The other day, I found an old Wilson tennis racket in the garage. By old, I mean signed by 70-year-old Jimmy Connors.
It feels like it’s made out of melted horseshoes. I think if I tried to hit an overhead volley with this thing, my arm would fly off.
Why the heck do I still have this boyhood relic?
I don’t play tennis. I think if I were to try to play, my left leg — which has undergone five surgeries — would kick my own rump.
So, since there is no practical reason to keep the old Wilson racket, what gives? Nostalgia? Inertia?
There’s something about getting older — I turn 65 this week — that triggers powerful impulses to declutter your life. Perhaps it’s the feeling that somebody is going to have to do this sooner or later so it might as well be me instead of two guys with a dumpster.
My stuff is not nice enough for an estate sale. (Some of it is not even nice enough for a dumpster.) But it’s my stuff and deserves to touch my hands on the way out the door.
Editing your possessions while you are still alive is both satisfying and melancholy. Sort of like watching “The Andy Griffith Show” while drinking Johnnie Walker Red.
I remember the two things I carried from house to house when I was younger were my first baseball bat and an old skate key.
The bat was a 28-inch Al Kaline-model Louisville Slugger. I told myself it was for home protection, but it was so short I’m not sure I could have hit a bad guy if we were both in a broom closet.
Boomers, remember those old ball-bearing skates that were just sheet metal on wheels? The “skate key” was actually a miniature wrench designed to tighten the adjustable metal toe clamps that attached the skate to your shoe.
The skates wouldn’t grip sneakers, so you had to use a pair of Sunday shoes with hard leather soles. There’s nothing like wearing cut-off Levi jeans with a pair of your dad’s old wingtips to impress the ladies.
I see my high school class ring from time to time when sorting out junk jars and wonder if it would be worth a dinner for two at Ruth’s Chris steakhouse. Probably more like a plate of Nacho Tots at Denny’s.
Everybody wants more storage space at their house, but tons of drawers and closets actually are just invitations to hoard. And don’t get me started on two-car garages, which for most families have become glorified storage sheds.
Our garage contains an antique Ford truck, a woodworking shop, a yard-tool depository, a freezer filled with Digiorno pizzas and a surf shop — but none of the family’s daily drivers.
Every six months or so, I become convinced that my two sons are stealing my T-shirts. Well, I deep-cleaned my drawers a couple of weeks ago and found two dozen white T-shirts hiding under some sweatshirts. D’oh.
The problem with walk-in closets is that shoes walk in and never walk out. The other day I cleaned out my closet and found a pair of camouflage tennis shoes. They should come in handy if I ever decide to go deer hunting with a tennis racket.
The Family Life column publishes on Sundays. Contact Mark Kennedy at [email protected] or 423-757-6645.
Mark Kennedy