Greetings from Walden Pond.  Population: 1, me.

If Henry David Thoreau had been a blogger, I am quite certain that he would be doing exactly as I am right now- that is, writing in the pitch black of night with only a candle (or in my case, a headlamp) to guide his pen. 

Don’t tell me that this doesn’t look just like the Walden shack by night. My life here is just as simple as that yahoo’s- who after all made Mom do his laundry every weekend and accidentally burned down half of Walden Woods while living his “sojourner of truth” days. Thoreau, what a poser….

And so what I had wanted to blog about, before I was so rudely interrupted by Senelec’s latest power outage was my unwitting experience of walking in the shoes of a 72 year old. Whose treadless New Balance “dress up” sneakers am I talking about? Why those of a more eminent Bostonian- my Dad.

If you have been reading since January, then I thank you. But you will also remember that I started the new year off by trying to get my Dad to throw out old stuff that he no longer needed. This was no small feat, but my persistence did produce some admirable results. In doing so though, I also managed to hustle my dad through Memory Lane. This week that I gained a profound appreciation for his patience and willingness as I made him go through this exercise..

I too did some organizing of my own. As you can see from the leading photo (my headlamp makes an excellent flash), it was karma’s moment to turn and grin mischievously at me.  

For seven months this has served as a dumping room for junk I didn’t want to go through.

I have hated this room. The only time I go in there is to hang clothes to dry or to dry my hair (don’t ask why both of those activities are so inexplicably similar). Filled with mounds of paperwork, memorabilia and other miscellany, I always find something better to do each time I say I’m going to organize. Like scrubbing my magic shower, for example.

This week, I forced the issue. I invited someone over who radiates more optimism and motivation than I can muster even on my best day. I knew that if someone else was standing over me, then I’d finally accomplish this mission. 

We start in and I do everything in my power not to feel overwhelmed by all of my crap. The flight instinct was in my bloodstream, and begging me to attack my dirty shower with a sponge.  Laurie, motivator extraordinaire and also pictured above, just set right to work by moving my stuff around. No discussion. Like a kidney stone, this evolution was going to pass.

Things that Laurie didn’t know what to do with became piles that only I could address. These piles are better described as physical evidence of memories.

I put my head down and went through everything. I came across the International Student ID Card that I had as 18 year old, a pirate bandana from my summer working on a tall ship, old photographs, a backpack pocked with flag patches containing warship-scented coveralls and skivvy shirts…. 

Going through all of this was hard to do. I found some things I’d been looking for, but I also came across things that I never wanted to see again. In going through this mentally-draining exercise, I now understood what I had inflicted upon my Dad by making him go through his decades of stuff. I get why he took ten minutes to examine, identify, and relive each memento that I pulled out of the kitchen hutch.

And I suddenly felt extreme guilt for impatiently watching him scrutinize each keepsake before he chucked it into a 32 gallon trash barrel.

Back in Africa, the room did get sorted- but only thanks to Laurie’s patient bird-dogging. The objective was achieved, and I can no longer call it a dumping room:

 I think this will now be my dedicated yoga room. Merci, General Olmsted.

(Yeah I know my house is too way too much for just one person. Even Thoreau would call me a poser.)

So really, what is stuff? We like to collect varying amounts as we move through life in order to remind ourselves of significant events. But at the end of the day, it is only stuff. I feel bad that I made my Dad throw away so much, as I too had a hard time paring down my own possessions.  And I’d feel sad about all of this except for one thing:

When I moved to Dakar, my father and brother drove me up to Logan airport. It was freezing outside, and I felt as bewildered as I had when I was driven to Logan in order to report for Officer Candidate School in 1999. Eleven years later I was moving to Africa, alone. I might as well be moving to the moon. 

With my luggage piled high on the terminal curb, my Dad got out of the car to say goodbye. I had just spent a rare month at home that was filled with unapologetic, Hallinanan-esque memories. I was sad to leave, but I knew that this was the next stepping stone in my bizarre life. After giving him a big hug, I went to turn away before he stopped me and said, “Megan remember- wherever you go, whatever happens- I am here” and he pointed to his heart. 

Naval Officers don’t cry, so I nodded at him and quickly headed for the check-in counter with my brother. I got to my gate with my composure regained. I was completely comforted by a simple truth that I had just been taught by my crap-collecting Dad. None of the souvenirs that you accumulate really matter, the most important possessions that we own cannot be thrown into a Rubbermaid trash barrel. 

This post got long. If you are still reading then you are probably putting off cleaning out your garage. I admire your faculty for procrastination.