"Signal for Simplification"

SIGNAL FOR SIMPLIFICATION

April 2005
Every so often, it’s a good idea to take stock of one’s life. However, such an inventory can be daunting if performed on a wide scale, so the other day I attempted a “sampling” method—dipping carefully into a particularly telling pool and then examining the contents scrupulously—and here is what I learned:

As I sat in my favorite chair, watching a movie while the rest of the house slumbered, I completely emptied the knapsack I carry over my right shoulder every day, to see what its contents might reveal about my life and my character. This dark-purple JanSport bag has two side pockets, a long but thin front pocket, and a roomy central compartment reached via two heavy-duty silver zippers that pull down from the top center, allowing the front of the knapsack to form a sort of door-like flap that features three sleeves, four slots for writing implements, and a zippered slot for more precious items. Before I delved in, I knew that I had a lot of stuff in this knapsack, but I was still amazed by the length of the list once I began writing down each item I discovered.

In the left-hand side pocket was only a pair of Optic Nerve sunglasses, with silver-plastic frames and orange lenses, which I purchased for about $50 in July 2002 on our family trip to Colorado. The lenses are somewhat scratchy, but the glasses still look stylish, and I have held onto them tenaciously, starting with the time I had to wade for them after-hours in Denver’s Water World (after they flew off when I flipped over backwards during an inner-tube ride). In the right-hand pocket was a broken Nike key chain (which I have since thrown away) and a pair of badly scratched yellow safety glasses, probably placed in there and forgotten during the mowing season last summer. When the pack accompanies me in my van, it usually sits on either the vacant front-passenger seat or the floor just ahead of both front seats; in either case, I always place it with the back of the pack facing forward so I’ll have easier access to the compartment containing my money. Because of this, the pocket containing the safety glasses is, by far, the least examined section of my pack. Anything placed in there could go a very long time without being detected.

In the front pocket, speaking of money, I found my personal checkbook, currently bearing a precariously low balance for only the middle of a month; a Kenai Peninsula Borough School District red ballpoint pen that has a piece missing that doesn’t prevent it from working; a bank book for our joint checking account and another one for my personal savings account (both also dipping lower than I would like); a to-do list from last summer (which I threw away after noting that nearly one-third of the objectives on the list were never completed); a tides book bearing the Fred Meyer logo; a calendar book for 2003 bearing the logo of a local rolfer named Mark Hutton; a recent receipt from the new Trustworthy Hardware store (where I bought a squeegee and a floor mat); 20 stamps from Subway; a 1974 Eisenhower silver dollar (which was one of 4,000 such coins given out at Trustworthy’s recent grand opening); a red ticket for a door prize from Trustworthy; and a black-fabric wallet with a Velcro closure.

The wallet held no money, but it did feature a variety of cards and miscellaneous papers: two Allstate insurance cards, a personal Visa gold card, a joint-account Visa platinum card, a Safeway club card, an ATM card from Credit Union 1, an REI membership card, a Blockbuster membership card, an expired AT&T calling card, my original Social Security card, a membership card for A-1 Video (which went out of business many years ago), an expired warranty card for my 1994 Ford Aerostar, a classroom discount card from Borders Books & Music, a State of Alaska voter registration card, a Top Video membership card, four (!) Credit Union 1 membership cards, an expired discount card for the Encore music and movie club, a Costco wholesale card, a Fred Meyer fueling card, my State of Alaska driver’s license (issued in 1995 and bearing renewal stickers on the back), three Tesoro discount stickers, a Sub Club card from Subway, and a Tesoro receipt for $50.16 worth of gas and $8.09 worth of snack food.

The knapsack’s inner sleeves contained a package of McDonalds cookies (which I ate just after finding them); a miniature tube of Crest herbal mint toothpaste that I meant to deposit in my desk at Skyview High School about three weeks ago; an extra set of keys for Karen’s Subaru Forester; a set of keys for the file cabinet closest to my desk in my classroom, a Borders savings card; an MCI pre-paid 120-minute phone card; two frayed and very old pieces of paper containing mostly important phone numbers (such as my brother’s work number in Anchorage) that I struggle to remember because I use them so infrequently; a Papa Murphy’s discount card; a Hewlett-Packard card to remind me of the type of ink used by my printer; two RBMS insurance cards; a broken watch that I found years ago in the dirt (it works, and I use it for a stopwatch when Karen and I mow in the summer); our golden retriever’s rabies tag; and $16.76 in coins, breaking down this way: 96 pennies, 35 nickels, 48 dimes, and 37 quarters.

Finally (whew!) there was the veritable treasure trove in the central compartment: a Sony AC adapter with cord and cable (which I’ve been leaving in the knapsack to remind me to order a new one), an ACE bandage for the tendonitis in my right elbow; a large blue flashlight; a purple key lanyard with the name SKYVIEW printed on it; a nearly empty container of mint waxed dental floss; an albuterol inhaler (also nearly empty, left over from my bout with pneumonia this winter); a locking carabineer; a bendable flashlight for peering into narrow places; a 2005 Skyview prom keychain; a Swiss Army knife; a non-functioning Polar heart-rate watch; plastic caps for the metal tips on my two Leki walking poles; a chrome hemostat; a chrome inflation needle; a bottle of eye drops so badly worn that it is impossible to read more than a word of two of its label; a PETZL headlamp inside of a tattered plastic sandwich bag; a second tattered plastic sandwich bag full of miscellaneous keys (most of which I don’t even recognize); two rubber bands; a chrome hanging hook; a very old Fright Factory fake fingernail; two paper clips; two paper clamps; two Ricola cough drops; three polished stones; a small agate; a 3-inch plastic penguin (from a recent bout of Geo-Caching); a small puzzle in the shape of a ball; a game token (the hat) from Monopoly; a broken miniature light saber from a Star Wars action figure that Kelty used to play with and once asked me to fix; a silver pinky ring I found near the school two or three years ago; three safety pins; a blue pencil eraser; and a jack for some stereo headphones.

By 1 a.m., when I’d finished my inventory, my eyes were bleary. If I had had any faith in that old bottle of eye drops, I’d have used the contents to soothe the irritation. I laid aside the legal pad containing the list of items, set my bifocals on my briefcase (which is another well of items) and then brushed my teeth and climbed into bed next to my gently snoring wife. Before I dropped off to sleep, however, I began to ponder the meaning of what I’d found.

I think it’s safe to say that mine is the knapsack of a man who plans to do far more than he can actually accomplish. All of the expired, non-functioning items indicate a person who has a difficult time throwing things way—and perhaps an individual who allows many of the little things to slip aside unfinished. The three lights and other tools and such may imply that I like to be prepared for any eventuality, no matter how preposterously unlikely it may be that such an eventuality will actually occur. All of the discount cards may indicate that I’m always looking for a good deal or that I’m desperate to save money—or that I’m just a sucker for a lot of corporate schemes. Moreover, like most of the Fairs, I’m an accumulator, a pack rat, and I probably need to get in the habit of throwing more shit away. Perhaps I’ll end up like my father, building shed after shed after shed in which to store my burgeoning pile of things … until I get so old that I find myself wanting to give most of it all away.

Anyway, the whole exercise was semi-cathartic and interesting (to me, at least). It also reminded me that other sources of personal revelation existed elsewhere—the boxes toward the back of the crawlspace, a few long-neglected desk drawers, certain shelves in my office here at home, and the aforementioned briefcase…. Some of those sites, sort of like Pandora’s box, might be better left untouched. If memory serves me correctly, some of those old containers hold embarrassing journals from the mid-1980s, maybe some letters meant for my eyes only, plus plenty of silly things that would seem like oh-so-much-garbage to anyone without the requisite history to understand their value.

Probably most people with a little bit of living behind them have such containers and such items.

Some day, though, I’ll check all of that stuff out.

As Socrates said, “An unexamined life is not worth living.“