This First Person article is the experience of Rita Simonetta, who lives in Toronto. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I’m a woman who owns things, too many things.
I have a Pinocchio collection, one of the Grinch, another dedicated to The Wizard of Oz and another of Wonder Woman, which includes a large cookie jar I’ve never put cookies into. These collections comprise everything from figurines to books to board games.
As the world attempts to reduce its ecological footprint, mine continues to take up shelf space. Enough to make Marie Kondo cringe and Greta Thunberg stage a protest.
So now that I’ve turned 50, I’ve begun to cut down.
It seems like the smart thing to do. Everyone is intent on throwing out and tidying up.
The art of decluttering has become a billion-dollar industry and made gurus of organizing consultants and influencers. Friends and relatives brag about feeling invigorated now that they’ve completed a clean sweep.
A few years ago, I watched a documentary where a middle-aged man discusses his enormous vinyl record collection as the camera pans to mountains of discs that block windows and doorways. It was a wonder how he got around his cramped apartment. Not long after watching the documentary, I learned from the director that he had died in his home while surrounded by his collection. I wonder if he felt suffocated.
I’ve never had mountains of collectibles that proved a safety hazard. My husband, who before meeting me had a sizable Superman and Spider-Man comic collection, has never begrudged me my many things. But still, I realized that too much stuff can overwhelm you, and I never wanted it to get to that point.
It also occurred to me that if I had so much, how could each and every item be that important to me? Was the Pinocchio toothbrush holder, complete with an hourglass timer, really necessary? Couldn’t I live without a Wonder Woman candy dispenser? Some of these collectibles were just taking up space and collecting dust, I concluded. They didn’t hold the same sentimental value as those I had purchased on vacations (a Pinocchio statue from a trip to Italy with my mom) or to commemorate personal milestones (a Wonder Woman cookie jar when I started journalism school) or others gifted by friends and family over the years.
I also began to feel a sense of embarrassment. Upon seeing my collections, people my age tended to look on bemused. Perhaps the Pinocchio marionette was starting to clash with my greying hair and age lines, I thought.
Maybe all my collectibles were, in fact, just a lot of junk, as my mother had always declared.
So as time went on, I packed most into boxes and stored them away. Until I finally realized it was time to do something.
Last summer, I decided to sell my Wonder Woman Barbie at a garage sale. I hesitated initially and, for a few moments, I imagined yanking her off the display table — Lasso of Truth and all.
But when an eager buyer strolled toward the table to examine her and told me his wife was a fan of the Amazon warrior, we agreed this would be the perfect gift for his wife’s upcoming birthday.
Well, that was that.
As he walked away with his purchase, I felt surprisingly content. There were no pangs of regret. No sleepless nights.
From then on, I’ve started giving away most of my collectibles to anyone interested.
I’ve also left some behind in public spaces. On a park bench. Beside a tree. By a curb. My hope is that someone will enjoy and treasure them. Some day, I should see if someone picks them up and carries them home.
And as I’ve done so, I’ve realized that collections are not junk.
We surround ourselves with what we deem important or interesting. Collections — whatever they are based on — are important because they reflect a person’s memories, personality and passions.
For instance, the 1940 Disney film Pinocchio was the first animated movie I watched — and I distinctly recall being at home surrounded by family and relatives. That memory still remains with me.
Then there’s The Wizard of Oz, my favourite film. When I watched it on TV as a kid, I was spellbound. This was a time before DVRs or streaming. An era when you had to anxiously wait for your favourite film to air. But it was well worth the wait. The Wizard Of Oz’s story, characters and music enthralled me then and continue to do so to this day.
When I first saw the 1966 animated special How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, I became cognizant that a playful and curious imagination had invented a new world. As a lover of books and reading and writing, I was particularly struck by its rhyming scheme and whimsy. What fever dream was this, I thought? A green curmudgeon at odds with the Whos in Whoville and their tartookas and gardookas and trumtookas?
And finally, there’s Wonder Woman. As a young girl growing up in the 1980s, I was captivated by the Wonder Woman TV series starring Lynda Carter. Of course, it’s delightfully campy fare now. But back then, nothing was better than when the warrior princess fought bad guys and saved men, women and children from catastrophe — all without breaking a sweat. The best part of each episode was when alter-ego Diana Prince spun around and transformed into Wonder Woman. One summer, I endlessly practised spinning in the backyard, yearning to become the superheroine. It was a time when I still believed in magic.
So no, I don’t intend to be rid of my collections entirely. Bare walls and shelves are not for me. I’m going to keep what I deem to be most special.
After all, it’s nice to have some of my favourite things around. But it’s also nice to have some space.
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