The Joy of Less Read online

  My collection of short story collections dwindled, and I felt great about getting them out into the world. What good were they doing boxed up in my living room? Books are meant to be read.

  After donating books I’ve read and books I’ve written to Little Free Libraries, I feel like I’m part of something.

  Every time I walked by a Little Free Library I’d contributed to, the last book I’d put in there was already snapped up by another eager reader. The libraries seemed to enjoy complete and frequent changeovers. Shelves didn’t stagnate. There was always something new.

  Little Free Libraries became my go-to spot for book browsing. I still purchase new books by authors I cherish, but now I get the added pleasure of thinking, “When I’m finished, I get to share this with the entire neighbourhood!”

  Last summer, I met the owner of that very first Little Free Library I came across. She was sitting on her porch, reading a book, of course. I thanked her for providing this wonderful resource to the community. She asked me if I’d read anything good lately.

  At the end of our book chat, to my surprise, my neighbour thanked ME — not for contributing books to her library (I hadn’t disclosed that I’d done so), but for borrowing from it. She seemed genuinely overjoyed that the neighbours were using it.

  People who live in big cities — and especially people like me, who live in huge apartment buildings — often don’t feel a special sense of community. We think that’s reserved for small towns. But after donating books I’ve read and books I’ve written to Little Free Libraries, I feel like I’m part of something. I felt a sense of belonging. And, unlike boxes of books, a feeling of community is something you can’t keep a lid on.

  ~Tanya Janke

  Editors’ note: You can learn more at littlefreelibrary.org.

  Real-Time Inheritance

  What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone but what is woven into the lives of others.

  ~Pericles

  “We’re inviting you to claim any of our family possessions you want,” I e-mailed to our three adult children. My husband and I had recently completed our living wills and our attorney urged us to let the kids choose their favorite items now to avoid future squabbles. He had witnessed siblings who battled for years over a dish shaped like a chicken once their parents were gone.

  Purging raised questions. Were we ready to part with our belongings when we would probably still be around for decades? Would our kids want antiques and collectibles that had been passed down through the generations?

  Our children rose to the challenge and got to work.

  Lori disliked “old junk” but selected the mahogany bookcase her dad had made, the chair where I rocked her and her siblings, the heavy Norwegian Bible, and for her five children, the tents and sleeping bags.

  Steven wanted the grandfather clock and the butter churn so his son could crank it like he did as a boy. He also reserved the orange, 1969 Camaro Rally Sport convertible when his dad stopped driving it in the future.

  Betsy appreciated antiques and wanted to pass them down to her three girls. “I feel an obligation to preserve the family heirlooms,” she said. “We have space in our home and the cabin, and our girls are into “olden day things” after reading the Little House on the Prairie books.” She flew in from her home in Maryland and visited us in Florida. She brought the layout of her floor space on graph paper and wandered through our rooms measuring the furniture. She chose the heavy pie safe, a small oak table for her desk, the four-poster bed for pre-teen Amy, a cane-seated rocker for third-grader Anna, and the coffee grinder to fascinate first-grader Ava. The list grew to include crystal goblets, cut glass bowls, and china. Her family would return during Christmas week, load everything into a commercial container, and ship it to Maryland.

  Now, when we visit our children and grandchildren, we take a trip down Memory Lane as we view our treasures in the homes of the next two generations.

  Purging was liberating and we discovered that we still had a houseful of things to enjoy. Now, when we visit our children and grandchildren, we take a trip down Memory Lane as we view our treasures in the homes of the next two generations.

  ~Miriam Hill

  The Ugly Socks

  The test of our progress is whether we provide enough for those who have too little.

  ~Franklin D. Roosevelt

  A couple of years ago, just as I do every winter, I bagged up all the items in my closet that I no longer wore, along with the clothing my sons had outgrown. I issued a call to action to all of my family and friends, asking them to do the same. It is always my hope to re-purpose those things that do nothing more than take up space in our homes, things other people might make better use of. Nothing bothers me more than selfishly squirreling things away, things that we know we will never use or wear, while people in our community go without.

  I found an ugly pair of hand-knitted socks in one of the bags donated by a friend. Not to be mean, but they were a dreadful mixture of colored yarn: orange, purple, yellow and blue. I had to decide — garbage or donation? It wasn’t like they were unusable. They were simply unpleasant to look at, surely not something anyone would choose to wear. I imagine they were a homemade gift gone bad.

  I put the ugly socks in the garbage, but ten minutes later, I took them back and put them in the donation pile. Later that afternoon, my mother and I drove down to Madison Avenue in downtown Phoenix. Every winter she and I load up my Jeep with our own cast-offs and the donations from friends, and we take them downtown, along with food and water, to distribute to the men and women living on the street. Sometimes I even get my boys involved.

  On this particular afternoon, as Mom and I distributed warm clothing and hot food to a small crowd of people outside a local homeless shelter, I reached into the bag and pulled out the last of the donations — the ugly socks. Surreptitiously, I held them in my hand as the crowd of homeless quietly dispersed, each with a grateful smile, a fistful of food and an armload of clothing. Just as I was about to drop the socks back into the empty bag, laughing at myself for even bringing them along for the ride, a teenage boy ambled up to me.

  “Can I please have those socks?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling in the sun.

  My eyebrows lifted. I’m ashamed to say it, but I was still a little embarrassed by the donation and disappointed that we hadn’t anything left to give him except for those socks.

  It’s proof that there is happiness in life’s simplest things, and we’ll never know how much until we’ve shared those things with others.

  “Of course,” I replied, handing him the thick, ugly, hand-knitted socks. As a mother of two strong, healthy boys, I couldn’t help but feel for this kid. He was the youngest I’d seen that day. He could have been my son, no more than nineteen years old or so. He looked as though he had lived a hard life. His clothes were dingy. Clearly, he hadn’t showered in days, but he had the best smile.

  “Thank you so much, Ma’am!” he grinned. “These socks remind me of my grandmother. She used to knit stuff like this for me!”

  I watched in awe as that young man raced to the sidewalk. You’d think I had given him a brand new car or a million bucks. He sat down on the curb and slipped out of an old, tattered pair of tennis shoes. It was an unusually cold day and I was saddened to see that he had no socks on his feet. My heart broke and my eyes filled with tears as he slipped into those chunky, hand-knitted socks and then back into what was left of his tennis shoes. He stood up, stomped his feet and smiled at me. Bits of the brightly colored yarn poked through the holes in his shoes. It was quite a sight!

  “They’re perfect!” he smiled.

  And to think that I was going to throw those silly socks away.

  Not only were his feet warmed that day, but so was his heart — and mine. Of all the more handsome clothes we distributed that afternoon it was those darn socks that were the biggest hit! They had rekindled the memory of that young man’s grandmother, a woman who must have loved him dearly.
How could I have ever been so thoughtless as to think that those socks, as pitiful as they appeared on the surface, didn’t still have a purpose? To this day I think about that young man. I wonder where he is. I even think about those silly socks. As unassuming as they were, they continue to bring me joy. It’s proof that there is happiness in life’s simplest things, and we’ll never know how much until we’ve shared those things with others.

  ~Natalie June Reilly

  An Empty Garage

  The miracle is this: The more we share the more we have.

  ~Leonard Nimoy

  After we moved from our large four-bedroom house to a smaller one in a retirement community, we vowed to remain minimalists, keeping only the things we really used. Many of our new neighbors shared our commitment to minimizing our belongings; thus was born the Marigold Drive Sharing Co-Op. Our motto was Don’t Buy It — Borrow It!

  We and our neighbors signed up, listing the things we owned that we would be willing to loan. Categories included items for entertaining, medical needs, sports/exercise, household items, tools, and miscellaneous. A list of available items was e-mailed to everyone.

  When I hosted a gathering for new neighbors, I needed a 32-cup coffee maker and a punch bowl. They could both be found at #21 Marigold Drive. Company was coming and I needed two inflatable beds. Sure enough there was one on the loan list at #14 and another at #9.

  Many of our new neighbors shared our commitment to minimizing our belongings; thus was born the Marigold Drive Sharing Co-Op.

  It was amazing how many infrequently used items were instantly available just doors away. Up for loan were over 100 items including a wheelbarrow, post hole digger, hedge trimmer, chainsaw, travel iron, card tables, knife sharpener, corn hole game, croquet set, crutches, shower stool, wheelchair, walker, paper shredder, fax machine, jumper cables and even a portable sewing machine.

  We have a list at our fingertips now. It saves us money, time, and space. And amazingly, we can all park our cars in our garages!

  ~Mary Grant Dempsey

  Less Is So Much More

  The Summer of Their Discontent

  Things are only impossible until they’re not.

  ~Jean-Luc Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation

  It started out as the summer that I officially became the worst mother in the world. Don’t believe me? Just ask my four children who were left home alone together over a long summer vacation. They already knew that there’d be no excursions to a pool and no trip to an amusement park. I had to work all summer so they were staying home. And the story gets even worse.

  As a single parent, money was always an issue. So, when the June cable bill arrived reflecting yet another rate increase there was only one solution. I cancelled our cable service. Okay, it seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, I could just hook up the antenna, right? Wrong. Apparently, hooking up the antenna was well beyond my technical abilities. Now, I had no television combined with four cranky children at home during the heat of the summer. Even the air conditioner was temperamental.

  The first few days were beyond agonizing. At work my phone rang constantly with reports of “he’s doing this” or “she’s doing that.” Most of the calls were to repeat their mantra: “there’s nothing to do.” Everyone in the office frowned each time my phone rang. They knew who it was before I even answered. I tried desperately to whisper my responses but it was useless. Everyone knew it was my kids calling. Again. Oh, how I missed the television — I might have missed it more than the kids. At least when they could watch television they’d sit quietly together and I could work in peace.

  Thankfully, the phone calls eventually slowed down from one every ten minutes to only one per hour. At home the phone calls were replaced with a different kind of parental torment. Every evening I battled bumper-to-bumper traffic to get home. There, four scowling faces and four pairs of accusatory eyes greeted me. And silence. The words hung unspoken in the air. “It’s all your fault that we have no television.” The grimacing faces and sour dispositions were an improvement of sorts. I still felt bad about their summer but I didn’t know how to fix it. It seemed hopeless. Short of robbing a bank I had no idea where to get the money to turn the cable back on.

  They had found creative ways to fill their days — all because they couldn’t watch television.

  Then one day it happened. Do you remember the first time your baby slept through the night? That was exactly what it felt like when the phone calls from home stopped. I looked at the clock and realized that it was lunchtime already. Lunchtime and the kids hadn’t called! My hands shook as I dialed our home number. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. My heart was pounding. A million scenarios ran through my head. Something was wrong.

  On the fourth ring the oldest casually answered. I tried to sound casual too, but my words shot out, sounding like an accusation: “Nobody’s called me. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” was her one word reply.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  We weren’t getting anywhere. I knew that she was okay, but what about her sisters and brother? Were her siblings tied up and tossed in a closet somewhere?

  “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  And then silence.

  “Can we call you later, Mom? We’re busy.”

  I knew it! Every mom knows that “busy” is the code word for “trouble.”

  “Busy?”

  “Yeah, we made up our own board game and we’re playing.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry tears of joy. They’d found a solution to entertain themselves. Their summer of discontent had turned into a summer of creativity. They made up board games and card games. They wrote stories and one-act plays. Their imaginations had sprung into action, blossoming and growing. They had found creative ways to fill their days — all because they couldn’t watch television.

  It’s funny; they still remember that summer as “the good old days.” I might have even lost the title of World’s Worst Mom. They have carried their love for board games and card games into their adulthood. They still get together to play and enjoy each other’s company. Sometimes, you just have to have less to realize how much you really have. Oh yeah, and turn off the television.

  ~Debby Johnson

  Priorities

  Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.

  ~Annie Dillard

  When my husband got a sales job

  and could do his work from home,

  it sounded like a pretty sweet deal:

  no commute

  and more time with our son

  and me.

  Until

  his work phone rang

  in the middle of dinner

  and he had to answer it

  or lose a commission.

  Or he stressed about his quota,

  and worked ’til one a.m.

  in our own living room.

  Until he worked longer hours at our house

  than he ever did

  in an office.

  We thought things

  would never change.

  Then through the gossip grapevine

  at the high school where I taught,

  I heard about a job

  my husband would be perfect for

  and I knew he would enjoy.

  Most important were

  the magic words:

  school hours

  and the summers off.

  My husband was reluctant though.

  He worried that we’d have less:

  money,

  stuff,

  and fun.

  And in some ways,

  he was right.

  He took a giant pay cut.

  We cut down on buying stuff.

  But we didn’t have less fun.

  We had

  MORE.

  More sun-drenched summer days

  splashing

  in a sparkling sw
imming pool.

  More Christmas movie marathons

  with Rudolph and the Grinch.

  More time to teach our son to golf,

  to plant a tree and hunt.

  More time to cook

  his gourmet meals

  instead of frozen pizza

  (which I always burned).

  More time for trips

  and baseball games

  and staring at the stars.

  More time, as well, for cleaning house

  and sorting socks and paying bills.

  But even sorting socks

  is fun

  when you do it together.

  Life is all about the stories

  and the time we share with loved ones.

  The joy of working less

  is having more

  of both.

  ~April Serock

  The Joy of Simpler Gift-Giving

  The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.

  ~Pierre Corneille, Le Menteur

  Several weeks before Christmas, inspired by articles on “alternative gift-giving” as a way to take the stress out of holidays, I decided to include my entire extended family in an e-mail discussion about how we might make Christmas easier on everyone. I ticked off the reasons in my head: (a) we all had plenty of “stuff” without adding more; (b) some of us were on limited or fixed incomes; (c) most of us led busy lives and might enjoy skipping crowded shopping malls and post offices.

  Nevertheless, I approached the task with trepidation. My sister, after all, had six — that’s right, six — artificial Christmas trees she decorated every year, each with a special theme. I didn’t know how it would strike her that I wanted to simplify gift-giving. Other family members all seemed to be fine with the traditional way of buying gifts. Would they think I was trying to ruin Christmas?