A Gazebo and a Telescope, The Boot Sale and the Wonders of Minimalism.

There is a Sunday Boot Sale over the road to me this morning, they have them regularly there. Whilst we were out for a walk with the dog the other night, I suggested that I might “Do a Boot Sale” since it would be a great opportunity for me to get rid of a load of clutter. I have a constant aim to de-clutter at least a little bit, my partner is constantly talking about the “stuff” that we have, but we haven’t quite got there again and the loft is beginning to groan, so it’s definitely time I did so again. He does it too, arriving home with some interesting things over the years, a present or a project for me.

Years ago, I complimented my friend on her “Minimalist Living” and asked her how she managed it. Since there was evidence of vintage items all over her home. Oh that’s easy she said, I store everything else away in the loft in boxes. Although she hadn’t quite grasped Minimalism, she had us fooled for a while, but now I know the truth! She alternated the items in her home, keeping only a small quantity of them out, the others would return to boxes in the loft until she fancied a change. My partner urged me to go and take a look in case I found some wonderful thing there, which I could sell on for a profit. I‘d have to get up early to find something there and Is that really a good idea? I asked. “Last time I went there, on foot, I came home carrying a Gazebo and a Telescope.” Hmm he said, maybe but don’t get another gazebo. It is the sort of conversation which makes absolutely no sense at all. Why on earth would I get another, I didn’t need the first one, which has sat in the loft ever since, along with the telescope, both of course which I will definitely use (one day). Both will be useful in the right place, probably on the hill or if we ever have a party in the garden.

So I will resist the urge to go and see what else the locals are disposing of over the road, which new thing would grace our home with it’s presence. I must resist, I must resist and instead I will revisit it here and write about it whilst I reflect upon the constant wonders of minimalism, just how do they do it?

The Music Box

You are listening to the Fleur de Lys,
And how the music is there to please.
Caught up at once in a whirl,
Watching as around she twirls.
Her audience of silver and gold,
Sparkle and glint from days of old.
The box you would buy for a little girl,
As you watch her wonderful life unfurl.
Dressing up pieces for her pleasure.
Are the items she will come to treasure.
Replaced in the box and wind the key,
Poised for the next time you want to see.
Ready to dance you’d see that she did,
After all those years when you lifted the lid.
Spring it open and look what you found,
As she spins around and around.
Her paint is old, her skirt is tattered,
Dressing up jewellery broken and battered
As you open the box, she’ll take to the stage
Despite the fact, she’s showing her age.
Relentless she dances on and on,
The Music box still plays her song.
Around the room, a little girl dances
With grace, she bends and prances
As she listens to the favoured tune,
Head so dizzy she starts to swoon.
As you open it up, surprised to find,
A dancer who stands up there behind,
You wind her up and watch her go,
On her stage to see her show.

George’s Hidden Treasure

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When we came and found it,
We looked here and there.
Picked a spot to sit,
but wasn’t even a chair.
I thought I’d tell what I know about George,
And the friendship that we would forge.
You see, the house it had been stripped,
Of all his worldly goods.
Or so we thought, as we tripped,
Around the sheds and woods.
But as we ventured all around,
The odd treasure still to be found.
An occasional thing had been replaced,
Or scattered about, a little defaced.
In the sheds hung his old tools,
The scavengers, were only fools.
Inside the house there was a table,
But with small minds they weren’t able.
For a moment to stop and think,
As to why it was covered in ink.
I wanted to do a little research,
In the garden, of pine and birch.
There’s bottles and baskets and old clothes,
Digging around an old treasure trove.

Picture a place with a scene of beauty,
Looking around at nature’s bounty.
A place filled with such mystery,
As I began to research his story.
There were pots that had been made by hand,
Strange things I’d found buried on the land.
Antique ladders, a walking stick
To get you about when you’re in the thick.
A painting or two hidden above the stair,
Behind the wall when I stripped it bare.
Writing was not just his legacy,
He was an artist who craved to be free.
Visiting ladies to the hilltop would clamour,
To his studio to sit, with none of the glamour.
He would sit alone and he’d paint
In the house, so cold and very quaint.
Perhaps he had some heating supply,
Upon which he could rely.
There disrobed on a couch she might lay,
Whilst the farmer was off, making hay.

Around these parts it was said, he’s a scribe,
The odd bottle of brandy was known to imbibe.
Walking around, you should take a look
Searched to find copies of his book.
For this is the place he chose to reside,
Next to the house where the horses will ride.
Lived there alone and up there he hunted,
With coldness of winter he was confronted.
Wrote books about writing and he had laid claim,
of stories and cooking which wasn’t so plain.
There was a short doorway, it wasn’t so tall,
But it did for him, he was decidedly small.
Some time ago I read of his travels,
But with time, the story unravels.
But over the years, the things that he crafted
Remain buried here and they’ve lasted.
Things he created, sit out the back,
There in the garden, a wonderful plaque.
His scattered remains of the man he once was,
We leave it right there, just because.
Although the scribe has temporarily vacated,
The delight to share, is unabated.
The place where he once took his pleasure,
He still resides in his time of leisure.
As guardians here now we’ve been sent,
His spirit has shown, for us it was meant.
For right up here might be where it began,
The house that belonged to a little wee man.
He visited once to bid us adieu
Now raising a glass to him, Salut.