Needful Things

A few months ago, when we were just beginning to look into building a home, Tricia and I contacted a builder to see about coming in to ask some questions. Our goal was to see how much it would cost to build a house that would provide shelter for four adults, four children, and one very large dog. The salesman asked us to create a list, before coming in, of the things we needed as well as the things we wanted in a house.

This was hard.

"What does he mean by 'what we need?'" I asked afterward.

"I don't know," Tricia answered.

So we did what we usually do when we're unsure or uneasy about a task - we put it off. Days and days went by. A few times I sat down at the computer and tried to start brainstorming things but to no avail. I didn't know how to get started. I grew up in a series of small two-bedroom apartments and houses. Our living space was fairly tight compared to what most  Americans have come to expect but we still had a kitchen, bathroom, living room, laundry, and bedrooms - the real "needs" of a house. Should we list more than this as something we absolutely had to have? A garage? Playroom? An open floor plan?

The fact was that we certainly didn't need these things to survive...but we did need them to make going through the process of building a new home worthwhile. This was a chance to get a few things right that we failed to think of four-and-a-half years ago when moving into the suburbs of Northeast Columbia. We wanted less dead space. And rather than a sun room we wanted a screened porch that would allow us to eat outside without having to wage war with an endless army of flies.

There were things we really liked about the house we have now that we wanted in a new home as well. Hardwood floors, open spaces, natural light, a big kitchen with plenty of counter space, and a decent sized front porch. These things were, of course, all "wants." There wasn't a legitimate "need" to be found anywhere on the list. But within the context of what we were trying to do they felt a bit like needs.

I really think our concept, as Americans, of needs versus wants is quite skewed. As skewed as our sense of entitlement to many things. Most likely, the two are closely related. I've always thought of myself as a minimalist. I like to joke that if I lived alone I'd probably have bare walls with lots of empty spaces. I  imagine one comfortable chair with a collection of folding lawn furniture surrounding it. Just in case I had company.

The reality, however, is that I have two bikes (mountain and road), a scooter (foot, not motor), and roller blades. One could argue they all serve the same purpose. I also have three guitars (acoustic, classical, and electric). They definitely serve the same purpose. Even my backpacking stuff, which would lead you to think is the ultimate in minimalism, is growing to be quite specialized and expansive. The combination of pack, tent, and gear take up probably half of my closet space with other outdoor paraphernalia stuffed under beds and in corners around the house. I'm definitely not a pack rat (I still wear the same three or four pair of pants and five shirts to school every week and keep very few things for sentimental reasons) but in a global sense I have a lot.

The kids do too. I see this when they struggle to figure out where to keep their toys, stuffed animals, and other things. I know they have probably half of what most middle class kids have but still I cringe every Christmas when I think about where all these new pieces of plastic are going to go.

A few days ago my growing sense of "We have too much stuff!!!" came to a head. I was trying to find my shoes in the front closet and found that over the past few weeks and months it had become littered with what seemed like a million pairs of kid shoes. I marched out to the garage where we keep an "overflow" bucket of shoes and drug it back in. Slightly larger than a recycle bin, I dumped the overflow bucket out and began pairing up the shoes and laying them out in the art room floor. I carefully lined up all little girl shoes in one row and little boy shoes in another. I placed all the boots at one end, grouped the tennis and sports shoes in the middle, and put sandals and flip flops at the other end. When I finished with the bucket I returned to the front closet and began emptying it to add to the rows.

"What are you doing?" Muluken asked as he made his way down the stairs.

"We're playing shoe store," I answered. "Everyone gets a shopping bag and shops for only the shoes they really want and need."

"Oh." He headed back to the closet to help.

Pretty soon the rest of the kids came down with Tricia.

"Oh my," Tricia said when she saw that the front room had turned into what appeared to be a shoe stockroom.

"Not my flip flops!" Harper shouted, knowing the game of shoe store only too well. She went running across the room to protect her most prized possession in the whole wide world. "You're not getting rid of my flip flops!"

"I'm not getting rid of anything," I assured her. "You are."

Soon I started pulling out all of my shoes and making a row just for me. Embarrassingly, it stretched almost across the entire room as well. As I finished up my row I noticed that Tricia was beginning to pull out her shoes also. Now, I'm not stupid. I was not about to suggest that Tricia size up her shoe collection against the rest of ours. I was certain this would be seen as an attempt to guilt her into going without a shoe for every occasion. One of the reasons we hardly ever get upset with one another is because we work to avoid pushing each others' buttons. At least most of them.

"Where's the camera," I asked. "I want to take pictures of all these shoes."

"You're going to put this on your blog, aren't you?" Tricia asked, looking as though maybe I was about to push one of those buttons.

"Heck yeah!" I gloated.

I crawled down onto my belly trying to get all those shoes in one shot but it was impossible. I grabbed a piece of paper and had the kids help me tally up everything.

"Now before you write anything," Tricia warned, "I want you to know that I've only bought three pairs of shoes since we moved here."

"Okay," I said. "How many girls shoes are there Harper?"

"Forty-two."

"My gosh!" I exclaimed. "That's a lot. Definitely more than two little girls need!"

"And also," Tricia continued, "I had some of those in a bag in my closet to donate. I do not have nearly as many shoes as most..."

"Tricia, I didn't say a word," I interrupted. "I haven't said anything at all about your shoes; yet,  I feel like I'm on the defensive."

"We have fifteen dad!" shouted Muluken.

"Huh, that's a lot less than forty-two. Perhaps the female fascination with shoes is a learned behavior," I suggested. Because I'm that dumb.

Tricia finished putting her shoes out and said, "Look, I don't have that many more shoes than YOU do!"

She was right. I counted my shoes and saw that I had twelve pair. She had twenty.

"And some of mine were bagged for Goodwill so we probably had about the same amount!" she boasted.

Between the four of us we had eighty-nine pairs of shoes. That's a lot. One could argue that shoes have become a need of our everyday lives. But not eighty-nine pairs. This was ridiculous. From the smallest member of our family to the largest, we all had more than we needed.

"Okay, everyone pull out the shoes they definitely don't want anymore - either because they're too small, too torn up, or you never wear them," I directed. The girls started carrying armloads over to the wall by the stairs. The boys, perhaps too excited by the task, tried to unload just about every pair of shoes they had.

I looked down my row at my twelve sets of shoes. One pair of beat up lawn mowing shoes. Hiking boots. Tennis shoes. "Dress" shoes. Sandals. Crocs for camping. Cycling shoes with a plastic cleat on the bottom. Water shoes. It seemed I had one pair of shoes for just about any activity you could ever want pursue. I pulled out an old pair of hiking boots, an extra pair of sandals, and another pair of shoes I didn't even remember having. I had reduced my shoe count by 25% yet still had nine pair. I wanted to get rid of more but kept convincing myself that I really did NEED all those shoes for one reason or another.

In the end we wound up getting donating about 37 pairs of shoes. Tricia was right. She really didn't have that many shoes. Certainly not as many as just about every woman in her family, and mine.

My mom sat on the outskirts of this little show watching quietly. Muluken asked her at one point if she was going to bring down her shoes.

"OH NO," she was quick to respond. "I'm not putting my shoes into rows!" I suspected she was watching to see if I was going to do or say something stupid. Somehow I hadn't.

After we bagged the old shoes up and put all the keepers neatly away into the closet and bucket my mom disappeared. About half an hour later she reemerged.

"Alright, you guys inspired me to go through my own shoes," she said. "I found a number of shoes I don't need anymore. I put them in a bag and set them by the door with your bags."

"How many did you have?" I asked.

"I'm not telling you," she laughed. "More than twenty!"

We still have far more than we need. But in the end we were able to lighten our loads just a bit and free up some room around the house.  Maybe even enough for a fourth guitar!