Stuffing

Now that we are spending time in our homes wherever and whatever they be, we take more notice of our stuff. Contrary to minimalists who love their glass, stone and white walls, I like my stuff and will not get rid of it easily. My things are close. I do not have the luxury nor want it, of viewing  vast floor spaces of wood, marble or tile. For one thing, they keep my little robot duster far too busy with me hopping around to dodge it at work. For another, I have big stuff and small rugs that I like to shift about according to mood and season. The newish, only last century, white grand keeps its hardwood floor yardage spacious under its workings, but the rest of the place is a here and there collection of old tree wood, black leather sitting places, glints of crystal, big photographs of trees stranded on beaches and sea bird mock-ups. But I also sneak into my stuff list, the family grandfather clock, born in 1830 of Mr. Leadbeater. It has become moody in his very old age and when wound up, sometimes quits the tick, the heartbeat of my place. My old stuff is my fondest, including a mingled mangled pile of kitchen and other tools that are twice my age - and that's a lot! One of them hangs on the wall. It acts as a room thermometer but the stains tell more. It's a long wooden brass-tipped thermometer that was once, every Spring, stuck into  British soil to test its temperature. If it was just right, the long gone father and grandfather knew he could plant his prize pansies and perhaps win a Chelsea blue ribbon for them. He often did. Another few pieces I use all the time in my kitchen, are a quarter cup tin scoop, a wood handled metal potato masher, a tiny scraper and a collection of odd vegetable carving bits my mother loved to surprise people with. She got a great laugh when we had to eat her carrot folk and fruit monsters, not to mention the other weirdly sliced veggies. The mother-in-law's advice was always plethoric but her little tin (yes it has lead in it) scraper I inherited as she wouldn't let it out of her sight any other way,  is one of my best friends next to the scoop. The scraper is the only one that will actually remove without a trace, burnt on bits from the bottom of a roaster, gunk on the window and act as a last-ditch effort on the barbecue when the bitsy round of formed latest-gizmo, doesn't. Then the scoop, something I panic if it becomes displaced, because I loathe using measuring cups. I prefer my hand which has all the same measures but when feeling fussy, I like the quarter cup scoop. It dips, without spills, into the flour or sugar or rice sacks easily and accurately and it rinses under the tap in a snap. I have fixing tools such as the ancient woodworking ones with a grandfather's initials stamped into the wood handles and there is nothing that beats the small wood saw that even ladies can use without breaking a nail. My stuff makes me smile when I think of who held it and perhaps will also some day when I'm not around.