It’s not really hoarding if everything has a home, is it?
Story and Photos by David G. Williams
My wife is often after me to get rid of stuff. My stuff. Not her stuff. For example, cars and motorcycles. I mean actual cars and motorcycles. Or magazines about cars and motorcycles. Or anything remotely related to cars and motorcycles.
I’m not sure why she hates them so. Perhaps because my abilities with them could best be described as “talented amateur,” as my father used to say, rather than “expert.” Or maybe it’s the smell of oil and gas and old tool boxes (aah, old tool boxes . . .). Or because, as she recently told me, I’m “taking over the whole house” with my stuff, because I had two bike magazines by the fireplace, where I like to sit and read when it’s too cold to ride. But then she pointed out the ones in the kitchen. And beside the bed. And in the living room. It’s going to be a long winter.
I’ve tried organizing all my stuff in the garage and my office, but the stuff keeps sneaking out. It seems that I have too much great stuff for it to be contained. Besides, some of it is really great stuff. Like the ancient tire clock my dad gave me from back in his gas station days. It’s a small-scale General Streamline Jumbo tire (not sure how it can be streamline and jumbo, but whatever) made in Akron, Ohio; it’s got a wind-up New Haven clock in it that still keeps time. Or my clay sculpture of a pot-bellied biker riding an ape-hangered old Harley. Or my poster of the “Dodge fever” ad for the 1969 Polara, my first real car. “Totally new, it is. Expensive, it isn’t.” Unmitigated…