . of the free stuff

It's that time of year: students are moving out of their dorms and leaving behind oodles and oodles of things that are in perfectly good shape, but that they can't fit in cars or suitcases as they drive/fly back home.

For about a dozen years, a small group of people at my college organized a giant yard sale from the stuff that was left behind: it filled the gym, and pricing things at $1 a bag, we still raised thousands and thousands of dollars for charity.  It was an incredible feel-good thing: keeping so much stuff out of landfills, delighting our neighbors (including recent immigrants and other low-income people) with amazing deals on furnishing their home, and gifting charities with big checks.  

But it was also an incredible amount of work, too much work for people to figure out how to keep doing at a super-hectic time of the academic year.  Eventually, the organizers understandably burned out, and the program died.

There's a new group trying something smaller, but on a smaller scale (and without the yard-sale component--instead going more directly to charitable groups that need furnishings for their clients).  I volunteered to help; I've spent about two hours helping to sort/count stuff that they'd collected from departing students, and I'll spend two more hours later today as well.  As a perk, I get to nab a few things that'd be useful to me.  I've held off purchasing mirrors for our condo for just this reason, and sure enough, there were at least 15 full-length mirrors in the mosh-pit.  Now one of those mirrors is hanging on my bathroom door, just where I needed it.

I also picked up a few storage cubes that I'm using to pack away my winter clothes on a high closet shelf, and some little notebook disks. These are things I know I don't need to buy, if I'm just willing to wait for the seasonal bonanzas the come from being at a small college.