Stuff and clutter: what we own, what we store, what we’ll inherit

Have you read the list of 49 things about me I posted the other day? Numbers 6, 7 and 8 touch on my desire for order in this house. Frankly, I could come up with 49 items just on that topic, but that would be a boring list to read. πŸ˜›

But the accumulation of stuff is a prevailing topic in my life.

For instance, my parents are housing stuff that belongs to us. Even though we have our own house, you understand.

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GenXers, Millenials – do they repair things like their parents’ generation did?

My parents are of a generation where one repaired things that were broken. Things like articles of clothing, shoes, small appliances or toys.

I cannot tell you how many timesΒ  my mom would mend socks, replace zippers, sew on buttons or fix rips on various clothing around the house.

My father too used to fix things we broke as kids. He’d find a way to get a little bit more life out of an old cassette player, and knew how to make repairs to furniture, bikes or small appliances.

Buying new things was expensive not to mention wasteful if the original, broken piece was not yet beyond repair. Back in those days, shopping was not considered a hobby like it is today to so many people. Nor did we have big box stores full of mass-produced, made-in-China products…

Today, few people take time to mend or fix things. It’s much easier to drop into the local Walmart or Target and just get another one.

We’re the disposable generation.

I struggle with this. Continue reading

Parents and working tweens: has work ethic changed since the 1980s?

When I was a teenager I had a paper route.

One day the weather was worse than bad. It was winter and if I remember correctly, even the highschool sent everyone home early. Back in the 80s in the Greater Toronto Area school was almost always open; this endless closing schools or canceling buses didn’t occur nearly as often as today.

I remember walking home bundled up beyond recognition. I was soaked and cold, and the snow was deeper than to my knees. The wind whipped the icy snowflakes into my face which felt like getting whipped with a piece of string. Repeatedly.

It was miserable.

When I got home my mom reminded me I still had to do the paper route. Continue reading