The destination makes a difference

I was just telling you a bit about the delightful Milo in The Phantom Tollbooth. He receives a purple tollbooth, some coins to pay tolls with, and a map of the places served by this particular tollbooth. He immediately observes they aren’t anywhere served by the Jersey Turnpike… (Well, I extrapolate on his behalf.)

“I don’t think there really is such a country,” he concluded after studying it carefully. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.” And he closed his eyes and poked a finger at the map. “Dictionopolis,” read Milo slowly when he saw what his finger had chosen. “Oh, well, I might as well go there as anywhere.”

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster

The only thing I can say in favor of this method of destination selection is that it got Milo somewhere, and out of the house at that.

“Out of the house” is precisely my problem when it comes to my darling Timothy’s musical gear. And it was my parents’ problem when it came to clearing 55 years of stuff out of their 4,000-square-foot house when I prodded them to move to a 2,000-square-foot place a mere 3,000 miles closer to me. I can authoritatively say it’s a problem for a heckuvalot of seniors and bereaved folks. I know, because I wrote an article about it once upon a time, and interviewed people wise in the ways of downsizing.

You can’t just tell people to toss out their collection of enamelled snuff-boxes or National Geographic first editions. You can’t badger them into cutting in half the number of items in their clothes closets or china pantries. You can’t sneak stuff out to the (English) tip or (American) dump under cover of darkness.

Well, you could, but not if you want them to speak to you ever again.

The experts suggested my readers could help their person reduce their stuff-footprint by deciding in advance who would benefit from it most. Who would use from this well-stocked tool chest, that set of family-daily china? Who would love to read these books? Or wear those clothes that no longer fit, or that won’t fit the climate you’re moving to?

My elderly, Depression-baby, dad stopped picking over the boxes of spare kitchenware and ill-fitting shirts waiting at the door the minute I said they were going to benefit the local kitty-rescue thrift store. He helped fill boxes with paints, crayons, watercolor paper and instruction books, once he was reassured his unused supplies were going to the village elementary school, chronically short of enrichment materials.

I learned my lesson well. To make releasing Timothy’s music books, instruments and accoutrements so much easier on my heart, I searched for a youth music program dedicated to the serious jazz that was Tim’s life. I’ve found it in Seattle JazzEd. Their programs sound right up Timothy’s street.

I’ve spent February listening for Tim’s whisper in my ear to keep something. Boy, did I hear it when I found the folder full of posters and concert programs from his gigs in New Orleans, New Jersey and England! Now, everything else will go to the eager hands of young people who are just beginning to feel, understand and play jazz as he did. Passing the baton, passing the torch… I’m passing on the love, and freeing some space in my heart as well as our house.