I stopped at a chain restaurant. It was a sit-down-type place that offered good food along with an irritating loudness from too many TVs.

I ordered a salad that was both green and crunchy. It came in a bushel basket. It was enough to feed me for three days.

I was on my way to visit some people who live in a house not much smaller than the barn in which I spent much of my formative years. It’s a beautiful new house with a three-car garage and enough bathrooms to guarantee there will be no waiting. The speed limit in the driveway had just been raised to 55 miles per hour.

As I drove toward the home, I was passed by several SUVs the size of Rhode Island. The goal of our automakers is to seat everyone comfortably. Entering the city, I noticed garage sale signs posted here, there and everywhere. Trees and utility poles had become want ad sections.

While it’s true that I didn’t spend as much time in a car when I was a boy as I do now and that I grew up on a farm, I do not remember there being so many garage sales, yard sales or rummage sales.

As I neared my destination, I saw several large self-storage units. I don’t recall any such thing while I was growing up.

We have a lot more stuff today than we had back in the day.

An argument could be made that we have too much stuff. The stuff we had when I was a lad became old stuff and was passed on to others. Family members could expect a lot of hand-me-downs before they would get new stuff. As the baby of the family, I wore my sister’s high heels to prom. I was lucky I didn’t sprain my ankle doing the twist. My analyst says I will get over it one day.

Today, not having enough stuff defines failure for many. Because we have so much stuff, we need big places to keep it all in — houses, garages, and storage units.

I don’t have a lot of stuff. I realize that much of the world would dispute that, but if you would eliminate my ever-burgeoning collection of books, I am not a great accumulator of things. There is an Icelandic proverb that I adhere to, “Blind is a bookless man.” Other than books, I collect only bills. Bills are an easy thing to collect. If I don’t pay one, the creditor sends me another for my collection.

Advances in communications have made it a small world (unless you have to paint it), yet the world has been super-sized. I am able to go to one of those warehouse places and buy a lifetime supply of toilet paper. I’d have to build an implement shed to house it. That’s what life has become.

I was digging through my desk drawer when I found a small clipping that my mother had kept in her purse. It was a tattered copy of “Footprints.” This is familiar prose to many.

It showed up on a day when I needed a bit of comforting.

It was a small thing, but to me it was a big thing.

We need small things in a big world.

Staycation

I spoke at a large gathering of tourism experts from all over North America. Because of the job, I had the opportunity to listen to a number of others speak about the future of the tourism industry.

One speaker talked about a staycation. It’s a term that refers to vacationing at home. Home doesn’t mean you don’t leave the house, but means that you vacation near your home. This idea, while far from being new, is inspired by the high cost of gasoline. Gas pumps should come with an air sickness bag. A staycation would combat our never-ending supply of crises—the climate change crisis, the oil crisis, the monetary crisis, the food crisis, etc. We have everything but a crises crisis. A staycation may be at a spot a gas tank away. Fuel me once, it’s OK. Fuel me twice, I’m staying away.

I could stay in my house. Read a book. I’d eat more and drive less. That would result in more gas in the world, but less food. I can’t win.

The worst part of not going anywhere is that I would miss the joy of coming home. It’s difficult to miss what you have never left.

It’s good to get out. Money is like a pile of manure. It’s no good unless it’s spread around.

I’m going to visit the hog facility south of town. It’s lovely this time of the year.

I just hope it has postcards for sale.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.