Illustration: Kay Wolfersperger
On a deep August afternoon, I sat in my stifling Montclair attic staring forlornly at a horrid turquoise casserole dish that hadn’t seen daylight since my wedding shower.
My husband and I had sold our 1905 colonial and we were scrambling to empty out the beloved home our family had spent 23 years filling up. Paul and I had earmarked key items for the apartment we were downsizing to in town, unloaded some things on our 20-something sons, donated what we could, and rented a storage space for supposedly important objects I now only think about when paying our monthly invoice.
That left a house still brimming with stuff that, while not particularly valuable, didn’t belong in a landfill: a dusty fabric doll from somebody’s Cancun vacation; a vat of screws, washers and errant metal things that belonged to something, somewhere; a purple V-neck from my mom I’d rediscover in my closet each year and swear to finally give a go. (I never did. I hate purple.)
Figuring WTF, I snapped a pic of the odious casserole and listed it on Facebook Marketplace for $10. A couple of nibbles came in, one wanting additional photos and the brand (did he think it was Tiffany?), another countering $5.
With the clock ticking fast toward move day, I had about as much time to quibble over crockery as I did for a spa extravaganza at the Short Hills Hilton. I settled on a new price ($0) and reposted it on my local Facebook Buy Nothing page. The description: “I hate this dish. Maybe you won’t.”
A clay pot that couldn’t command $10 just days before suddenly had dozens clamoring. In a blink, a woman arrived at my house, raced up our flagstone walk with the glee of a newly named Price is Right contestant, and left with the casserole and a basket of smelly candles to boot.
Pumped, I posted more, taking a brief minute to explain to Buy Nothing browsers (and myself) why the object in question wasn’t making my cut.
“After 22 years of planting tomatoes and getting about five total per season, we are giving up. Please take these tomato baskets.”
“Could not look less hideous in this bike shirt, no matter how hard I pedal.”
“I hope that where I am going, I will never have to use this horrid Shop-Vac.”
And for that sad little doll from Cancun, a simple “Help me” made her case.
As the weeks ground on, my daily Buy Nothing posts and visits became a precious ray of light amid the downsizing chaos. Each exchange provided a chance to spare the landfill. To delight another person I might not otherwise have crossed paths with. To attach a face, and sometimes a name, to something I’d owned and, possibly, loved before sending it out into the world.
I sit in my apartment today, loving each of the spare belongings that share our small space. I take joy knowing that, somewhere nearby, someone is appreciating something that couldn’t come with us. And I hold out hope that maybe, just maybe, my mom’s purple V-neck, still hanging in my bedroom closet, will finally get some wear this year.
Peg Rosen writes for numerous print and digital publications. She lives with her husband, Paul, and moyen poodle, George, in an uncluttered Montclair rental.
[RELATED: Emptying the Nest: How We Decluttered Our Home of 30 Years]
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