An Archaeological Dig

Cleaning the basement.  This has been our focus the past week in preparation for the semi-annual "Big Garbage Pick-up" in our town.

The process showed us we don't need to keep all the cartons for every darn thing we've purchased during the past ten years of living in this house.   And we don't need items we haven't unpacked since moving here: bowling shoes, ski boots but no skiis, knick-knacks (when did we think those were pretty?).

Sure, we have the space to store everything we want to keep.  The basement isn't used for anything except storage.  And we have filled it.

But to no good end.  We have forgotten what is there, can't find it, if we can remember and now feel overwhelmed with the cluttered mess lurking at the bottom of the stairs.

We threw out an embarrassingly large pile of soiled cardboard and packing stuff, nonredeemable garbage.  And are waiting for the garbage pick up to remove it from our property.  Bless them for offering that service.

Anything good or useful is going to a organization that resells clothing or small housewares and donates the funds to charity. Anything someone else wants goes, if they come to fetch it; one person took all our wine making equipment.  A couple of kitchen gadgets we thought we had to have (but used once) are in new homes.  Recyclables will go to the appropriate depositories.

What's left?

We ran out of energy and ability to say yes or no to the choices by the time we hit the boxes of photos.  We'll save that for sorting another time.  The useless bits of wood and wall board will go to the dump when we can borrow our friend's trailer to haul the stuff away.  The 10 file boxes of paperwork from our past lives will require a call to a shredding company.  Hazardous waste, an old propane tank, batteries, empty paint cans will go to the HW pick up next Saturday in Riverview.

After the basement floor appeared again and we washed the dust from ourselves, we decided:
we will be discerning and disciplined about any new purchase;
we will remind ourselves that we already have everything we need;
we will enjoy the new found space in our basement and will not re-fill it.

The declutter process feels healthy and encouraging.

What's next?  The upstairs den, which is the whole top floor of our house.  It is a TV room, a reading room, a spare bedroom for company, a toy room and my knitting storage area.

Yikes!  Another dig through dust and stuff.

Now, we have a goal and are looking forward to seeing our way though the piles, to spacious rooms and to regaining control of unhealthy accumulation.

Who knows what possibilities will open for us?

New ways of being more responsible for our lives, and perhaps downsizing to a home with less space for unneeded junk.

We can do anything we want.

When is Garbage Really Just Garbage?

When is Garbage… Really… Just Garbage?

One person’s trash is another’s treasure.   I’ve seen proof of this over the last fortnight.

“Big Garbage” pick-up for spring happens next Monday.   For two weeks, people have been cleaning, creating piles, large and small, at curbside for the semi-annual garbage collection of big garbage.   We don’t have much to contribute; what we do have, we’ll put out Sunday night.  We live simply and don’t accumulate, keep clutter to a minimum.

One neighbour must be doing housecleaning in a big way.  He has a ten foot high cone of garbage in front of his house.  Another has garbage spread in a 50 foot swathe across the front of her property.

Treasure hunters are out in vans, in small trucks, in large trucks and in large trucks with trailers; they are cruising the streets.  They idyll their engines, move slowly, drive by the piles, then back up, leap out, inspect an item and throw it into their truck or back onto the pile.  Pickers drive by at all hours.  I’ve seen men with flashlights, after midnight mining the treasures.

I admit it.  I am fascinated.  What are they going to do with a cracked toilet, a broken sink, a single drawer, a television older than dirt, a defunct lawn chair or a mattress that looks like someone died on it, after suffering a messy illness?  I understand taking items that can be reclaimed for the metal, wood that can be re-purposed or plant pots that could be reused.  Perhaps someone who has mechanical abilities can salvage a lawnmower or a weed trimmer, a radio or a computer.   But, perhaps I am limited by my own imagination.  Perhaps…

Since our lifestyle is simple, most of our garbage is really just garbage.  We don’t have anything exciting for the pickers, no treasures, except an old rocking chair with broken rungs.  Someone who has carpentry skills and wood working tools could repair it.  We don’t and can’t.  I hope someone will want it and will fix it and use it. 

But…oh dear.  I have to confess.   We have skulked over to the ten foot pile and found treasures… two pieces of pressure treated lumber.  Why treasures? 

Because we can use them, of course.  

His trash has become our treasure.

Choices, Yes or No

Choices are challenging.  Today I say both yes and no to my fabric recycling course.  The yes and the no each feel right.

The course is in the fourth week of six.  We explore ways to re-purpose fabric and clothing.  We share patterns, ideas and finished pieces, help each other to solve problems.  Together we reclaim sweaters, coats and kilts, turn them into useful pieces and save them from the landfill.

I make slippers from a wool sweater.  The sweater is no longer new, no longer lovely, and no longer useful.  I wash and dry it, shrink and felt the fibres into a close-woven thickness.

Following the instructions from a free online pattern (http://www.homemade-holiday-gifts.com/felted-slippers.html ) I cut the sweater into soles and tops, sew them together using a blanket stitch.  The ribbing from the bottom of the sweater becomes the cuffs at the tops of the slippers.  Though they won’t be prize-worthy at any County Fair, they make me smile.

I make a second pair.  These have crocheted bands around the ankles.  Thicker and cosier, pair #2 has additional layers of wool on the soles.  Double wool = double warmth.  I say yes to my class and to the opportunity to create something new out of something old.

The group decides to veer from the course outline, and spend the remainder of this morning, plus the two weeks that are left working on a quilt.  The finished blanket will be donated to raise funds for a school-lunch program.

I am all thumbs at quilting.  I have tried but it is not one of my skills.  I do not enjoy quilting.  

I believe in compassion and charity and have contributed my work life to causes that help others.  

I say no to this one and to the remainder of the course.  There are others for whom this quilting project is a thrill.  I leave the project to them and sigh in relief.

Saying no is not easy for me.

Doing work because I cannot say no or because I feel guilt is stupid.  I don’t need to accept every project or charity that comes to me.

If I take care of myself, I have energy for the volunteer work I can do, for the tasks and people I love…because I can switch off the “yes machine.”

Finding balance in my life means letting go, means saying, “No thanks” when the fit isn’t right.

Photos are mine.



Quilt Squares

My fabric recycling class is making a quilt, a donation for charity, creating quilt blocks from reclaimed kilts.  For class this week, my task is to take home one reclaimed kilt and cut a minimum of twenty quilt blocks, each 6 ½ inches square.

Why kilts?  Once kilts are cleaned, the pleats removed with a seam ripper and the fabric pressed, a kilt will yield four times as much fabric as a skirt for the same price from a Thrift Store.

 

I have the prerequisites:  cutting mat, rotary cutter and quilting ruler.  These tools are leftover from a “Learn to Quilt” class I took years ago.  These classes taught paper piecing and quilt block design – activities at which I did not excel.  The patience and precision required resulted in tears, wasted fabric and a suspicion that I am not cut out for quilting.  It was not a success.

In the fabric recycling course, quilting sneaks up on me.  There was no hint that the fabric recycling course would morph into a quilting class.  But, not wishing to admit my history of failure, I agree.

Sure, I’ll take this home to cut into squares.

Twenty squares are requested.  How difficult can it be? A question which proves my memory selects what it wants to forget.

The fabric is plaid, grey and cream with a navy stripe.  I think a lighter colour will be easier to see.  I choose it rather than the reds and blacks that my classmates take home.

It is easier to see.  But the lines of colour in the wool are not even.  The lines squiggle as they move down the length of the fabric.  This squiggling fools the eye and makes measuring 6 ½ inch squares difficult.

I measure the squares and measure again and again before cutting. I hear the voice of the recycling group’s instructor nagging in my head.

The quilt squares must be exactly 6 ½ inches square.  Nothing else will work.

I wonder.  Will my squares be acceptable?  I shudder remembering my lack of production at quilting class.

In two hours, I cut five squares at twenty-four minutes a square.  This is taking longer than I imagined.  Visions of the quilting class flash through my mind.  I re-visit the face of the quilting instructor; eyeballs rolling, eyebrows arched and mouth twisted.  I sigh.

My husband wanders in with two glasses of wine, to investigate, offering to keep me company.  He sips, watching me.  I talk to myself, measuring, not sipping wine, and wondering if straight edges and right-angle corners are possible.  He offers help.

Cutting squares of fabric can’t be different from slicing wallboard with a T-square and a knife!

Seizing the chance to escape, I show him how to use the cutting mat, the rotary cutter and the quilting ruler.  He asks questions, observes that the rotary cutter is like a pizza cutting-wheel, observes that it seems simple.

I get up.  He sits down.  He fiddles with the fabric, studies the lines in the plaid and notices the unevenness.  He calculates how much wool is needed for twenty squares and begins to cut.  I sip my wine.

He doesn’t talk to me, keeps his head down, mutters numbers.  I sip and put my feet up.  He cuts.  Success, four squares. 

Four 6 ½ inch squares – exactly square.

I turn on the propane fireplace, move to the rocking chair, sip and relax.  I think.

This isn’t hard after all.

My husband works like a machine producing squares.  Four more; the pile grows.  He cuts strips of wool and cuts the strips into squares.

I turn on music, start to hum.  Smiling at him, I offer to fetch him another glass of wine.

No thanks, I need to concentrate.

I pour myself a glass.  This isn’t bad!  Fireplace, rocking chair, music and wine.  He works, produces squares, no fabric wasted, perfect squares.

An hour passes.  On the table, there is a cube of forty-five squares, twice the minimum.  Success!

Well, this cutting task hasn’t been difficult.  Perhaps I’ll offer to do more squares next week.  I'll have to buy more wine though.

All photos are mine.