The Mountains of Romania

Calin and I tooled around in his brother's
Dacia on our honeymoon in Romania,
but it didn't take long to see everything
in his parents' neck of the woods.

We had no hotel reserved for our honeymoon.

Because his parents in Romania didn't attend our stateside wedding, Calin and I visited them afterward. Codlea, Transylvania, isn't exactly a tourist mecca, unless you count Dracula's castle about an hour away and the towering Bucegi mountains we traversed between the airport and Calin's boyhood home. But, poking around the family attic stands in for sight-seeing, when you're desperate enough--especially for someone in my line of work.

Cutsi's Stassfurt TV is like this,
courtesy: www.radiomuseum.org

In the front closet we discovered a derelict East German Stassfurt TV. People in less prosperous countries repair everything. Somehow, though, the Stassfurt never got fixed, defied resuscitation, or simply seemed too outdated to bother with (even my mother-in-law, Cutsi, wanted color television, eventually).

Cutsi has difficulty parting with unused items. Since Romania has no thrift stores, and a garage sale would elicit strange looks from neighbors unfamiliar with the concept, decluttering means giving to people you know, or to Gypsies passing in horse-drawn carts.

Decluttering, Gypsy-style. courtesy: wwwimage.cbs.com

In a society devoid of thrift stores and garage sales, a household's detritus should overwhelm. Wouldn't someone who won't toss anything even marginally useful--and who doesn't have a charity store to dump on--be awash in stuff? Yet, with the surplus interspersed throughout the home's pair of closets and attic, it didn't appear remotely excessive, despite being a whole life's worth of cast-offs.

Cutsi fixes. She gardens. She raises poultry. She uses everything when she cooks, even the turkey feet. She doesn't shop much. She doesn't concern herself with fashion. She gets everywhere on foot. When asked what she'd like us to bring her from the States, she requests a garden hose, and dental floss. When she receives gifts, believing them too good to use, she passes them along to friend or neighbor.

Cutsi's nearly empty walk-up attic.

One could argue Cutsi's frugality a necessity, but I disagree. After the fall of Communism, she didn't go on a buying spree, procuring the wonders newly available through capitalism; instead, she socked away retirement checks, sharing with those who desired to further their education, start a modest business, or see to needs in a country thin on social safety nets. And every time we visit, she presses money into our hands; despite our protests, she wants to share the cost of our son's autism therapy. Cutsi's a saver; Cutsi's a giver.

Cutsi tends her tomato seedlings.

In wealthier countries--the presence of thrift stores is a symptom of excess, after all--we jettison possessions little by little, hardly realizing how much we've discarded. The thoughtful donate, the shamelessly wasteful take the landfill shortcut. Either way, we squander by purchasing goods we don't appreciate enough to keep, or to repair, or to use when they're no longer the latest and greatest. And we choose inferior-quality goods unworthy of the resources used to produce them. Imagine your whole life's cast-offs in one heap. I feel ashamed by my personal Everest.

Mount Magura, from Cutsi's back yard.

Atop Cutsi's imaginary pile--modest, like Mount Magura outside her back window, indeed hardly worthy of the "Mount" moniker at all--sits the Stassfurt TV. Even she didn't appreciate it enough to fix.

We brought our wedding clothes to
Romania so Calin's parents could see.

Cutsi has one major life regret: missing her son's wedding. The cost of tickets would've been dear, the trip grueling, the plane changes confusing for a pair of pensioners accustomed to the confines of sleepy Codlea, Romania. Now, all she can do is watch the wedding video, on her color television. Even if she were to fix it, the Stassfurt lacks a VCR hookup.

Some waste is inevitable--even frugal, resourceful Cutsi can't find a use, or a home, for everything. But the biggest waste of all is a life selfishly lived. On this count, Cutsi has no regrets. Imagine your life's acts of giving all on one pile. 

Would it equal Cutsi's Everest?

Matthew 6:19-21



Next: A vintage engineering certificate found at a thrift store leads me on a Google search, and to tears: Treasures on Earth, Treasures in Heaven

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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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