Hoarding

I'm taking another day off so today we have DR as a guest blogger with an interesting subject. Thank you DR for doing my work for me:

Why do we cling to the comfort of "old things," be they clothes or furniture or thoughts or beliefs or whatever? Kind of like the old joke about the husband not wanting to replace the couch or his recliner. I find myself more and more in sympathy with this man.
Is it because there are so many changes in our life and in the world around us we can't control? Does this make us want to cling to the familiar? And it's usually silly stuff, although not always. My chair in my office -- poor thing is almost twenty years old and used A Lot in the last ten years. The support straps are about gone, the cushion fabric is torn to where I have to cover it with blankets. I could certainly afford to buy a new chair or move one of the recliners (which I still haven't put on Craig's list!) up here, but I don't wanna. The chair is comfy and cozy and I've spent untold hours writing Morning Pages, meditating, reading and editing in it. Plus, it has an ottoman, where the Skeet curls up while I do all the aforementioned, as well as when I'm on the computer.
Then there's the old black velour housecoat. I have two new housecoats. The old one is worn thin, has a couple tears. Do I throw it out? No. I wear the new ones periodically, but when I want comfort and cozy, I drag out the old one, despite its flaws. Ditto clothes. I dutifully update my wardrobe with a couple or more new outfits each season, whether from a department store or garage sales (yes, they often have the styles I prefer), yet when I need to feel confident or comfortable or reassured, I reach for the outfits that are often ten years old or the jeans I've had for more years than I care to admit. Or the tee shirt that's ancient, but "feels good."

Himself wants to replace the kitchen stove, but I fight like a tiger for its cub. Yes, it's eccentric, but I like the fact it's oversized, as two ovens (even if one is a bit "touchy") and has counter space beside the burners. Yes, I know it can be replaced and probably make room for a small dishwasher, but I've been washing dishes for twelve years and what's the big deal about that?

I'd like to believe I'm simply being frugal and sensible, but I know it goes beyond that. Some of this represents a comfort zone and I don't want it messed up. It's interesting that, on the one hand, I have no hesitation decluttering and removing items that mean nothing, take up space, don't have any particular meaning, even though they may have monetary value. On the other hand, there are things that have no dollar value, have clearly passed their "sell by/use by" date and I refuse to part with them.

Anyone else have this secret vice or is it some unique quirk, maybe genetic or learned during my childhood? I'm pretty good about "something comes in, then something has to go out," but don't mess with my chair or housecoat or stove. There are just some things that are critical to my sense of well-being, even if it makes no sense. What do you have that you won't part with, regardless of its worth or condition?

TODAY'S TRIVIA:

Yesterday's answer: The first woman to win the medal of honor, Mary Edwards Walker.

Today's Who Am 1?

Although I was the third wife of a famous novelist I have my own accomplishments having a journalist award named after me. Born in 1908 to half-Jewish parents, a dad that was a doctor and a mother that was a suffragette, I ended my life in 1998 by taking poison after a battle with cancer and losing most of my eyesight.. Walter, my brother, was a noted law proferssor at Columbia University. I left college before graduating to pursue a career as a journalist. My first articles appeared in The New Republic. In 1930 I was determined to become a foreign correspondent and went to France for two years where I worked at the United Press bureau in Paris. While in Europe I became active in the pacifist movement and wrote about my experiences. After returning to the US I was hired as an investigator for the Federal Emergency Relief Administration. I wrote about the impact of the Depression on the United States. Eleanor Roosevelt read my reports and we became lifelong friends. I first met the famous novelist during a 1936 Christmas family trip to Key West. We agreed to travel in Spain together to cover the Spanish Civil War. We celebrated Christmas of 1937 together in Barcelona. Later, from Germany, I reported on the rise of Adolf Hitler and in 1938 was in Czechoslovakia. After the outbreak of World War II, I described these events in the novel. I reported the war from Finland, Hong Kong, Burma, Singapore and Britain. Lacking official press credentials to witness the D-Day landings, I impersonated a stretcher bearer. I followed the war wherever I could reach it. I was among the first journalists to report from Dachau concentration camp after it was liberated. My husband hated my absences and asked me "Are you a war correspondent, or wife in my bed?" We divorced in 1945. After World War II I covered tthe Vietnam War, the Six-Day War in the Middle East and the civil wars in Central America. At age 81 I traveled impromptu to Panama, where I wrote of U.S. invasion. Only when the Bosnian war broke out in the 1990s I confess to being to old to go. I published books of fiction, travel writing and reportage. Some of my selected letters were published posthumously in 2006. I was a committed leftist throughout my life and was contemptuous of those who became more conservative. I considered the so-called objectivity of journalists “nonsense”, and used journalism to reflect my politics. Politically my two favorites were Israel and the Spanish Republic. I described myself as “hater” and attacked fascism, anti-communism, racism, Joe McCarthy, Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan and the Palestinians. Although I was only married twice I had countless lovers. "If I practiced sex, out of moral conviction, that was one thing; but to enjoy it ... seemed a defeat. I accompanied men and was accompanied in action, in the extrovert part of life; I plunged into that ... but not sex; that seemed to be their delight and all I got was a pleasure of being wanted, I suppose, and the tenderness (not nearly enough) that a man gives when he is satisfied. I daresay I was the worst bed partner in five continents." If the sun rises you should be able to tell me Who Am 1?