Carol’s Column

It’s not junk, it’s our history

We are a large family, two parents and four children. In fact, in this day and age, we are a distinctly careless family. I should have had one and two-thirds children to comply with what is acceptable in terms of population growth.

However, once they’re there, you can’t push them back from whence they came, so to speak.

Thus, we are a large family. And in the way that large families are, we have, over the years, acquired clutter.

“Don’t you think we should get rid of some of this junk,” said my husband as he limped downstairs. “I have just almost amputated my foot on Barry’s tricycle.”

“Barry’s tricycle is not junk,” I retorted angrily. “I wouldn’t think of getting rid of it, you never know when he might need it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said my spouse. “When will a huge, strapping 1.8 m lad of 25 ever ride his tricycle again?”

“You never know,” I replied.

“This junk is getting out of hand. It’s everywhere. There’s nowhere left to live,” said my spouse.

“You’re exaggerating,” I muttered.

“Exaggerating?” he bellowed. “This morning I couldn’t find my wardrobe because of Ralph’s sailboard propped against the door. He last sailed eight years ago. Inside, there’s no room for my suits because of Jamie’s collection of model aeroplanes. Why can’t the model aeroplanes be kept in Jamie’s room?”

“Because there’s no room,” I murmured. “It’s full of pieces of motor car engine, Nicky’s doll collection, the yacht sails and my winter shoes.”

“I don’t believe what I hear,” said my husband and shook his head causing him to crick his neck which is a hazard of unexpected violent action.

However, there was truth in what he said. Which is why I wrapped my hair in a doek and got busy clearing out.

“Don’t be sentimental,” said my husband. “If we don’t use it, throw it out.”

“Right,” I replied.

There was the pram which I’d left outside the supermarket one morning. I’d climbed into the car and shot off home then wandered around looking for my daughter, who was still peacefully sleeping in her pram outside the supermarket.

There was the cricket bat which Jeffry Lee had swung at my oldest unmarried son, removing his front teeth.

There was the home-made cannon fuelled by eggs which Jamie had shot at our neighbour’s house, causing the gentle natured Mr Caithness to explode. “If I wanted an orange house,” he’d said, “I would have painted it orange.”

There were 25 hamster cages in which my second youngest unmarried son had kept 25 hamsters for breeding purposes making a profit of R200 one glorious year by selling 400 hamsters to unsuspecting school friends at 50c a creature.

There was Jamie’s lead-soldier-making apparatus complete with burner. Always enterprising, Jamie’d produced vast quantities of lead soldiers which he’d sold at Zoo Lake on behalf of Child Welfare.

The enterprise came to a speedy end when we discovered he’d acquired his lead supplies by removing balancing weights from unsuspecting motor cars.

There were seven tents of varying shapes and sizes. Together they represented family holidays through the ages.

There was Ralph’s dental headgear, Nicky’s running shoes, Jamie’s weights and Barry’s exercise board to make his knock-knees turn outwards. This was my children’s medical history.

That evening, my spouse returned home. “Were you successful? Is the room cleared?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Maybe next year, or the year after.”

“Maybe never,” he replied.

For once, he’s right.

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