The Knick-Knack Wars

 "Look what I got at the yard sale!" I chortled, brandishing a Dresden figurine of a little girl with a lamb. "My mother had one exactly like it!"
 
Except my mother's version was pristine, not coated with nicotine stains and chipped in two places, like this one. But I could overlook that. Maybe it would help me forget that my sister took it off the mantelpiece five minutes after mother died, and refused to give it back. 
 
Stanley, my long-suffering spouse, looked up from his Popular Sports magazine and made a visible effort to look interested. "Very nice, dear." 
 
I hugged Girl and Lamb to my chest, scanning the room for a suitable haven for her. The mantelpiece over our artificial fireplace … the gargantuan china cabinet bequeathed to us by Auntie Tillie before she transferred from her twelve-bedroom mansion to an Assisted Living studio suite … the coffee and end tables … the octagonal accent table between the bookcases … the four shelves Stan had so meticulously installed beside the TV to organize his vintage videos, only to be “temporarily” taken over by my candle collection.   
 
Every square inch of space in our living room was double parked, begging for space to breathe.
 
I sighed. Much as I hated the thought, something would have to go to make room for my newly-acquired treasure. 
 
Reading Woman stood placidly on the top of one of our bookcases, intent on the open volume she was holding. Her mottled brown form had been crafted from tree bark fibres by a traditional craftsman in an obscure country with an unpronounceable name. Our cat had batted her down onto the carpet a few times, where she had narrowly escaped being sucked up by our vacuum cleaner, but she had endured. 
 
"You've served us well," I whispered to her. "It is time to move on." 
 
I picked her up and set Girl and Lamb in her place. Reading Woman would be stuffed into the top shelf of the closet in our spare room with our other surplus possessions, waiting to be donated to a worthy cause.  
 
Stanley snapped to life. "Charlie, what are you doing?" He sounded ominously like my mother. 
 
“The name is Charlene,” I reminded him, hoping to distract him from the issue at hand. “You know I hate to be called Charlie.”  
 
“What are you doing?” he repeated,
 
"Rotating the knick-knacks." I tried to keep my voice light, inconsequential. "Don't they say a change is as good as a rest?" 
 
"You can't rotate that. It's a gift from Great-Aunt Marie." 
 
"She'll never know. She hasn't been in this house for twenty-two years." GAM was sequestered in a mink-lined nursing home and never left the premises except for her medical appointments. 
 
"Someone might tell her. She’s the gate-keeper of a lot of money, you know." 
 
"So? We don't need to worship her money."
 
I used to think about that money enviously when we couldn’t make our mortgage payment or hydro bill, when we second-mortgaged the house to pay for university tuition for our kids. GAM had never contributed a cent.
 
"It's family  money,” Stanley explained for the umpteenth time. “It has to stay in the family. Our heritage. We have to preserve it."
 
All the pent-up frustration in my gut exploded. I scooped up Girl and Lamb and slammed Reading Woman back onto the bookcase, splitting her skirt. 
 
“Money is nothing but a number until it is exchanged for something useful,” I stormed “Your great-aunt’s hoard could be used for good, but it’s just sitting there, spawning more and more profit on the backs of exploited people.. Your so-called heritage is an evil shadow turning your family relationships into a battleground. I hope she leaves it all to the Society for the Preservation of June Bugs!”
   
I stomped into our bedroom with Girl and Lamb pressed against my breasts, and cleared a space on our bedside table. "Don't worry," I reassured my new best friends.. "I'll think of something." 
 
I spent the rest of the afternoon stewing in righteous indignation, recalling each and every difficult moment since Stan presented me to his tradition-bound family, who immediately set about morphing me into one of them. Everything in our house was a gift from a Generous Somebody Who Would Be Very Disappointed to Discover That We Weren't Making Good Use of It.
 
Something had to change. 
 
At seven-thirty, Stan knocked on the door and offered to order a pizza. I snarled that I wasn't hungry and wanted to be left alone. A few minutes later, I heard the car door slam, the engine growl, and the tires spin. The car roared off, leaving only silence.
 
I stayed up until three o’clock, hoping Stan and I could have a civil conversation to clear the air. He did not return.
 
I tried to sleep in, but my body was too energized with adrenalin. I went on a reorganizing rampage instead. If Stan and I split up, we would have to divide our assets... Every knick-knack, every picture, even the three calendars went into boxes, which I labelled and piled up in the spare room
 
So this is how marriages break up. Decades of endurance, for better or worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, swept away by an argument over knick-knacks. Why didn't I see it coming? There must have been red flags waving everywhere. Why didn’t somebody say something?
 
Stan reappeared on Sunday afternoon, carrying a case of beer, acting completely nonchalant, as if nothing unusual had happened. But he had a hard time keeping his composure when he walked into our living room.
 
"Is this the right house?" he asked, staring at the bare walls and polished surfaces.. “Or did I make a wrong turn somewhere?”
 
"Yes. This is our house. Our home." I took a deep breath and dived in. "I'll make you a deal. You and I can take turns choosing something we want on display. It's time that we get to decide what we want to look at all day." 
 
It took Stan a while to process that. Then he smiled. "My high school swimming trophy, I was so proud of that, and there was never a good place to put it." 
 
The atmosphere warmed up considerably after that. We excavated hidden treasures, told stories, and laughed. We had pizza and beer on the front porch. When we came back into the house, we stood hand in hand, contemplating our empire. It was a work in progress, but it was all ours. 
 
Stan cleared his throat, the way he does whenever he is about to unveil a major decision. “Do you suppose … “ he ventured. “Do you suppose we could take some of that stuff to the Second Thoughts Shop? They’re always looking for donations.”
 
“What time do you have to go to work tomorrow?” I asked.
 
“Not until 11:30.”
 
“I’m off all day. If we load the truck now, we can deliver everything tomorrow morning. They don’t open until 9, but they open the donation shed at 7 in case there are early birds who have to get to work. We could go to the Charlie’s Deluxe Diner for breakfast afterwards. I’ll buy.”
 
“The Deluxe Diner! I haven’t been there since we were courting. Do you suppose they still have that PB and J breakfast shake?”
 
“Let’s find out.”
 
He grinned. “I’ll back the truck up to the door.” He sprinted towards the garage while I retreated to the jumble of boxes in the spare room.
 
“This is the first day of the rest of my life – of our life together,” I informed the walls. I had no idea how long the new order would last, but I was going to give it my best shot.
 
My hands were trembling when I picked up the first box. What if there was something in there that I simply could not live without? Should I take a little peek, just in case?
 
Stan was standing at the door, reading my body language. “If it’s too much too soon,” he said, “we can give ourselves some time to sort through everything, just in case.”
 
“Thank you for understanding,” I said. I set down the box and started to pull open the top.
 
My InnerTigress growled, reminding me that there was no turning back.
 
Who is going to be in charge? Us, or our stuff?
 
I carefully rearranged the cardboard flaps.
 
“Let’s get on with it,” I said. “The Association for Community Upgrade needs this stuff more than we do.”
 
We each picked up a box. I whistled the Battle Hymn of the Republic as we marched towards our brand new future..