Milk Crates

Day 315: Milk Crates

More casualties of Sam's trip to the Salvation Army: two milk crates. If this keeps us, we will have nothing to store our stuff in.

Stuff? What stuff?

Chickens

Day 243: Chickens

I am sitting by the phone, nervously awaiting a text from the guy who yesterday promised to come pick up the chickens and chicken gear today in exchange for $25. 

Last night, when I closed up the coop and sang "Good night ladies," and they made their little nestling clucking sounds in response, I told myself, "Last time." 

This morning, when I opened the gate to the chicken run and heard the "thump ... thump" of their leap from the perch to the floor, preparing to come out to greet me when I opened the coop and said, "Good morning ladies," I told myself, "Last time." 

When I got home at dusk tonight and heard their long, low, mournful greeting, and when I dumped the last of their food pellets in the feeder (they eat with the enthusiasm of labrador retrievers), and when I cleaned and refilled their water, I told myself "Last time."

All this has been quite pleasantly nostalgic, but the truth is, I'm desperately hoping this guy doesn't no-show. I haven't had an egg out of the ladies in over two months. I'm not prepared to skin and eat them, but I'm not looking forward to buying the next $15 bag of feed. I'm going on vacation to Captiva Island and St Augustine in five weeks, and I most definitely don't want to pay a birdsitter. I'm ready to be done with livestock.

Why isn't that guy responding to my texts?

Playing Cards

Day 237: Playing Cards
The days of board games and playing cards may be numbered, but in our family, we still play games with three-dimensional game boards and real game pieces, at least sometimes. When Sam was younger and we had strict limits on "screen time," he wanted to play games every night. Clue. Simpson's Monopoly. Othello. Connect Four. Don't Break the Ice. Backgammon. Star Wars Triviat Pursuit. Checkers. Chess. They're all still in our game cupboard. Even now that he's 16 years old and mostly hangs out in his room, it isn't too difficult to convince him to come downstairs for a match or two.

Cards we generally reserve for visits with Jane (or Gramma, or Janerd, or Sweet Little Mommy, depending on your perspective). Our favorite card game, Beardie, was imported by my sister-in-law, Sylvie, who played it on camping trips on the beach in the south of France, back when she was a kid. The idea is to take as few points as possible, and the rules change and the stakes go up with each hand:

• First hand - each trick is worth five points
• Second hand - each heart is worth five points
• Third hand - each queen is worth 25 points
• Fourth hand - the King of Spades (aka "Beardie") is worth 90 points
• Fifth hand - the last trick is worth 100 points
• Sixth hand - all of the above (fortunes change drastically!)
• Seventh hand - a communal solitaire game with the first person to go out having 350 points deducted from their score, the second person having 150 points deducted, and the third, 50 points

It's a very silly game involving significantly less strategy than, say, euchre, which Rich and I used to play as a doubles game with my in-laws before Bill died. Or bridge, which can actually bring grown men to tears. (I know, I've seen it.) Or even hearts, because of passing the three cards. But anyone can play Beardie, even a seven year old child, and it's fun, and silly, and a chance to remember Bill, who would reliably say, each and every game, always with the same look of wounded surprise, "What? I caught that with a two?"

Board games and card games are a way to connect with each other in real time, with real physical objects, around a real table. Still, I find I don't actually need eleven complete decks of cards. I'm sticking with the box of eight packs, many unopened, which I believe my father got for Sam as part of a poker set. I'm hoping another family can make use of these decks to make their own connections around the holiday table.

Stand Mixer User's Manual

Day 210: Stand Mixer User's Manual

You may be thinking that this is the lamest of the things I've gotten rid of. You would be right. In my defense, it is 10.30 at night. I've just gotten back from a Chris Thile/Edgar Meyer concert (yes, they are indeed virtuosos). Tomorrow I work half a day and drive to Muncie and back (can't wait to see my baby). So this is all it's gonna be. 

I have a feeling user's manuals may be like bedsheets: an endless supply, popping up in strange places. I've used the stand mixer a hundred times. The user's manual? Never. 

Cheesecake and Shortbread Pans

Day 206: Cheesecake and Shortbread Pans

I grew up with many little Scottish aunts - Aunt May, Aunt Nettie, Aunt Bessie, Aunt Maisie, to name a few - all of whom baked shortbread. I have an old shortbread recipe - I believe it belonged to my mother's mother - typewritten on an index card with handwritten notes on the margins. I used to use it when I made my own shortbread, but now I have the recipe memorized.

This lovely stoneware shortbread pan was a gift from my mother. It is pleasing to the senses, with a nice heft and simple beauty. It's exactly the kind of thing that's very hard to get rid of, evoking history as it does. Yet, I haven't used it in many years. It isn't really a family heirloom: perhaps it came from Crate & Barrell or Williams Sonoma, a corporate buyer's concept of the Platonic ideal of a shortbread pan. The shortbread I've made in it isn't quite right. It's a skosh too thin, a skosh too brown, a skosh too dry. The pattern is pretty, but I can't get the shortbread to come out of the pan intact. 

I prefer a simple square glass baking pan, poking the uncooked dough with a fork to conduct air and heat, so that the shortbread comes out with that perfect combination of chewyness and crumbles. I imagine that my grandmother baked with such a pan, in her real Scotch kitchen.

I thought about hanging the shortbread pan on the wall, but wall-mounted pans aren't really my thing. I can imagine a lot of dust getting caught up in the pattern of the scotch thistle (which ye mauna tromple, lassie, as you would know if you grew up Scotch).

The cheesecake pan is a by-product of greed - or perhaps more accurately, the seductiveness of free stuff - combined with the stuff project itself, which has inspired some of my friends to get rid of really great stuff. Thanks, Joe, but given that I didn't bake with this cheesecake pan for Emma's graduation cake (as I had planned to do), it's pretty clear that I'll never use it.

Although both of these pans are intrinsically very nice, the problem is the size of my cupboard. I have one shelf for cake and loaf pans, and these two items push that shelf over the tipping point from organized to overcrowded, with the result that when I want to bake a cake, I run the risk of a clattering disaster as all the pans threaten to fall out of the cupboard. Hopefully my brother or sister will take these from me at family dinner tonight. Somehow, it's easier to get rid of good stuff if someone you know and love promises to give it a good home.

Wondering why I'm thinking about cake pans yet again? It's Rich's birthday today!

Happy birthday, sweetheart. I am baking your favorite old-fashioned yellow cake with chocolate frosting right now, in the same old Bake-King cake pans that I've always used, with the fantastic cutter to separate the cake from the pan. 

May they last forever.

Microwave Plate

Day 187: Microwave Plate

It is 9:24 pm. I am ready to read, and relax, and sleep. Just returned from Sam's soccer game, which ended 0-0. Spent a half-hour at home between work and the soccer game, scarfing down a meal Rich made and walking the dog around the block. 

I've been working longer hours than I once did. Microwaves are good for people who stop by the house for a half-hour rushing from one thig to the next. Especially if they are not lucky enough to have a husband who cooks. 

Even so, two microwave plates are not necessary. Somehow this second plate didn't get discarded with the previous (broken) microwave. No need to keep on keeping it clean. 

Recycle bin? Salvation Army?

Folding Sewing Table

Day 185: Folding Sewing Table

This table was specifically designed for sewing machines. Several years ago, I replaced it with a glass-top table etched with a lovely flower pattern, a larger, more beautiful surface. The sewing table is perhaps more functional than the table, but I didn't hesitate. 

I just spent a very pleasant hour in the attic, making a baby blanket for our week-old next-door-neighbor. There's something very pleasing - very peaceful - about touching and using ancient technologies like glass and needles and thread, glancing out the window at the big mapls tree, leaves just beginning to turn, and listening to the rain on the roof. The sturdy laminate folding table would perhaps have been easier on my back, but working in a lovely setting is easier on the spirit.

Now, if I was a professional seamstress, or even a more serious crafter, I might prefer functional furnishings. I hope such a person finds this table at the PTO Thrift Shop, and gets the thrill of the find, and the value of its utility. May the force be with you, unknown crafter.

Magnetic Dart Board

Day 180: Magnetic Dart Board

I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel now. I went down to the coat rack, thinking there would be an armful of coats we never wear. Turns out we use them all, except possibly a magenta Lands End pea coat that Emma Jane did not take with her to college. (Note to self: ask Emma if she would like me to send pink pea coat.) Then I peeked in the red closet, where we keep our suitcases and camping gear, and saw a lot of suitcases and camping gear that we use, and none that we don't. 

I though to myself: maybe today is the day. The day I have nothing more to get rid of. 

I'm not saying our house is like Walden Pond. We've still got stuff. Lots of stuff. But almost everything we have either brings pleasure or has an active use. 

Although the story might be less interesting, I have almost decided that I won't be getting rid of stuff I use or enjoy. The idea of the simple life - such as Jeff described yesterday - has great appeal. But that's not the life I'm living now. The life I'm living gets value out of sets of dishes, a dozen pairs of shoes (or two), games to play, projects to finish and books to read. If I start getting rid of stuff just to get to the top of the mountain, then I'll have less stuff and a long shopping list. And a long shopping list is the antithesis of the environmental good I value. 

The day isn't today. I remembered a couple more things I've identified that we aren't using. The person who's used this magnetic dart board the most is Roxanne, my sparkly dancing five-year-old niece, and there's no reason for her not to have it. We aren't using it, and it was a gift from my parents - Roxanne's grandparents - anyway. 

There's still the studio. The potting shed. The garage. I might eke out a few things there. 

But the countdown begins. Just a few days shy of the halfway point. 

Preteen Girl Books

Day 178: Preteen Girl Books

I'm sitting in my parents' living room with my eight- and five-year old nieces. Evie is singing a song - from Frozen, of course - while Roxanne dances. Roxanne is wearing a sparkly black and pink tutu, and Evie is looking fine in pink polka dots. There are rules here, courtesy of the theater manager, Roxanne. No electronic devices (I got grandfathered in). No lights (except the stage lights, also known as the track lights on the ceiling). Evie knows all the words and movements from Frozen. I remember very well sitting and watching her sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider over and over, her tiny hands climbing up into the air and fluttering down to the ground at the end. And years before that, listening to Emma sing The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night (none of the words were comprehensible, but she knew them all).  Now Roxanne is serving refreshments: imaginary tea from a brass teapot. The teapot contains books of matches, as it has since I was a child. I believe my mother's parents brought it with them to Canada from Scotland.

Perhaps later tonight, these girls (and their older sister Kaeli, who is not here tonight) will enjoy these books. They were Emma's, but not her favorites. I hope she comes home for Thanksgiving. If she does, I don't think she'll miss them.

Headless Torso

Day 178: Headless Torso

Venus de Milo? Amputee? Murder victim? This headless torso is one of our odder belongings. Emma got it from a costumer. My daughter actually did use it to alter a black blazer in preparation for auditions in Chicago last year. Later, she used it to display her chintz and satin prom dress, the gauze skirt pooling around the stand like froth beneath a waterfall.

It has moveable parts. You can puff out its chest, or give it a poochy stomach, or fatten up its hips, or enlarge its breasts. It can shrug its shoulders. It can do the twist.

My sister deserves this headless torso. After all, she's taken multiple sewing classes. She's meticulous. She irons her seams. Her scissors are sharp. Her needles pierce.

Besides, this thing gives me the creeps.

Shoe Rack

Day 153: Shoe Rack

You can see a couple of
pairs of left-behind high
heeled shoes on the floor
behind the rack. I ended up
just arranging them on
the closet floor. The
old-fashioned method, no
furniture required

This shoe rack has been in Emma's closet for several years. Over time, it became a repository for those few shoes that she never wore. The problem with it is that the front bar is lower than the back bar, probably so that the shoes can be elegantly displayed for ease of selection. This means that, unless the shoe has at least a two-inch heel, they generally just slide right off. And another problem: it's a rickety rack. It wobbles and shimmies and generally behaves as though it's a Victorian hot house flower on the verge of collapse. I don't even know where it came from.

Emma took about half of her shoes with her to college, and wisely left about half behind. Many of the "home shoes" do in fact have two-inch heels (or higher), and once again I agonize - at least for a minute - over whether to keep or get rid of this object. And once again, the Minimalists' criteria - does it give joy? is it useful? - came in handy. No doubt, this thing does not give joy. Quite the opposite: it's irritating. Is it useful? Based on the number of shoes that have slid onto the floor, I had to give it a "No."

I've been thinking about how often this inner struggle over the decision to get rid of something takes place. I have resolved to get rid of one thing a day for a full year, and because of this, I'm more inclined to get rid of the things I'm torn about. This is more efficient, I reason, because in another 100 days, all these things I'm torn about are going to be back on the chopping block. Might as well not have to think about them again.

Another thing I've noticed: how much I like to obtain things. Especially bargains and free stuff. And much of the stuff I've gotten rid of was a bargain. Or free. So I'm trying to be a little more conscious of taking home those bargains only if I'd be willing to pay full price.

With five months under my belt, it's interesting to note that I haven't missed one single object that I've gotten ridden of.

Except my bee stuff.

And Emma Jane.

Soap-on-a-Rope

Day 126: Soap-on-a-Rope

Last night, I was alone in the house. It was the third evening I'd spent alone there. Rich left on Sunday for his last minute work trip to Marquette.

The house seemed large. Very large. It was hot, too, and humid. At one point I went out to the studio, where the climate control is better, to cool off and play music. It occurred to me that I could stay out there and sleep on the floor, or on the sofa. I might sleep better - cool and dry! - or worse - lumpy sofa! - but either way, who except me would care?

I know the kids still live in the house because when I came home, I found a bottle of spoiled milk on the counter, a cereal box open on the table, and dirty dishes in the sink. Earlier, I'd gone up to the attic to make a baby blanket for our almost-daughter Ina's new baby on the sewing machine. More evidence of co-habitation: air conditioner on and windows open; dirty clothes belonging to both kids; three food-encrusted bowls, a plate and spoons; empty Gatorade bottles and mega-Styrofoam cups with "Polar Ice" logos on them; unmade beds.

You might think all this would make me eager for peace and quiet. What I really want, though, is titration. I want company and quiet, responsibility and rest, purpose and order. I'm dropping Emma off to college three weeks from today. After she's gone, I'll have a lot more quiet, rest and order, and a lot less company, responsibility and purpose.

They aren't really kids any more, which is why they're out with friends or at work every night. They are ready to let go of these soaps-on-a-rope, stocking stuffers from their elementary school years. I distinctly remember having a Fuzzy Wuzzy soap-on-a-rope when I was a child. It looked like a little bear carved out of soap. When I got it wet, it grew a layer of mold that looked like fur. Was it intentional? Was it really Fuzzy Wuzzy? I don't know, but I loved scrubbing off the mold, washing, and seeing the layer of fuzz again the next time I took a bath. My kids didn't want to get these guys wet. They thought of them as bathroom decorations, and objected when I suggested they use them to bathe. The soaps have been hanging on cupboard knobs all this time, losing their scent and becoming slightly slimy. The bear hasn't held up as well as the owl; it's gotten moldy and soft.

For years, when I've gotten up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I've knocked toiletries off the tiny countertop onto the floor or into the toilet, or cursed the lack of soap in the dish or the missing water cup or the empty toilet paper role. I haven't been able to close the door because of the damp towels and dirty clothes on the floor. A few days ago, I announced that I was going to assume that anything left on the counter or on the floor was not valued: I would get rid of it. I figured I'd get rid of something Emma cared about, have a huge shouting fight, blog about it, and in the end, be delighted because at last, the shared bathroom was under control. Instead, we skipped the first three steps and went right to my being delighted because the bathroom is under control. No need to get rid of anything, no big fight. Out of chaos, order.

But still, I'm alone in our great big house. Can't wait til Rich gets home.

The Other Boleyn Girl and Other Books

Day 89: The Other Boleyn Girl and Other Books

I can't figure out why this uploads
upside-down. It is correctly oriented
on my computer

My once empty, well-organized basement is becoming overwhelmed with cardboard boxes. This is a side effect of the stuff project. It is not enough to identify the items to be gotten rid of and to write about them. The errands must also be run. I feel good about getting rid of stuff in a way that makes better use of it all than just taking it all to the dump or the PTO Thrift Shop.

But this more nuanced approach takes work.

Luckily, Sam got his driver's license Friday. I've decided that he can pay for the use of the car by running errands. First errand: load the charity boxes in the car and drop them off at the PTO. Future errands will include taking the bookshelf to Summers Knoll School, taking the dresser to my brother's house, mailing the marbles to my cousin's son, chopping the legs off the resin chairs so they can be recycled, carrying books to the little free library (I suspect some homeless person steals and resells the books from it because it is always empty), taking magazines to the free magazine rack at the downtown library (Ann Arborites seem to have an infinite appetite for magazines) and going to the hardware store to buy light bulbs for the gooseneck lamp we decided not to give away after all.

I hope to be caught up before he returns to school in the fall.

Commemorative Brandy Glass from 1982 Prom

Day 84: Commemorative Brandy Glass from 1982 Prom

Does anyone else find this
a strange choice for high schoolers?

My prom was not nearly as controlled as my daughter's. We held it in the ballroom at the Michigan Union. Kuma and I stopped in briefly, I in my $15 clearance-rack powder blue Laura Ashley dress, Kuma in his matching powder blue tux, both of us tongue in cheek. We picked up our commemorative brandy glasses, danced a dance or two, and headed off to the Marriott Hotel. There, our revelry involved the swimming pool, which had a tunnel linking the indoor with the outdoor pool. In my memory, it was winter; we swam in the icy outdoor water until we couldn't stand it anymore and ducked back inside. But that can't be right. Prom is in June.

In those days, you could easily change the birthday on your driver's license with a #2 pencil and Scotch tape, so beer was plentiful. (These modern holographic driver's licenses have driven our kids to cocaine.) Does the all-night group make-out session in the single hotel room (cost split among twelve kids) count as an orgy? 

My parents hosted my friends for dinner before the dance, serving us fruit cups and ice water with white linen towels draped over their arms. I can't believe they allowed me to stay out all night, and yet in retrospect, the whole thing seems so innocent.

National Geographics

Day 53: National Geographics

Eighteen years ago today, Rich and I left for our honeymoon in Scotland. Yes, that's right, we spent our honeymoon on that sunny tropical isle, Orkney. While there, I didn't feel too well*, so I spent a great deal of time lying on a sofa, reading National Geographics. I fantasized that reading those magazines would imbue my baby with a sense of wonder and discovery, and that she would pour over them as she grew up, ogling the naked people and learning about science. We took out a subscription as soon as we got back to San Francisco, and we've been receiving a National Geographic every month, and saving it, since. 

Today I gave the last ten year's worth to the Summers-Knoll School. I hope the kids and teachers there get as much pleasure as we've gotten out of them over the years. I can't say that Sam and Emma have read and reread them, but Rich still reads each one cover to cover, and the rest of us dip our toes in. Now it's time to share.

*My daughter will be 18 in December

60s-Style Bar Stool

Day 52: 60s-Style Bar Stool

Expensive correlates to quality. Antiques are probably durable. When you buy a piece of furniture, you should really, really like it. That way, you won't mind having it around for ten, twenty or thirty years.

These are some recommendations for furniture that stands the test of time from apartmenttherapy. A bench can double as a coffee table. A bar stool can be used as a bistro chair. Leather furniture can be used indoor or out. (!)

Let me add, you should not have young children and, later, teenagers who jump on it, sleep on it, put their sweating beverages on it, put their sweating feet on it, spill crumbs on it, spill Coke on it, cry, bleed and blow their noses on it, rock back in it, lean on it, sit on it (when it's a table), put their plates on it (when it's a sofa), and use it as a napkin.

All of that is completely irrelevant to today's item, which the kids never had a crack at. Rich bought it because he thought it would be useful in the studio, where guitar players might prefer to lean against a stool rather than sitting down. But no one preferred it, and it got moved downstairs into the foyer where it gets in the way. It appears to have been made in the 60s; its wood and black metal design fits in with our aesthetic at the Dow-designed botanical gardens. It's there now; if we can't find a use for it, it will go to Property Disposition and we'll get a few bucks for it. 

Rich and I were just a temporary custodian.

RLs Dream

Day 49: RLs Dream and Other Good Reads

Remember how 200 years ago hardly anyone could read? 

Giving away ones we've read.
Keeping ones we haven't, and
Calvin & Hobbes

Is the ability to read a good novel a precursor to successful relationships, financial stability and professional success? Should I be harassing my kids to put down their iPhones and pick up a paperback?

Or are they just getting smart in ways I can't even predict or understand?

When I was a kid, people worried that t.v. was stupefying us. There were studies showing that kids who watched too much t.v. were dumber, fatter and more lethargic. We didn't know much about brains at the time, but people talked about brain hardwiring and how t.v. was going to change it forever. We were going straight to hell in a handbasket, all because of Scooby Doo.

My younger kids, who read books voraciously, have been replaced by older teens with fewer screen-time restrictions and more texting, cute cat photos and Clash of Clans. I read that kids now actually read much more than kids used to read, but they're reading thousands of phrases like "Indiana Jones and the Bad Hat-Shop #BadPrequels" instead of entire novels. 

Anyway. For the stuff project, books are starting to feel like cheating because it takes only a moment to sort out the keepers. A lucky thing, too, because in the next 48 hours I've got to hem a seven-layer crenoline and silk prom dress, work two full days, attend a Greenhills School Shakespeare performance, and have a Cluck Ole Hen rehearsal. Oh, and buy a car. 

And it's raining.

GPS

Day 44: Garmin GPS

Have we sheep thoughtlessly surrendered our personal freedom in exchange for the latest shiny object? eProbation - whereby people wear an ankle tether that tracks their location and raises an alarm if they leave home - is available to alleviate jail overcrowding and reduce costs in some jurisdictions. What with the incursion of GPS devices, some say we are voluntarily slipping those e-tethers into our pockets every day.

The Man always knows where I am.

But that assumes that the Man is actually interested in me, and smart enough and organized enough to track me down. As far as I know, the only interested man is Rich, and he doesn't need to be that smart and organized. He can just give me a call.

A co-worker pointed out that the location of any kid who plays Angry Birds can be pinpointed. So if you've just been through a contentious custody battle, perhaps checkers is the way to go.

I've had the thought that it is both harder and easier to commit crimes these days. There is now such a wide variety. The choices are dazzling. Some of the possible crimes would be quite interesting to design and implement. On the other hand, what with location services and all, it's a lot harder to disappear forever with your spoils.

My Garmin GPS is now for sale on Craig's List for $50. Yes, that's right, just $50, $15 less than the other 205Ws on Craig's List. The Garmin actually works a lot better than the iPhone for giving directions, but I never use it any more. The iPhone is always in my pocket.

Tea Cosies

These tea cosies have to be
removed to pour the tea.
They're going to the Goodwill.
Probably few shoppers will
know what they are

Day 43: Tea Cosies
Four tea cosies, three teapots. I haven't used any of them in years, but they are hard to give away. My mother - bless her Scottish heart - gave them all to me.

Keepers - the left because it's tried and true,
the right because it's never been used.
My mother knitted them for me

I'm a coffee drinker now. We drink tea only to warm up on cold winter evenings. My grandmother is probably rolling in her grave, but in my house, we use mugs and teabags.

Worldwide, tea is still the beverage of choice. Tea is healthier for people, but apparently its production is no better for the environment than coffee.

In six months, I'll probably revisit those underused teapots. The handknit tea cosies can be carried out with me, feet first.

Sun Hats

 Day 31: Sun Hats

Estate sales are magnetic. I've been trying to limit my purchases during the stuff project, but the advent of garage and estate sale season will make it a challenge. Especially estate sales.

People say you are what you eat. I believe that we are what we have. And what better place to peer into the inner workings of our fellow human beings than to paw over their earthly remains?

Reluctantly we part.
One too floppy, one too stiff

I'm not alone in this. At 10 a.m., not an hour after the sale had started, the street was already full of parked cars with stuff being loaded into them. People were testing out tools in the garage, trying on baseball hats in the bedroom, playing the oversized grand piano in the undersized living room, peering at medicines in the bathroom cabinet. It reminded me of when the undertaker and the charwoman stole Scrooge's bedcurtains and nightshirt to sell to the pawnbroker.

What can you tell about the people who died in that house? A grand piano, a sailboat, a treadmill, a safe. No kids' stuff. Men's shirts still in the package. Sturdy Sorel boots, lightly worn. Oversized log furniture, at odds with the spare Frank Lloyd Wright style architecture of the house. Garage so packed with stuff there was no room for a car.

My camping gear, garden tools, and sun hats should tell you I like to be outside. But why so many sun hats? Is it because there are so many beautiful ones, so much variety? Is because I'm always forgetting to pack one when we go camping? Or is it because I am perpetually searching for the Platonic ideal? I don't know, but I know this. I have a lot of sun hats, but I didn't want to give any away.

The perfect sun hat. It must shade your eyes but not block your view. It must be tight enough to grip your head, but not so tight that it's uncomfortable. It must have give but keep its shape. It must have a generous rim without being ridiculous. It must not itch. It must breath. These five are just too good to give away