We planned to leave Denver about 18 months before we decided where we were going. For that time, “frame it or throw it away” became a mantra. We had so much stuff in boxes (or art tubes) that we decided that if it were not important enough to be framed in Denver, it was not important enough to be in our possession. (Yes, grammar police, “were” and “was” are the correct verbs.)
The problem with plaques is that they are self-framing. That 37 year old plaque made the cut and has been floating around my office space since we moved here. It has not been hanging on a wall because there is no good way to attach it to a picture rail. It has holes in the back and picture wire (aka fishing line aka monofilament) requires studs, not holes. G*d forbid that I pound a nail into the back of a wooden plaque.
Over the holiday season, we rearranged my office, which is also The Laird’s sewing room, in an attempt to declutter it. There were three of this sort of plaque. I kept one – and I still haven’t hammered a nail into the back of it.
In any case, the new mantra is “hang it or throw it away”, which should help with all the stuff still in the garage. This post is my last reminder of my glory days in the first quarter of 1989. So sad.
I have two group pictures of my Basic Training flight (fatigues and dress uniform). They are both framed and hanging. I remember the names of no one and only recognize three people (including myself and the drill instructor). Those can probably be thrown away, too, as long as I’m closing the door on that era.
As a counter-example, I also have pictures of my Tech Training class. I had dinner with one of them not that long ago – in old people terms; it was about six years ago, now. He was the first person I’d ever met that went by his middle name. Hi Brian!
Marked Up 