Southernisms: Garrets and Dust Holes

The Southernism article I am offering this week has been around for quite a while, having appeared in the Journal of the Mississippi State Medical Association in 2006 and later in my book UNA VOCE in 2011.

Perhaps there is truly no need for me to apologize for the age of this essay as it remains both as pertinent and poignant as it did twenty years ago. The story came flooding back to me when I read the inevitable news of the upcoming estate sale of Tommy Covington. Tom loved and in so many ways lived the simple philosophies of his literary idol, Henry David Thoreau. But, as the long serving Ripley librarian, historian, and Tippah County archivist, Tommy amassed a huge collection of original art and artifacts, books and music, clocks and old photographs, and his beloved Mission Oak and ‘Arts and Crafts’ style furniture. In this one respect, he did not follow Thoreau’s example of an extremely frugal existence. He treasured preserving things for others in the future. It was a large part of his calling in life.

Tommy introduced me to Thoreau’s work and shared those idealistic notions with me quite often. Now, it seems that the contents of Tommy Covington’s ‘garrets and dust holes’ will be soon sought by many friends, some neighbors, and likely more than a few bargain hounds. Knowing Tommy, I feel that he would take this dispersion of his prized possessions in stride and will be smiling down on this ‘passing parade.’

I hope you enjoy this story that Tommy inspired me to write so long ago. -----------------------------“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone… …Not long since I was present at the auction of a deacon’s effects, for his life had not been ineffectual…As usual, a great portion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate in his father’s day. And now, after lying a half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these things were not burned; instead of a bonfire, or purifying destruction of them, there was an auction, or increasing of them. The neighbors eagerly collected to view them, bought them all and carefully transported them to their garrets and dust holes, to lie there until their estates are settled, when they will start again. When a man dies he kicks the dust.” …Henry David Thoreau ------------------------------

December is upon us once again. The jack-o-lanterns of Halloween haven’t had time to cool down before the Christmas-tide urges of getting and spending, of gorging and gifting, take hold of our waking thoughts. These seasonal obsessions seem to be somehow pre-programmed within us.

On any given day in the fall, a trip to almost any retail establishment will trigger in me an overwhelming wave of nostalgia. The holiday music I have loved since childhood wafts in the background, low and sweet. Christmas trees glimmer and glisten. The scent of apple n’ cinnamon potpourri sublimates in the air I breathe. The magic Christmas spell is cast once again.

Over there is a shelf of Nutcracker figures that beckon to me in particular. There stands a tall, fur-hatted, red, white and blue wooden soldier who especially wants to go home with me. With only the slightest twinge of guilt, I recruit him into my Nutcracker army, which numbers well over a hundred now. He currently sits on my mantle awaiting deployment; the rest of his guard unit is embedded in cardboard boxes up in our attic and will be pressed into service soon enough.

More than once I have wondered if my children will place any value on my “trumpery” of beloved old books and Blue Willow, of porcelain Doctor figurines and Santa Clauses that I have amassed over the years. I issued a stern warning to them that if they had a big old carport sale of my “stuff” after I died, I would come back and haunt them.

But that is all that it is... just stuff. Apparently, I carry a familial gene defect that causes me to seek out and horde a variety of mostly useless collectibles. I have even sunk to the depths of becoming an enabler of other hapless unfortunates, buying friends and family more of whatever dust-catcher they currently happen to collect. I was thinking of trying to locate a support group to help me with this addiction, but this past week I went through a form of aversion therapy which I think will help me make it through the holidays this year.

Last week, Granny finally consented to having some long overdue new floor covering put down throughout her century old farmhouse. You know what this means. Everything, and I do mean everything, must be moved. At 87, my mother has a fairly advanced case of macular degeneration. Apparently, if one can’t actually see the depth of the dust of the antiquity which surrounds you, then it doesn’t trouble you too much.

It soon became apparent to me that I had inherited the collecting chromosome from my dear mother. She once made the mistake of telling folks that she liked salt and pepper shakers. Now she has dozens of S/P sets, some quite beautiful and others kitschy and totally tasteless. The ones actually sitting on her kitchen table are the beat-up old aluminum ones that have been there ever since I was a child. She has always loved and raised cats, geese, and chickens. The live ones are outdoors but on the inside of the house reside about five hundred feathered and feline figurines. They perch on every available surface. I know this because we went through two bottles of Windex, and a half-gallon of Thunder Blaster to clean her glass menagerie.

Then there was the formidable matter of the small mountains of National Enquirers, Progressive Farmers, and Guideposts in a guest bedroom, magazines dating back to the last application of linoleum in 1990. My son Jack and I bagged them up in grocery sacks and carted them out to the roadside for the trash man to pick up. Granny was more than a little disgruntled by this and complained loudly… “I wish y’all would just please leave my stuff (not the exact noun she chose) alone; it’s mine and I like it just the way it is. When I die, and it won’t be long at this rate, you can just set it all afire and burn it if it bothers you so much! What did you do with my large-print Reader’s Digests? They had BETTER NOT BE out at that dern road!!!”

Despite the power struggles, protests, and dust clouds we got the job done over the course of a few days. Out of this ordeal, Granny got a beautiful new floor and a much cleaner house, and I got a snoot full of allergens that have given me the worst spell of sinus trouble I have had in many moons. I am sending a note to everyone who normally gives Velma South a Christmas gift, and I am going to double-dog dare them to send her another white ceramic pussycat!

Like every senior citizen I know, what Granny needs and wants this Christmas is not another dollar store dust magnet, or bottle of cologne, or box of chocolate covered cherries. What her heart craves is the gift of their time. The coveted gift of time is free, but buddy, it ain’t cheap or easy to come by these days.

In October and November, we are greeted with a barrage of pricey mail-order catalogs of “must have gifts for giving this season.” Too pretty to go in the trash bin immediately, the wish books sit in a stack tempting me each morning over coffee. I am still having serious trouble resisting them. One of those fancy catalogs is offering “a most unique gift, for the hardto-buy-for person who has everything.” For $69.95, you can buy a beautiful presentation box containing the Magi’s original Christmas gifts to the baby Jesus… gold, frankincense and myrrh. Precious metals, rare incense, and prized spices, the very sorts of traditional gifts we continue to give to those we love even 2000 years after the first Christmas.

I say that modern day Wise Men and Women should journey home this Christmas bearing the simple gift of their time. Time is what is golden. Time, of all incense, smells most sweetly. Spending time is the grandest spice that life has to offer. Our time is indeed the most precious gift we can give to those we love, and thus give honor to our Lord this Christmas. HENRY DAVID THOREAU JULY 12, 1817 - MAY 6, 1844 (aged 44) American Naturalist, Essayist, Poet and Philosopher COME SEE DR. LAMPTON AT THE FRYE/MAGNOLIA CLINIC BUILDING LOCATED AT 111 MAGNOLIA STREET!!! Southernisms: GARRETS AND DUST HOLES By Dwalia South, MD GAZETTE Contributing Editor