I’m tired of hearing people tell me, “You’re not old.”
Surviving seven decades, something most of my ancestors and some of my contemporaries didn’t do, makes me an old man. I know it, and I say it.
I can handle my bodily care needs, such as eating, drinking, showering, and wiping. But the signs of being old—or omens, if you remember last week—are still there.
I have reading glasses placed strategically at various points in the house, a pair of bifocals for driving and expanding my mind with the finest cultural programming on the TV. Based on that statement, you might guess we subscribe to Brit Box and Acorn, and you’d be right.
Speaking of the telly, we now use close captioning all the time. My hearing ain’t what it used to be, and neither is the Bohunk’s. My fading hearing reminds me of this line that I relate to from Jimmy Buffet’s song “He Went to Paris,” about a man nearing the end of a long, less ordinary life.
Writing his memoirs, losing his hearing But he don’t care what most people say
My hair continues to turn grayer than a Navy battleship and gradually thins. I see commercials for hair growth enhancers but wonder why I should care. Twenty years ago, my Italian barber, Joe Vivarelli, who saw me every four weeks for several years, said the obvious one day: “You’re getting some gray hairs; I can fix that for you.” I replied, “Joe, I’m a grandpa al-ready and married. I don’t need to hide the gray for anybody.”
I drop more things than I used to. I may be more aware of that since bending down to pick things up and then successfully standing up again is a bit difficult and hurts my knees and hips.
Then, there’s CRS. Walking into a room and not remembering why. Asking the same questions, not remembering I’d asked them before or the answer.
Interestingly, the software that I run my scribbles through to correct, add, and delete punctuation and spelling also reviews for political correctness. The AI PC watchdog says the phrase “old man” shows disrespect, and it encourages me to pick a new word.
So yeah. I’m an old man. Don’t come back at me with, “You’re not old.”
This brings me to my topic today: Swedish Death Cleaning.
After surviving a couple of near-death experiences, one seven years ago and the other with my Sepsis adventure last month, I convinced the Bohunk it was time we think about downsizing and getting rid of the stuff we accumulated over the years that had filled our closets and over-whelmed our loft space.
Some boxes and totes we’ve moved several times had not been opened in almost 25 years. Not surprisingly, most of what was in them was trash or donated to Oddz & Endz in Grand Marais. It is a process; we’ve been doing it since December. Every week, we haul a handful of boxes and bags to town for donation, some we sell on Facebook. But it feels good knowing that when we move to that final, or almost final place, we and/or our children won’t be dealing with it.
like moving to the North Shore in the 1990s, it seems others are doing the same, dealing with clutter and downsizing.
I happened upon a book at the library called “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning,” written by Margareta Magnusson and published in 2018. Magnusson claims to be between 80 and 100 years old. As she went through her “death cleaning,” she wrote a book about it to help oth-ers; the subtitle is “How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter.”
Swedish Death Cleaning, or döstädning in Swedish, is the practice of decluttering and organizing one’s belongings in anticipation of death. It’s about making things easier for your loved ones after your inevitable demise.
The idea is to remove the burden of sorting through one’s possessions and deciding what to keep, donate, or discard. Death cleaning can be cathartic and liberating for the people doing it, allowing them to reflect on their lives and what truly matters.
It has been for us.
