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HACKETT: The sentimentality of ‘stuff’

My dad loves “stuff.”
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My dad loves “stuff.”

My parents’ basement is absolutely jammed full of what I like to call “stuff.” Even though they downsized just over five years ago and purged a good amount of collected junk, they still have an unimaginable mountain of things.

You can probably guess my opinion on stuff. As someone who has lived in four different provinces over the last decade, I don’t have much use for it. If something goes unused for more than a year, to the trash heap or local charity it goes.

When I shared this opinion with my dad, he felt it best to broach the subject as a challenge. If I ever visit home, he makes sure to find a way to send me back to Alberta with some stuff. If those visits become further apart, random packages will arrive at our doorstep with these priceless heirlooms or old toys that I had as a kid which no longer serve any purpose.

But something happened recently that made me pause and appreciate his position on stuff.

While visiting Edmonton recently, my car got broken into. Well, that’s not quite accurate. In my infinite wisdom, I forgot to lock the car while leaving a parking garage downtown and when I returned, the car had been tossed and anything valuable had been swiped.

That, unfortunately, included my baseball bag, which I had left in the trunk for a few days instead of bringing it into the house.

That bag contained a lot of “stuff.”

The bag itself, was my baseball bag from when I was probably 12 years old, still holding up well, minus a few frayed straps. Our coach at the time was a rep for Mizuno and he got the whole team matching bags, with the team logo and number on it. We were so excited. Our team would routinely get crushed by bigger centres in Southern Ontario, but with those bags, we felt a little bit like we belonged.

I also had four baseball gloves in the bag, each one carrying a story on its own. To most people, they were just gloves but, as a left-hander, my gloves all carried with them a more complicated story than just going to the store and picking one off the shelf.

There was my oldest glove, which was a tan Louisville slugger, with a red logo. I still remember sitting in my grandparents’ house when I was a child, rubbing shaving cream inside the glove, to loosen the leather and make it easier to close. I threw a ball in it for hours to work in the pocket. In my mind, I can picture a little black string hanging off the side, which was the result of a repair job because I simply didn’t want to give the glove up and work in a new one.

That glove arrived in Red Deer last Christmas, as part of a package of stuff from my Dad. It was sitting in our basement on a pile of random stuff, before the great summer floods of 2022. In a panic, as we were packing up stuff to clear it out of the basement, I threw it in my bag as something to deal with later. I couldn’t part with it as I usually can with most “stuff.”

There was my catcher’s glove. A left-handed catcher’s glove. Good luck finding one of those around anymore. We had to special order it from a store, my Dad and I sorted through a catalog at the sports store. It took weeks to come. I really wanted to be a catcher back then.

It had been years since I used that glove. I was in a baseball tournament before the summer before the pandemic in Westlock and our regular catcher couldn’t make it. I caught 14 innings that weekend, with a catcher’s glove that had no padding and broken strings – the pocket hanging on by a literal thread. My hand was bruised for weeks, but I had a blast. Again, I just couldn’t part with it.

Of course, as a left-hander you are almost obligated to have a first baseman’s glove. Another glove with no padding, as I also acquired that in my early teen years. It was so worn down, the ball flopped out of it almost half the time you tried to catch it. It continued to collect dust in my bag but there was no way I would toss it into the trash heap.

Last but not least, was my regular outfield glove. Acquired about 10 years ago now, on a trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods in Buffalo. They had the biggest wall of baseball gloves I’ve ever seen. I can’t remember why I picked the one I did, probably fit my budget at the time, which wasn’t great as a student. I loved that glove and it served me well over the past decade.

If you stuck around this long, thanks. It all circles back to my original point.

The connections we have to “stuff”– to regular everyday items, doesn’t often register in the moment. It doesn’t weigh on us when we replace the item and swoon over the new one, yet the stories of the old thing are a part of us. They hold some particular memory or connection to the past that brings a smile or a laugh.

It gets harder to hold onto the memory the longer time goes on and even harder still if you can’t hold the “stuff” in your hand.

As I’m writing this, I keep picturing my dad walking into the basement, flooded by random, joyful memories as he moves boxes or items around to look for the latest “stuff” he’s going to ship to me.

I get it now and while I’ll still likely be a little bit annoyed when it arrives, I’ll understand.

Byron Hackett is the Managing Editor of the Red Deer Advocate.



Byron Hackett

About the Author: Byron Hackett

Byron has been the sports reporter at the advocate since December of 2016. He likes to spend his time in cold hockey arenas accompanied by luke warm, watered down coffee.
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