Last night I opened one of the last of the unpacked boxes from our move in 2018. It was filled with books previously boxed and stored in the basement of the old house since the late 90's. At that time, I hadn’t known what to do with them; and I still don’t, which is why they and the U-Haul box containing the Minolta slide projector with carousel trays and cartons of slides from my mom's house are among the last of the moved items to be addressed.
Truth be told, I’ve been feeling the proverbial ball in my own life dropping and have recently taken to watching episodes of “Hoarders” for the motivation needed to focus on the release of more unused and unneeded items from our life and home. Just after the election, we received the sad news of the death of a 62 year old sister of a sister-in-law after learning she'd been two weeks on a ventilator in ICU fighting Covid. Since then, my awareness of the deep loss her family is experiencing has been running alongside my own fear of departing in a similar manner. And that's started me down the track of considering what else I might want or need to address before slowly shuffling off or suddenly taking leave.
The opened box held my collection of the twenty-one Travis McGee mystery-suspense novels (mostly in paperback) written by J.D MacDonald, along with other favorite books from that era. With them was the black-edged January 1987 Memorial edition of JDM Bibliophile Number 39, and an attached clipping from the Dec 30,1986, Detroit Free Press entitled, “Gumshoe McGee Made Millions for MacDonald”, in which the death of MacDonald on Dec 28,1986, was announced in print. The books, the magazine and the clipping had all yellowed with age. The magazine content appeared to have been put together on a manual typewriter and copied. And the following, on page 5, submitted by Jim Fuller, from an article in the Jan 25,1987 edition of the Minneapolis STAR and TRIBUNE, revealed an style of writing and thought that’s also changed over the years to the point of passing away.
It is, truth to tell, a rather selfish thing that I and the rest of the MacDonald fans feel. His death means we won’t be able to lose ourselves in new Travis McGee adventures; we won’t have the pleasure of seeing ourselves in a new Travis McGee adventure; we won’t have the pleasure of seeing how advancing age and maturity changes McGee, even as it changes us. Worse, we won’t have the pleasure of anticipating the next book. It is saddening to think that we can’t pause every now and then and count the months since the last McGee appeared, calculate the probable time until the next is available.
We read the other books--there were 77 of them by the most common count--but it is McGee and his brilliant, sympathetic friend Meyer who commanded our attention and loyalty. There are 21 McGee books.
McGee: A man who took his “retirement” in pieces, who lived on a houseboat won in a poker game, who got involved in wild and dangerous situations and frequently got hurt but was never put down for the count. He got involved with women, but he was not a rake; the women he bedded were women he respected and cared for, and they were as intelligent, and most were as strong at the core, as McGee. He was a profoundly loyal man. He also felt and accepted the sadness that comes to people who care deeply about nature and good people and odd concepts such as honor and honesty and trust. He watched the world go awry and did what he could about it, knowing that what he could do was too little to make much difference. The sadness grew as he aged and matured, and he did both.
There was much in McGee with which a man could identify--and a woman too, judging by the number of women fans I know. But, of course, he was better than we are, as heroes must be. He was stronger, always in better physical shape (though admitting it got harder and harder to stay that way), always tougher and more clever without being too tough or too clever to be liked. He, too,, was bewildered sometimes, and he had the good sense to envy truly successful marriages and some aspects of the stable family life. Better yet, he took on the real bastards of this world--the ones we really all detest. He cut down the arrogant and pompous men of power, the men who perpetrate crimes against nature and humanity under the cover of legitimate business and economic “progress”.
MacDonald attended three of the country’s most highly reputed business schools and acquired a Harvard MBA. He spoke through McGee and Meyer, with great authority about the scams created by icy people in grey pinstriped suits.
We could identify with his concerns and his feelings, his loves and his hatreds. We could for the hours we spent with his books, live his adventures--adventures we’ll not have ourselves. And we could take pleasure in the pure craftsmanship with which the stories were told.
John D. MacDonald was not just a writer of good yarns. He was not just a spokesman for those of us who are angered and saddened by the way the world is run. He was just one fine writer.
I may just hang onto them a while longer. And let someone else decide their next move.
10 comments:
My basic rule for de-cluttering and hoarding-avoidance is: books don't count.
I watched too many seasons of hoarding shows, and one show on the psychological, genetic and life history that lead to a person becoming a hoarder. There have been several hoarders in my family and as a result I keep my house as clean and tidy as I can. Even this plague year I have had company stop by, so the place is presentable and folks don't fall over when they walk in. And some of them come back, so it must be within the acceptable zone in terms of clutter.
A friend of mine had to help a neighbor who died a few weeks back. Died right in front of my friend. Turns out the deceased was a hoarder and it fell to my friend to deal with some of the aftermath, specifically, catching a cat that was left inside, amongst the garbage. It took two weeks but eventually through luck and pluck the cat was captured and rehomed, so that is good.
But the ripples out from that event are that everyone involved is now more aware of how quickly we can wrap up our turn on this mortal coil. Since then I have been clearing out extraneous scrap from my shop, organizing all the possessions I have in my house, going through old clothes and tossing things I know I will never wear again. My friend and his wife have taken up regular exercising, as their neighbor was only a few years older than they are, and so on and so on.
The sad thing about their neighbor is that his parents are still alive. His 87 year old mother was just diagnosed with the chicom flu, but what do you know, she is recovering. She is more robust than her fifty-something son.
And, as an oh-by-the-way, the county coroner listed the neighbor's cause of death as a heart attack rather than a covid death. I guess he didn't get the memo to juke the stats.
My bride was a huge fan of Travis McGee. We ate in one of his favorite restaurants in Fort Lauderdale when we vacationed there years back.
Mumpsimus said...
My basic rule for de-cluttering and hoarding-avoidance is: books don't count.
Books definitely count.
Gurgaon is a city just southwest of New Delhi in northern India. It’s known as a financial and technology hub.
No need. We managed our domestic shifting with some high-quality packing of our own.
My view on books counting or not: When they're situated on a shelf and accessible, they're a library. Those relegated to stacks in boxes are moving toward being a stash.
Hoarding runs in my extended family. There was a great-aunt whose garage was filled with halves of china creamer and sugar sets in the hope she'd find the missing piece someday and sell them as a matched pair at the flea markets she haunted. Her sister, another collector, was found dead at 80+ in the loaded station wagon she slept in during her travels around looking for treasure.
Over the years, I managed to escape the trap that's captured my siblings by living with someone who dislikes clutter and is more than willing to cheerfully make as many runs to the resale or dump as needed. Plus, I have an ordered and a creative mind, which tends to send me toward beauty, balance, and functionality rather than chaos. I'm grateful for that, as my ability to see value, use and possibility in things extends far beyond MrM's practical vision.
What interests me most about the Hoarder shows, aren't the horrific messes encountered, but the interactions between those who've come to help and the owner of the hoard. I've entered into the helper role several times (only to see the mess return) and was stunned each time by the amount of denial, excuses, and distorted thinking involved. Also surprised by the strange and hard-to-reconcile mix of ability and disability present, along with the well-spring of anger and stubbornness that runs under the congeniality and disregard. Every now and then I also catch a glimpse or hear an explanation that comes dangerously close to some of my own perceptions and thinking and that's enough to stir me into more action.
Today it was not raining and it was warm enough for me to start moving and sawing large pieces of trees I had collected over the last few years. My rationalization, as with the 1,000 dried rough turned bowl blanks I have in another room, is that it is product, that is, money, just waiting for the right moment to be completed. Well, tonight the scrap and chunks and barky pieces will be turned into smoke and ash in order to complete their earthy cycle.
My father kept every medical journal he ever received. Said he needed them for reference. Well, let me tell you, when the entire basement of your office is stacked to the ceiling with 20 year old JAMAs and whatnot, guess what, you not only aren't going to find what you are looking for, you are more likely to end up like the Collier brothers did. There had to be a good 10 tons of magazines in that building.
My one remaining brother keeps his basement the same way, except it is random crap he has collected over the decades. Scary stuff. You can't even walk around in the space. I avoid that by not having a basement.
In any case, I am aware of the possibility of me turning into a hoarder, but I work hard to toss stuff that is unused. There are several approaches to that, the old "If you haven't used it/read it in ten years" thing, toss it. That has some validity to me. I am on the cusp of getting rid of my Fine Woodworking magazines, I have a stack of them, as I have settled into how and why I work wood and my philosophical approach is very different than the editors of that mag. Time to move them along to someone who is just starting out in that business. The information is valid, just not relevant to me.
Meanwhile I am looking at every piece of lumber in my "collection" and trying to decide its fate. Much work, but worth it, in the end.
And yeah, the hoarders on that show get too attached to random stuff. My brother does that. I stopped watching that show when I saw animals trapped in that filth. Unacceptable.
I'm grateful for that, as my ability to see value, use, and possibility in things extends far beyond MrM's practical vision. To be clear, that wasn't a boast. That "ability" can easily go awry, requiring the limits of practical vision to stay out of trouble and remain inbounds.
SixtyG...It sounds like you're making your way forward with the clarity needed (along with the smoke and ash) to tackle the sorting work you've been doing. It's hard when there is real potential involved with materials collected and limited time available to see it all through.
On my dad's 80th birthday he said he wished he could have another 80 years to make and do all the things that interested him. While I don't think I'd take another 80 years of the human nonsense, I understood what he was wanting.
I had a terrible time with my books.
I had a library of approximately 5,000 books that followed me from apartment to apartment. As the rents got higher and higher I had to downsize and get rid of my books. I was sick.
I tried to sell them on Amazon. I thought I could make a few dollars but the way Amazon sets it up they kill you. I sold a couple for a good price. A first edition James Michner went for $150 and a couple of obscure non fiction tomes went for a hundy apiece.
Still and all I lost them all and now I only have my kindle.
When we have the catastrophic event and the Interet dies I will have nothing.
I also had a complete set of Travis McGee novels in paperback. Along with all of the Louis L'Amour and just about all of the Zane Grey and all of the Kenneth Roberts novels that I read and reread every night.
John D MacDonald was a genius and a great story teller. One of the role models that I try in my own humble way to pay tribute to in my inane scribling.
Thanks for the memories MamaM.
I use my Kindle so seldom it bricks itself. I really dislike the interface. I was reading the great books series on it and read about autobiographies. There were a couple of paragraphs on Benvenuto Cellini's and I thought "Why am I reading about an autobiography rather than just reading the copy I have on my shelf?" So now I am reading the book. Well, not right this minute, but soon.
Like Troop, I greatly reduced the size of my library, but I still have plenty of art books. Must keep some visual inspiration handy.
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