The True Book of Mostly Unrelated Stories

The Art of Throwing Out
by John Mooy

There is much talk about all we accumulate as time goes by. I will use our cottage as an example. It’s the area where my wife and I share a building that we can both work in. There are two sides of the floor space that are designated as “his and hers.” Wendy would often say to me that I needed to get rid of so much of what I had accumulated. And I’d often given that same statement to her.

Enter our dear neighbor Tricia. She dubbed my floor space as “The Sanford and Son” room. If you’re not familiar with this situation comedy of the mid nineteen seventies, the show is now considered an American classic. Red Foxx played Fred Sanford, and his son, Lamont,  was played by Desmond Wilson. The story takes place in a junkyard in Watts, Los Angeles and centers around father and son often trying to come up with schemes to make cash quickly to pay their bills. It was an entertaining and cutting-edge show.

So that’s more than you wanted to know about how my area became known as the Sanford and Son room. Junk everywhere.

Well, Tricia had a remedy for the problem. Throw “stuff” out.  Her line of question concerning materials would rival that of Sergeant Joe Friday from the Dragnet series while interrogating a suspect, “Just the facts Ma’am.” Tricia started with Wendy’s room, and I witnessed bags of “stuff” being thrown out. Her line of questioning would bring the faint of heart to their knees:

“What’s this book about?” I don’t know. “Then throw it out.” Gone.

“When’s the last time you wore this shirt?” I can’t remember. It goes to Goodwill.

“Why do you have this can of paint here?” I painted the counter over there. “So that project. is done?” Yes. “How much paint is left?” Not much. “Throw it out.” Gone.

It was like the magician Blackstone and one of the greatest tricks of making something disappear that I’ve ever seen.

And I knew my turn was coming. If you think my head wasn’t spinning think again.  

Several days later, Wendy, while standing on the floor in her now rather spartan looking work area, told me Tricia would be over at two o’clock. I couldn’t think of any way I could escape.

I failed to tell you that Tricia is from Arkansas and she has that wonderful southern accent that can make bad things sound, well, not so bad.  

Just like with Wendy, I watched once valued memorabilia make its way into trash bags and out the door. Then Wendy got into the act, so I was being questioned by not one person but two. I didn’t stand a chance.  

Sometimes I didn’t even get to plead my case in support of keeping something. It just had to go.  

And then I thought this activity might potentially be brainwashing me as I was trying to convince myself why I didn’t need some of these things. However, there was one time when the line had to be drawn.

“What’s in this big envelope?” News clippings and pictures from basketball games we played in high school. “Does anyone care?” I do, that was a time that was a highlight in my then young life.

And just that fast as I recall, Tricia said, “OKAY.” And I was allowed to keep them. I felt as if I had just received a reprieve. And in a way my pictures and articles had. That envelope now rests on a shelf on my side of the room and no doubt I’ll take it out and look at that cherished part of Marcellus athletic history again in a few years.

Our cottage now looks so spectacular that I’m almost afraid to go in for fear I’ll mess it up.

Tricia was absolutely amazing in what she did. I look at this whole experience as her training for what lies ahead – the basement.

That’s where the really valuable stuff is. The stakes will be higher and the questions tougher.  I’ll be ready.

Have a great week Marcellus.
You’re the best.
Hide your valuables.