Giving away the trampoline
Because I live with a teenage trend spotter, this happens a lot: A story in the New York Times announces something I already know to be true.
Occasionally Leo will monetize a flash of inspiration. For example, the time he earned $1100 in 11 hours by purchasing and reselling Snapchat Spectacles. He somehow knew to do this at the precise height of the product’s 15 minutes of demand. Today nobody would bite.
So by the time Tom Verde @writa1 reported on “a kink in the chain of passing down mementos from one generation to another” I had already donated or sold anything that might, a generation ago, have had keepsake appeal. Come to think of it, aside from a cigar box of old photos I have only three tangible things that belonged to my parents: two coffee cups and the sugar bowl from an old set of kitchy dishes (definitely not “china”).
Over my 50-some years, I have had 15 different roofs over my head. From the stucco Miami Beach bungalow of my birth to the small house I rent in Denver, much of the appeal of moving has been letting loose of my stuff.
Two years ago I had my biggest and most-satisfying purge. The boat and dock and kayaks and paddle boards—all gone now. The furniture too, purchased somewhat recklessly to refill my house after a divorce. And the books—so many books—they felt so good to have and to hold but gifting them to the public library gave them new lives too. And the trampoline. As young as it made me feel to flip and fly, I was glad to see it go.
After two more years of high school, my son plans to throw a dart at a map and go wherever that takes him. He will bring only what fits in his Fiat. I will probably move to a small houseboat, towing a tiny trailer behind a small but mighty car.
The gig economy supports this kind of life. With a good WiFi signal, work can be done from anywhere, but great work can only be done when the worker feels inspired.
Today, it’s Friday at 3:00 of Labor Day weekend. Instead of wishing the next two hours away so I can leave an office, I have exited Rt. 9 halfway between Denver and Steamboat Springs. I’ve been mulling over this post since August 18, when I read the story in the Times.
Right now I feel like writing.