Clutter

I guess people can be divided into two categories: neat freaks and clutterers. At least that's the way it seems to me. I don't think either are good or bad, right or wrong. They just are who they are. I like my clutter.

My mother was a neat freak. Her house looked like a series of magazine pictures at all times. We never casually dropped a jacket on a chair or - God forbid! - anything on the floor. Nothing ever hit the floor. Mom snatched it up on its way down and whisked it away to the closet or drawer. I used to say I was a terrible housekeeper because my mother never taught me how to do anything. She was always compelled to do it herself - the right way. Drove me crazy. I guess my clutter was a sign of rebellion that I never outgrew.

I had a neighbor once who would come in for a cup of coffee occasionally and I would catch her eying my kitchen with a look of distaste. It was clean you understand - just not very neat.

In my last job, I had a boss who was a neat freak. His desk always looked as if he never did a lick of work there. (Well, in all honesty, he didn't, except on rare occasions.) My desk and bulletin board drove him a little crazy. Like most clutterers, I could find anything I wanted on desk or board in an instant. Knew right where everything was. But I often caught him surreptitiously moving something on my desk just slightly to make it more to his liking. He reminded me of my mother.

Well, they say that geniuses and artistic people often live amid clutter. Maybe I'm an artistic genius?? - or not

I do seem to collect things. Little things. Seashells, small rocks. (Have you ever read the children's book, Everybody Needs a Rock by Byrd Baylor? A lovely book. And I do have my own rock. I found it on the beach at Moss Landing. It's a perfect little rock.) Many little things that remind me of wonderful places I've been. Little things do collect dust.

Speaking of dust, I really must dust my shadow box again. It isn't really a proper shadow box - It's an old printer's tray. It's full of a clutter of little things, all of which have some special meaning to me. They include a few actual printer's blocks. One is a map of Long Island, where I spent all my married life. There's a little rabbit sitting on top of that one. When the kids were small, we always counted the rabbits we saw feeding along the Garden State Parkway, as we drove home to Long Island from Grammy's house in south Jersey. The blocks came from The Star and Wave newspaper in Cape May. They were going to be thrown out when they converted to more modern methods of printing. The tray itself is the last thing my husband bought for me before his death. It cost $5 at a yard sale.


I seem to be rambling again. I guess my mind is as cluttered as my house.