Mr. Brown pushed away from the table. "That was one of the best meals I've had in a long time. You are a good cook young lady."

"Glad you it enjoyed it. How about having dessert and coffee in the living room?" Missy asked. He nodded his head in agreement.

Missy brought in a tray and set it on the coffee table, apple pie along with coffee, cream, sugar and cups. Music was playing softly in the back ground, Stan Getz.

Mr. Brown helped himself to the pie and poured a cup of coffee. "Listening to that music brings me back. Did you know I used to play the drums?"

"No," Missy said in a surprised tone of voice. How did the local gossips miss that? She thought.

"Yeah, I love music, had since I was a kid. I went out California and got hooked up with a small band, Charlie Raeburn. He had a sweet sound, played the sax. His band was just taking off and then along comes Rock and Roll. But there was this one club in downtown Long Beach that featured small bands and Charlie always played there. He developed a nice following. Then this woman starting coming into the club. Man, she was a looker. She made me think of a ripe peach, ready for picking. And she had eyes for Charlie. They would leave together after the last set. I thought he was the luckiest man alive. Everything was going along nice and easy. Until this couple started coming in, young couple. If you had seen her on the street, you would have thought she was in still in school. And Charlie went nuts over that Kid. The Kid liked the song 'Night Train' which was a standard for Charlie. As soon as the Kid walked in, we stopped whatever song we were playing and he signaled us to go into 'Night Train.' The Kid gave him this killer smile in recognition but beyond that she never did anything to make Charlie think he had a chance with her. I was always glad to see her and her husband leave, and they always left to 'Night Train.' The Looker knew she was second fiddle when the Kid was around; she looked like a balloon loosing air. It just didn't make any sense to me. I had a talk with Charlie, asked if he had lost his mind. He had this woman, a real looker with money and you could tell she really was hot for him. What was there about the Kid, what did he see in her? To my way of thinking, she came up short when you measured her against the Looker, young and green and no way was she anywhere as good looking. It was her eyes he told me; he would fall into those eyes, everything was in her eyes. I just shook my head. But I have to admit Charlie never played better." He took a bite of his pie. "And then one week went by and then another, the Kid and her husband stopped coming in. Charlie went into this funk, he tried to find her. He knew her brother-in-law but it was as if they all had fallen off the face of the earth. The life went out of his music, he could still hit the notes, but it was flat. It was about that time that I got a call from home, my Mama was sick, I went back to Louisiana."

He stopped talking, Missy waited quietly, holding her breath.

When he began to talk again, his voice was thick. "My Mama died, cancer. She was a good woman; she shouldn't have suffered the way she did." He paused, "Anyways I was home for about 3 months all totaled. When I got back to Long Beach, I went downtown to the club. I noticed Charlie's name wasn't on the bill board. A small combo was playing; the Looker was sitting at her usual table, sipping a drink. She motioned me over."

"Where you been Brownie?"

"Back home. My Mama died," I told her.

"When did you get back?"

"This afternoon."

"Then you don't know about Charlie,"

"What about Charlie?" I asked her.

"He's dead"

"DEAD! How? What happened?"

"It was her fault, the Kid. He started drinking heavy after she left, was doing drugs too. He shouldn't have gotten into the car that night. He hit a semi, head on." Tears streamed down her face. "I loved him so much."

He was quiet again. "Sorry Missy. Didn't mean to ramble on. It just hits me every now and again. I still miss Charlie and for a while I blamed the Kid too. But it was Charlie; he was like a moth to a flame."

Stan Getz was playing "That Rainy Day Is Now," Missy reached over and held Mr. Brown's hand. "I'm glad you told me that story. Now I have a story to tell you." She cleared her throat, "My grandmother used to tell me about going to this club, with my grandfather, when she was young, in downtown Long Beach to listen to this one band and how the band leader always played "Night Train" when she walked in." Mr. Brown's head snapped up. "I don't think she knew how Charlie felt about her. I know she loved my grandfather very much. They were married for 51 years and died within a few weeks of each other."

Brownie was having a hard time with what he was hearing. What were the odds? "Why, why did she leave?" he finally asked.

"They all left, my grandmother, grandfather and his brother and wife, my great grandmother was dying." She got up, "I think we could both use some brandy." And she poured them each a snifter. They sat back and listened to Stan Getz, each with their own memories of Charlie, "Night Train" and a young woman those many years ago.

He was just a little boy about four years old. I doubt if today he could remember the day he got "lost". It really wasn't his fault. He simply was doing what little boys do. He had visited the zoo with his parents. He was enjoying himself, taking in all the sights and sounds. Not all of which were the exhibits. People, especially other children were, in a lot of cases more interesting than the contents of the enclosures.

They had visited most of the animals. They were in the aviary, looking at the colorful species of birds from other climates when the event occurred. He stood by his father's side and let go of his father's hand to point at something when a "do-gooder" saw him. She quickly determined he was lost and took him away to the lost and found station.

Needless to say his parents were very upset and searched the immediate area for him asking everyone around if they had seen him. Their anxiety grew as no one admitted to seeing anything. Beside themselves with thoughts of the worst scenario their anxiety grew from worry to anger to fear. They went through about a half hour of emotional frenzy before they finally found a security guard who directed them to the lost and found.

Fearing the worst they hurried to the lost and found and there he was calmly looking about. All the emotions drained from them and were replaced with extreme joy. That too was replaced by anger directed at the unknown "do-gooder" who took the boy without checking to see if he really was lost. She caused unnecessary anguish and worry.

I was watching one of WTTW's financial gurus during a pledge drive. She was talking about our attachment to stuff, claiming we buy so much we can't find and don't even know what we have. As a result, we wind up buying the same thing twice.

I've done that. Duplicate blouses hang in my closet. I must have liked the blouse enough to purchase it twice, but apparently I didn't like it well enough to actually wear it either time. So now I have two blouses with tags still on taking up space in my already overstuffed closet.

The guru did have a good idea though. She said go through your house and select 25 things you'd never part with. I don't recall what she said after that, but I believe it had something to do with disposing of the rest mainly through charitable giving.

I more or less did the first part of the 25 things exercise, although I didn't do it voluntarily. My roommate had a visiting guest who used my credit card without my permission. I contacted the police and slept with my wallet under my pillow until this guest departed just ahead of the law. I also went through my stuff and selected what mattered to me, locked most in my car and stored the rest with friends.

Most of what I set aside had to do with memories -- writing and photos made up the bulk of what I couldn't live without. Not that the guest would have had much interest in letters, stories, and photographs, but I was afraid my roommate would lose her temper once her friend was arrested and retaliate by destroying my mementos.

My mother's charm bracelet was a top priority for safe-keeping, the charms being a testimony to my father's thoughtfulness as well as symbols of Mother's passions and achievements: nursing, travel, the completion of her bachelor's degree. As for her travel interest, I had a friend store Mom's videos of exotic vacations. I really will get around to watching them one day, I hope. Another friend stored a laundry basked full of photo albums recording my college years and the whole family's travel adventures. Dad took slides of brother's and my childhood and our earliest vacations. There were too many of them to farm out and, as I don't own a slide projector, I never look at them anyway.

I filled my car with a few books, old letters, my financial documents, and my writing. I thought of all the struggles, ideas, and struggles with ideas that car contained, and I felt very rich driving around. I realized I didn't need a whole house to store what mattered to me. A laundry basked full of photos, another one filled with videos, and my car were all I needed to store what mattered. And much of that was superfluous.

On the plus side the roommate matter was quickly resolved. Perhaps this wasn't entirely fortunate however, because I never got around to disposing of so much of what remained in the house such as clothes, papers, and appliances in various states of disrepair: vacuum cleaners and tape recorders, mostly. Not to mention the cookie, rosette, and waffle makers I haven't used in a decade.

I recently made a quadrant of the pros and cons of keeping stuff and the pros and cons of letting go. Something in me resists an environment that's too uncluttered. I seem to associate empty surfaces with sterility. Souvenirs, mementos, trinkets I find in thrift shops suggest an interesting history and my reasoning goes that if my stuff is interesting, I am interesting. Relinquishing my stuff seems like letting go of my past, and my past is such a part of who I am. I don't trust my memory, but I trust stuff to trigger memory.

A short, poignant film entitled "Stuffed," is about folks who literally can't move around because they have so much crammed into their homes. I was moved by the plights of these hoarders who expressed themselves with such pain, such sensitivity. They spoke of unresolved loss. One woman had to flee her country, leaving all she had behind. Another was robbed in early childhood. Others lost people who were important to them at a tender age.

If holding on to stuff results from unresolved loss, it seems to me all the decluttering professionals and books and organizing tips won't help. Given that holding on to so much is not rational as I don't use and can't even find much of it anyway, is it really possible to rationally appraise and deal with the situation?

I can still walk around in my home and have company over, but my basement is another story, not to mention my closets. No crystal ball is needed to show me the situation will only get worse if too much comes in and too little goes out. But there is one approach to decluttering that gives me hope.

When it comes to memory triggers I can photograph and write about my trinkets before disposing of them, a way of letting go of something while still holding on. And if I can find a good home for appliances, books or clothing, it's always easier to let go. My things aren't lost then; they're given.

I think back to the time when all the stuff that mattered to me was either in my car or stashed with two good friends. How free I felt. How rich.

Will I ever get back there again?

The assignment Mrs. Buphth gave her sixth grade English class was for each student to write an account of something he or she had lost. She figured certainly everyone had misplaced something or other over the years and that this would be something the boys and girls would remember and like to write about.

"What are you going to write about?" Sally Gooz asked her classmate Joanie Inklepit at lunchtime.

"Once a couple of years ago I went to the grocery store to buy a list of things for my mom. She gave me a five dollar bill to get the stuff, but when I got to the store and went to get the money, it wasn't there."

"Gee. Did you ever find it?"

"No, it really got lost good."

While she was at it, Sally Gooz went over to ask Emily Endufuss the same thing.

"Well, I don't really remember losing anything," was Emily's honest reply to the question put before her.

"Oh, come on, I'm sure you did. Think real hard."

Emily Endufuss just said, "I got to go. If I can't think of anything, I'll write something anyway. And I'll bet it'll be better than yours. I'll just make it be. You'll see."

After she'd gone, Sally Gooz and Joanie Inklepit pondered our hero's mysterious words. Emily had been a bit haughty to her classmates all along, and she had made some ill-advised decisions in her brief eventful life.

We go now to the day after the "lost" assignments had been turned in. The students were all present in the small classroom and Mrs. Buphth held the essay papers in her hands.

"I have here the essays you boys and girls handed to me on the subject of something you had lost. I'm handing them back to you now. For the most part, they were very good."

And with that said, the poor, hunchbacked widow who had been a teacher almost for more years than she had lived upon this Earth proceeded to go around the room returning the corrected and commented upon dissertations. It was almost time for class to come to an end for the day, and Mrs. Buphth quite intentionally made sure that Emily Endufuss was the very last one she handed out the paper to.

As she was giving Emily's essay to her and the rest of the students were headed for the door to go to their next class, Mrs. Buphth said firmly, "Please stay here after class. Some people want to see you."

"Sure," Emily acceded. What else could she do?

Meanwhile in the office of the venerable principal of the hallowed institution, Emily's parents -- both of the two of them, a mommy and a daddy -- were being affronted by Ms. Spuque, a woman not noted for gracious circumspection. Flailing a copy of Emily's pithy manuscript, the froglike principal expounded thusly:

"Due to your daughter's clear admission upon this composition she wrote, we find it necessary to take steps not normally taken at a junior high school such as this is, to wit, we are having your daughter, this Emily person, taken away to an accredited mental institution for an as yet unknown number of months or years until she gets way better. You do understand, of course?"

Emily's mother, Mrs. Endufuss, spoke up first and forthrightly, "Yes, indeed, you must certainly do whatever you have to do that needs to be done. But exactly what is this entire matter about, Ms. Spuque? We knew Emily was writing a paper for school, but she never got around to telling us what it was all about."

Ms. Spuque handed the elder Endufusses a copy of their daughter's treatise. "I suggest, Mr. and Mrs. Enduffiss, the parents of Emily if there be no other, that you read this carefully, as I and scads of others have done. Note that the poor girl starts with 'The only thing I think that I have lost in my entire life is my mind.'"

Ms. Spuque continued uninterrupted, "The girl goes into excruciating detail about what losing her mind entailed. The last sentence, I think, quite sums the whole thing up. Emily wrote, and I quote, these words that are branded in my head much as a distinguishing inscription is branded unto a cow's butt, 'If I were a jigsaw puzzle, which I'm not, my brain would be the missing piece.' And there you have it, dear people."

"And there we have it, to be sure," Mr. Endufuss spoke this time. After a brief pause, he continued. "Are there any papers we have to sign? What will Emily be allowed to take with her to her new haunt? We will be able to visit her on holidays, no doubt. What about weekends?" Mr. Endufuss went on and on, but to keep things at a reasonable length, I believe I shall end this tale here, if I may.

Let it be known that Emily did spend the rest of her life in that insane asylum, a life that only lasted about seven months after the moment she put pen to paper to write that pivotal prose.

There's a moral here somewhere. See if you can find it. I can't.