What I Shed Today

lightening up a little at a time

– dead auto battery

What strange objects these are: heavy boxes of acid and lead we motor-vehicle users haul about for hours and miles each day so they’ll supply the energy for a few seconds of work. And how strange I seem to myself for keeping this one for so many years.



I bought it for a project car I never got running … the battery survived the shedding of the hulk. Its cells discharged, of course. Worse, the plates sulfated. But I thought that I might succeed in re-charging it, and beyond that find a use for it. I wasn’t sure what use, but sometimes I cling to hope with a throttle-hold.

I finally realized “first things first,” so I clipped the leads of a trickle charger to its terminals and fed it a few amps an hour for about three days. For awhile it seemed the regimen might work, but then something shorted in there. The circuit breaker that protects my charger said, “Finus! Halt! The end! No more!”

Today I left it at an auto supply store (most of them accept batteries for recycling). As practiced as I’ve become at letting useless stuff go, it’s energizing to notice how much lighter I feel.

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– someone else’s books

These books weren’t mine, in neither sense of “ownership” … I didn’t buy or receive them, and they had no claim on me, to urge me to read them. (Mostly they were an incomplete set of a religious denomination’s periodical from 50 years ago.) But they were filling a bottom file drawer in an office I’m responsible for.


To the book recycler they go. I imagine they’ll get ground up into post-consumer pulp. But better that than remaining ballast.

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– little red bowl

I bought this little red bowl for a quarter at a yard sale in Chicago during my first year in grad school there. It appears to have been hand-thrown and somewhat crudely finished. A name is scratched in stilted letters on the bottom, but I can’t make it out. I guessed then, and now, that it was someone’s school art project.


It’s no bigger than a small grapefruit.

I recall I hoped to use it as a planter in my windowsill … I longed for something green to cheer my dorm room. But that wasn’t practical, since the bowl had no drain holes. It found another purpose, though. I’d been emptying my pockets into the top drawer of my dresser, and coins slid around and got lost under my neckties. The bowl received and held them handily.

I’m not sure when I stopped using it for that … after one or another change of address, I guess. For the last few years it’s been in our home office. When we’ve found ourselves holding an odd bit that we wanted to put down, often we’ve dropped it into the bowl. So it’s collected rubber bands, binder and paper clips, pennies, small parts that fall off of things, and astounding amounts of cat hair and dust. But none of that really belongs there. Office supplies are supposed to be in the office supply box. Pennies, in the coin collector. Parts, back on what they fell off of. And so on.

We’ve realized that any container that doesn’t have a decided-upon and declared purpose (best reinforced with a label) will collect junk. We’re shedding our collection of such attractive nuisances. Since the bowl doesn’t particularly please us as domestic art, we’ll pass it on, in hope that someone else will see it and say, “That little red bowl is just the thing!”

shedding style: give away
destination: thrift store

Comments welcome … do you have containers that collect chaos?


+ a prayer in the middle years of opportunity

A friend shared this with me a few years ago. Now it’s time to speak to me has come. (I find it variously attributed, but I’m fairly sure it appears in Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals.)

Lord, help me now to unclutter my life,
to organize myself in the direction of simplicity.
Lord, teach me to listen to my heart;
teach me to welcome change, instead of fearing it.
Lord, I give You these stirrings inside me,
I give You my discontent,
I give You my restlessness,
I give You my doubt,
I give You my despair,
I give You all the longings I hold inside.
Help me to listen to these signs of change, of growth;
to listen seriously and follow where they lead
through the breathtaking empty space of an open door.

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– underground water leak

Though we haven’t posted much lately, we haven’t stopped shedding. One irritation we celebrate ridding our lives of is our recurring underground water leak.

Casa de WIST isn’t all that old; it was built in 1987. That was the year Nimue and I met, in graduate school in Chicago. In the American southeast (where we now live), lots of new homes were going up, and not a few of them were plumbed with polybutylene pipe. It appeared to offer a great advance over copper and galvanized steel: it was cheaper and, since it’s flexible, quicker to install. But out “in the field,” polybutylene hasn’t held up well. The typically grey or blue material gets brittle and develops small cracks that soon widen into large leaks. Thousands of lawsuits about it cumulated in a massive class-action settlement.

We bought too late to get a slice of that, but nevertheless consider ourselves among the more lucky inheritors of the legacy; the pipes inside our house are copper. But between the city’s water meter and our foundation wall, we had a polybutylene supply line.


polybutylene water supply pipe

Nimue keeps a close eye on our utility bills, and thus our consumption of water and electricity. About two years after we moved in, our water use crept up. For one or two months we shrugged it off; maybe we’d washed a lot of clothes or something. But when it continued, we suspected our water line. I confirmed that we had a leak by shutting off the supply (there’s a valve in the crawlspace under the house) and watching the needle on the city’s meter. It kept slowly moving around the dial.

The plumbers we called found the leak handily by casting about for a wet spot in the yard. They dug down and revealed that a tree root had grown around the line and twisted it till it cracked. “You’ve got polybutylene here,” they warned me. “You might want to think about replacing it.” Well, how much would that cost, I asked. About $2000, they said. And the repair? Oh, some $200. Reasoning that we could repair ten leaks for the cost of one water line replacement, I declined.

But two years later, the whole scenario played out again. That time there was no oak tree to blame, just a jet of water shooting out of a hole in the pipe. Again, it turned a few square feet into a wetland and wasn’t hard to find.

But this spring, when our bills rose yet again, our plumbers couldn’t find the leak. They dug, they probed, but finally shrugged and departed, suggesting that it might have to get worse (so they could find it) before it got better. After they left, I probed and I dug, too, till the sweat of my brow threatened to make a wet spot on the earth. (Have I mentioned our soil is Georgia clay, the same stuff that gets baked into bricks?) But after hours of hard labor, I couldn’t find it either.

All the while, Nimue and I—who strive to be conservative in consumption if not our politics—were turning the water off at the meter when we went to bed at night and turning it back on before I made coffee first thing in the morning. It wasn’t all that demanding a routine, but it got tiresome quickly, especially with no end in sight. Except the end of doing the right thing and having the whole substandard line replaced. We checked our bank balance, sighed, and gave the go-ahead.

Kevin and Jimmy showed up the next day with a yellow mini-monster of an earth-mover and a will to get the job done. All along I’d feared having to cut our concrete driveway (the line runs under it), but they assured me they knew a trick or two. They found the two ends on either side of the slab, snaked a cable through the existing line, winched a splitter back through it, and then threaded the new line through the tunnel they’d made. It worked a charm. Before the middle of the afternoon they were gone, the driveway was still sound, the bill was $1300 instead of $2000, and we were looking forward to going to sleep without having to make the trek out to the meter in the dark.

In sum, when next we learn that we’ve got a structural issue that tends to lead to inefficiency or waste, we plan to address it sooner rather than later.

shedding style: replace

Comments welcome … have you a story about shedding waste by means of an upgrade?


– the tandemobile

We’re back! And today’s shed is a rather big one.

1992 Ford Aerostar,

1992 Ford Aerostar, “the tandemobile”

I can’t remember how long ago I met the tandemobile—perhaps 15 years past. It’s a 1992 Ford Aerostar mini-van, a really rather useful melding of a passenger car chassis with a light-duty truck frame. My father acquired it as grandchildren began to multiply, so he and Mom could take them all into town to eat out. After complications due to glaucoma took his eyesight, my brothers and I were designated its drivers on those family outings. And when Dad finally decided to sell the Aerostar, Nimue and I bought it, because we’d just planned a big family gathering and we wanted to haul the g-kids to the mountain vistas their fathers and I so enjoyed when we were their age.

We intended to sell it immediately afterward. But one of us wondered: if we took the seats out, would the tandem bicycle fit in the back?

Ready, set, swallow!

Ready, set, swallow! (Not pictured: the bar we concocted with a fork-mount block to secure the tandem.)

By about half an inch, it did.

So the Aerostar became the tandemobile. For the last few years, it’s hauled the bike to dozens of rallies and remote ride starts. We’ve even slept in it a couple times when we didn’t want to bother with pitching a tent.

But “entropy happens.” We dealt with it as it arose. I deliberated and decided to spend a day or two crouching on concrete and straining to remove and replace most of the brake system. I signed the credit-card authorization (gulp!) to have the air conditioning system converted to R134a. But replace the whole front-end (that is, pretty much all the steering and suspension parts)? It’s a job—if you don’t have a lift and a shop, or on the other hand a $um more than the vehicle is worth—that requires banging away with chisels and hammers for hours whilst twisted into a pretzel underneath the beast. Not for me, not after some wisdom’s finally begun, however painfully, to accrue in my body and brain.

We spent today giving the tandemobile a bath and manicure before advertising it for sale on craigslist. I told the truth about what it needs. (How could I not?) There are guys and gals younger than me out there, with bodies less worn and spirits hungrier, who’ll be willing to tackle it. But at this point in the adventure of my life, I think I’ll save my hunger for riding and the road.

shedding style: resell
destination: someone else’s life

Comments welcome … what might you shed today?