Organ Grind

"Ornate" is not a favored
adjective when describing
 furniture that needs dusting.
I'd never want a monstrosity
like this in my house.

I hated it. Our rotating chore calendar boasted a healthy roster of 15 jobs--one for each weekday, multiplied by three children in the family. My obedient older siblings quickly nabbed the more desirable duties, so Tuesday evenings usually found me vacuuming and dusting the living room--following Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch, and a healthy dose of procrastination.

My mom's beloved Victorian parlor organ stretched floor to ceiling on the north wall. With its spindles, mirrors, and shelves buried in doilies and knickknacks, dusting presented a formidable challenge. Maddeningly, it lacked the satisfaction of a job well-done. A week's dust accumulation wouldn't make a convincing "before" and "after" photo diptych, yet, Mom wanted it spotless, so I dutifully removed and wiped down each knickknack, and carried every doily outside for a good shaking. Once the organ shone, back they went onto the shelves.

Unsurprisingly, I birthed the idea that, as an adult, I wouldn't have knickknacks; surprisingly, perhaps, I've stuck to it. Hence, our home lacks useless decoration, save a handful of framed photos, and a trio of plates hung in the enclosed--and virtually dust-free--built-in china cabinets. At an open house at our former abode, one potential buyer asked, "Is this house vacant?" (It wasn't).

I don't count this photo of my
mother-in-law as a knickknack.

Hubby and I both strongly support a no knickknack policy. Even so, when he visits family in Romania, I compulsively remind him not to allow anything into his suitcase that we might feel compelled to keep forever. Heirloom or not, if it's not useful, we don't want it, though we gladly make an exception for family photos. What he does take home, though, are things his mom no longer needs that I can sell in my online shop. Last year it was a Soviet Photo Sniper camera ($175) and a distressed hand-tooled leather belt ($40). This year, he scored an antique handwoven towel, a primitive pepper mill, another Soviet Chaika camera, and a carved African ashtray from a favorite uncle.

Sorry, hubby, but I don't want
this in my living room.

But this time, hubby thinks he needs to keep the ashtray. Despite my pleas that things are not people, that, if you want to remember someone, just hang a photo, for some reason he insists we keep this ghastly ashtray. An ashtray!

When I nixed the living room, he proposed the music studio. He'd even settle for the closet. But, I have a better idea:

How about on my mom's parlor organ?

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