‘Tis the season of self-denial.

‘Tis the season for self-righteous pontificator to tell us that we are materialistic fools, and we would be far better off with far less. To quote a few:

• It is preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, that prevents us from living freely and nobly – Bertrand Russell

• Man should not consider his material possession his own, but as common to all, so as to share them without hesitation when others are in need – Thomas Aquinas.

• The things you own end up owning you. It’s only after you lose everything that you’re free to do anything. – Fight Club

• Don’t burden yourself with possessions. Keep your needs and wants simple and enjoy what you have. – Henry David Thoreau

I admit that there are over-the-top people out there who buy for the sake of impressing themselves and others, or who spend money just because they have it (I just read that Oprah Winfrey owns a $100 million house on 80 acres). But I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about guys and gals who exult when they get a raise; celebrate if they get a more enjoyable or better paying job; congratulate their teens for working at after school and saving to buy a used car or a guitar; applaud their parents when they sell their house (which they bought in 1950 for $27,000) for a million dollars and move to Florida to drive a golf cart and play bingo.

Regular folks who work hard and enjoy having a little left over after paying bills to buy and do stuff.

I love stuff!

And I’m tired of usually rich people (living in gated communities, who own jets, vote for Socialists, and blame cow burps for “climate change”) telling me that I should pare down, write Haiku poetry, eat kale, and live an abstemious life.

Thinking back on some of my favorite things (No. This isn’t the “Sound of Music”), one of the first was a scoop neck, pink corduroy dress. Either my mother bought it for me, or I inherited it from my older sister. It had a wide belt, which fit snugly around my thin, 15-year-old waist, and in it, I felt like a winner of the “I Want to Be Audrey Hepburn” contest.

Another thing I coveted, although I didn’t know that until I received it as a gift, had to do with my career aspirations. One of my best friends was an odd duck of a girl, originally from Switzerland who, when she was still in high school, appealed in family court to be emancipated from an abusive mother. Before we graduated, she reconnected with her father, who’d fled his miserable marriage in Europe and made a fortune in Alaska cleaning houses on a military air force base.

Once he and his daughter reconnected, this man became entranced by my ambitions, and instead of addressing me by name, began to call me “Future Famous Writer.” After I moved from the Midwest to New York City to produce (ha!) the Great American Novel – well, actually short story. I wasn’t a novelist then – he sent me a beautiful, gorgeous, unbelievably perfect red IBM Selectric Typewriter. For those who’ve never had one, this, for a writer, was the equivalent of a violinist getting a Stradivarius or a pianist waking up to find out that under his Christmas tree, Santa had left him a Steinway Grand piano.

Heaven.

I’ve got a few favorite things leftover from high school that I treasure, too. All are books. Two are dilapidated paperbacks of poetry: “The Pocket Book of Verse,” published in 1964, and “Story Poems” edited by Louis Untermeyer in 1961. The third is a battered (oxidized pages and badly creased cover) paperback of “Cyrano de Bergerac,” written by Edmond Rostand and translated by Brian Hooker … as cherished to me as my heartbeat. Next is my 15th edition “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations.” Although there have been many editions published since 1980, no others possess my notations, my memories, or “flags” stuck to pages containing favorite passages. When I first discovered Bartlett’s – why hadn’t I learned about it in high school? – I was so delighted that I read it cover-to-cover, yellow highlighting quotations as I went along.

I don’t have the same emotional ties to my “Roget’s International Thesaurus,” but when I am writing a book, I won’t consult any but my first – fifth edition – published in 1992. Despite this also being an indispensable writing tool, no one told me about it in high school or college, and I only stumbled upon it accidentally at a library.

Going back to more favorites “things,” I love my “Leave it to Beaver” 1940s house, with light coming in from windows on all four sides.

I love my gas fireplace.

I love my fall-asleep-upon-while-reading-a-book sofa.

I love my television set, and my ability to watch old movies and really, really old movies: last night I tuned in on “The Best Years of Our Lives,” I am in the middle of “Miracle on 34th Street,” and I’m saving “It’s a Wonderful Life” for Christmas Eve.

I also love a little patio I just had built in my backyard for a metal firepit I bought to burn confidential correspondence. I decided it would be a great place to incinerate love letters. So romantic. I don’t have any love letters to burn, though, so please feel free to send me some. Preferably with quotations that will make my heart go pitter pat.

And on that note … do you have any favorite things? A baseball your father caught for you at your first Yankee game? A photo from when you starred as Portia in the high school play? A diamond ring given to you by your grandmother? A bullet you dodged? Or didn’t? A framed check for the first book you sold?

Tell me. I would love to know.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2024. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.