Parents: Please rethink those school-year vacations

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Vacations are fun, but if you’re planning to take your kids out of school for one, you might want to reconsider.

A story on the news the other day had me reaching for heavy objects to throw at the TV. The reporter was interviewing two sets of parents, both of whom thought it was just peachy to remove their kids from school to take family vacations.

I wanted to scream!

Now, before I express my concerns, please note that I understand taking a few days off in the event of a death or family illness, but the idea of dragging the kids to Disney World or Six Flags for some family fun—which is what the parents were suggesting—when the kids should be in school is just plain dumb.

Both mothers explained that since prices at the theme parks drop after summer, taking their offspring out of school should be perfectly fine. One even suggested that keeping children on a school schedule is too difficult, one that leads to their little darlings becoming bored. “Kids just going to school and home and back and forth gets really repetitive.”

So you know where my allegiance lies and in the interest of full disclosure note that I spent 20 years running a classroom. And I sometimes faced students who casually informed  me that they would be gone for a week or two because of a party or wedding. I knew what the extended absence meant for them and me. Said child would fall behind and it would be my job to catch them up.

If the student in question was on top of their studies and they agreed to take work with them on vacation, often the damage would be negligible. But, more often than not, the student would already be behind, mostly because of already missing too many school days, which is the natural outcome when school isn’t considered a priority. When adults make education secondary to vacations, children get the point loud and clear.

When you take your child out of school for a family vacation, it’s the teacher who has to get them caught up on the work they missed.

Here’s where I hear folks saying, “Parents know what’s best for their kids!” But I can’t help but opine that it’s the parents who are bored and are projecting their feelings onto their children.

School is a time to grow and discover what we’re good at, which hopefully leads to a career we enjoy. The daily schedule also prepares young people for life in the business world. Or at least it should. I recall my daughter with a sour look on her face when she discovered that when one has a fulltime job there are generally no summer vacations. Or fall, winter, and spring breaks.

“That’s not fair,” she said with a pout.

Sigh…

The thing is…children see what adults do and copy their behavior. If the parents instill the idea that school is of secondary importance to a fun vacation or family party, the kids will grow up with that attitude.

So, parents, please give that family fling at Disneyland a second thought if it’s during the school year. If not for your child for their teacher. Because, as I mentioned, it’s those of us who helm a classroom who have to scramble to pick up the pieces of your child’s education when you trot them off to ride roller coasters instead of being in school.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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The mystery plant

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Somehow, this mystery plant survived the recent hellish temeperatures here in the desert. If you know what it is, let me know.

Calling all gardeners! I need your help!

But first, an explanation. Some of you may know that those of us who reside in the Sonoran Desert recently survived a miserable summer and fall where temperatures soared and rain was non-existent. The thermometer bubbled up to at least 110 degrees 54 days, at one point topping out at 119. We went five straight months without a drop of rain.

I’ve resided in Phoenix, Arizona over 30 years and have never lived through such a dismal time. People only went outside when absolutely necessary. One could get third-degree burns from a seatbelt. Birds and even insects vanished. Our hearty desert plants that are practically indestructible were dying all over. Trees turned brown and dropped their leaves, leaving skeletal branches against unrelenting, cloudless skies. Even our signature giant—the saguaro cactus—toppled over, dead from the heat.

My son Troy helps in the garden, but there was no way to keep our plants alive in the blistering heat.

I planted my spring garden before the worst hit. Vegetable gardening in the desert is always a tricky task, but I’ve been doing it a long time and understand the pitfalls, still I wasn’t ready for the unrelenting heat. No matter how much I watered, everything eventually withered and died. I kept going out to assess the damage, but all I did was get depressed. I’d show you pictures, but then I’d have to put up that warning: “Some viewers might find these images disturbing.”

We have two planting seasons here in the desert, the second comes the first week of October, but as I’d planned to travel for five weeks around that time, and it was still inordinately hot, I abandoned my plans, figuring there was no way my 26-year-old son Troy would water the little plants enough to keep them alive.

When I returned from my travels, the temperature had dropped enough for me to consider at least popping some greens in the dirt, so I asked Troy to pull a big turquoise planter from the garden up onto the patio. And there it was. A plant I didn’t recognize. The container had been sown with a packet of sunflower seeds, but, along with everything else in the garden, it had been abandoned, so the seedlings never appeared.

When I’m lucky, my garden is bountiful, but with last summer’s heat, everything died.

Still, somehow, this green plant—clearly no sunflower—had survived. I have no idea what it is, but as I stood over the pot ready to rip it out and plant some spinach and red-leaf lettuce, I paused. Tiny white flowers winked at me. When I considered tossing it in the compost heap, I realized that the tough little bugger deserved better, like maybe a Viking funeral.

I left the mystery plant in the pot, saving the lettuce for another time. And now, it’s taking over, thriving without any help from me.

As I will be traveling again soon, the garden remains deserted. But this strange plant seems happy. If anyone knows what it is, let me know. But even if it’s just an everyday weed, I think it deserves a chance, considering all it’s managed to overcome. Don’t you?

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AI Editor: Part deux

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I named my AI editor Hal Jr. and I think he did a pretty good job.

A while back, I wrote about an experiment I agree to. My publisher asked if I’d like to try a new kind of editor. I have a book coming out in June—a historical fiction, World War II novel inspired by a true story called Your Forgotten Sons—and the idea was that I would work with an editor of the “artificial intelligence” variety.

I thought about that for a while, and when my publisher said I could switch to a human editor if I was unhappy with the results, in the interest of not being called old and technology averse, I agreed.

I recently sent the completed manuscript back, so here’s what I’ve learned about working with an AI editor, who I dubbed Hal Jr. First, since we authors have long been working remotely with our editors, the process didn’t feel all that strange. I received my document full of those red lines leading to comments I needed to consider. My job was to accept Hal Jr.’s fixes or not.

Almost universally, I said yes. He did a great job finding all those grammatical boo-boos I’ve made most of my life. You’d think that after writing nine books and having five published, not to mention my years working as a print reporter, that I would have figured out to spell compound words by now. But, no! Hal Jr. gently pointed out that corkscrew and curveball were single words, terms that have meant a great deal in my life and which one might think I would have no trouble spelling.

Then there were the homophones, which for those who don’t recall elementary school English are words that are pronounced alike but that differ in spelling and meaning. I have a serious issue with those, and Hal Jr. had his red pen out to illustrate my deficiencies: alter and altar, aisle and isle, and, rather embarrassingly, your and you’re.

I am also grateful that Hal Jr. sometimes identified words I misused, ones that were similar to what I wanted, but clearly wrong: resemble and reassemble, barley and barely, shuddered and shuttered, cheeks and checks.

And Hal Jr. did a damn good job at picking up those missing quotation marks and other errant punctuation, especially all those outdated commas. As a girl who grew up in a home where we debated comma use at the dinner table, I can tell you that the wee squiggle is no longer used as much as it once was. It’s all about clarity and flow, so I let Hal Jr. lead the way in the comma department.  

My AI editor and I then ran into one big argument. He kept correcting things that I thought were right. Turns out there was an issue with which English we were using. Hal Jr., it appears, is British and I’m American. Who knew there were so many disparate spellings between us: pummeled or pummelled, apologize or aplologise, humor or humour, ad nauseum. He and I agreed to disagree, and the American versions won out.

All in all, I think Hal Jr. did a great job, so much so that I wish he and I could maybe have a beer to celebrate the completion of the manuscript. I’m not sure if AIs drink beer, but if I had to guess, I’d say Hal Jr. would drink his warm, yet another difference between we Americans and Brits.

The manuscript is now out of my hands, so I hope it’s perfect, but I know that’s probably impossible. But should you find any errors please feel free to blame Hal Jr.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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You know what teachers want? The gift of time

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Yes, teachers need bigger paychecks, but they also need time.

I spent 20 years helming a high school classroom, so when I saw the headline asking, “How to keep Arizona teachers?” I thought I might help out.

While there are certainly obvious answers—like paying teachers reasonable salaries for the important, difficult, and time-consuming job they do—there’s one other thing I’d like to suggest. Can we do something about the endless meetings? Looking back, I feel like I spent almost as much time in the classroom as I did in meetings.  Now I don’t generally have a problem with group presentations, it’s just that often I couldn’t see the direct connection said speaker had to improving my teaching skills. I always found myself wondering about all the things I could be getting done—grading papers, planning lessons, meeting with kids and parents—if I’d had more time, so sitting in meetings got rather annoying, as you can expect.

One particular gathering stands out. My fellow teachers and I were asked to report to the cafeteria, where we were to sit with our department members at tables that sported cards: English, History, Math, Science, Languages, Music, Phys Ed, etc. I passed groups of teachers huddled around their tables chatting amiably as I looked for my own subject: Journalism. As I was the only person in my department, I felt like the kid no one wanted to eat lunch with.

It turned out that this meeting was about, um…holding meetings.

“It’s important that you run meetings properly,” said the tiny, high-voiced woman at the podium. “Everyone must feel engaged and heard. So, we will discuss best practices in regard to holding a meeting.”

I squinted at the empty chairs around my table and did my best to play along, but without meeting members to practice on, it was tough, if not laughable.

Teachers clearly need more time to do their jobs, so let’s eliminate unnecessary meetings.

I sat there for an hour, watching the little woman move from group to group giving suggestions. Finally she arrived at my lonely little corner.

“I’m the only one in my department,” I blurted out already frustrated with the whole affair.

“I see,” she smiled sweetly as if talking to a second-grader. “But it’s important that you learn how to be an effective leader.”

I blinked. “I’m pretty good at telling myself what to do,” I said trying to hold down the sarcasm. “I can make me do anything.”

She frowned, perhaps considering the absurdity of me holding a meeting with myself.

“Can’t I just go back to my classroom and get some work done?”

She shook her head. “No, you have to stay here like everyone else.” Again that elementary- school teacher vibe struck me. I considered grabbing my little paper Journalism sign and stomping off, but I did not. I decided instead to practice something I’m not very good at. Patience. Note that I’d gladly attend a meeting to improve my chops in that slippery area.

That said, to those of you who are concerned about the current lack of teachers—it’s estimated that roughly 200,000 classrooms nationwide are without certified instructors—perhaps you could think hard before scheduling mass meetings, so they have more time to do their jobs.

Just a thought.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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Grab a seat. It’s movie time!

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It’s pretty much a daily ordeal. My sweetie pie and I sit down to watch TV and, despite having literally thousands of options, we can’t find anything of interest.

Those in charge of entertainment programing seem to have left those of us in more mature age groups behind. The plethora of never-ending superhero sagas, monster-driven teen love stories, simplistic rom-coms, and one-note horror films has become so overwhelming that we are often on the verge of giving up.

So, imagine my surprise when, all in one week, three wonderful programs popped up. I will now put on my movie-reviewer cap, a chapeau I wore briefly as a newspaper reporter. I can still recall the day my editor stood by his desk and yelled, “Anybody want to review a movie?” I leaped from my seat, arm in the air like a second-grader in need of a bathroom break. Since no one else in the newsroom even looked up from their screens, the job fell to me, one I would thoroughly enjoy until I left to become a teacher.

So, I will now utilize those rusty reviewing skills.

The first show was a series called Archie, a BritBox program about the life of movie star Cary Grant, played here by a pitch-perfect Jason Isaacs. When one looks at massively famous people who seem to have it all, we don’t often see beneath the self-constructed shell. In Grant’s case, the lost, abused, little boy who grew up in poverty in England. His brother dies and his grief-stricken, domineering mother is placed in a mental institution by his father, a philanderer who is more interested in other women than his grieving wife. Grant, whose real name was Archie Leach, is practically sold by his father to a Vaudeville show, one that takes him to America. The story is based in part on the book Dear Cary, a memoir by his fourth wife, actor Dyan Cannon, who was 33 years his junior when they married. It was a fascinating, well-acted look at a charming, stunningly suave, anguished man, one who was uncomfortable living as the character he created for us to see and desperately seeking his place in life.

Then there was the film Leave the World Behind, a dystopian-thriller, Netflix original based on the best-selling novel by Rumaan Alam. The story details two families struggling through an odd string of occurrences, seemingly initiated by a cyber-attack. All communication systems are lost. No cellphones, TV, or GPS. They are in what appears to be a remote, extremely wealthy enclave outside of New York City, since one can periodically see the skyline in the distance. The local mansions are inexplicably empty. Animals are acting strangely. (Note that you’ll look at deer in a whole new light.) The actors are heavy hitters—Ethan Hawke, Mahershala Ali, Kevin Bacon, and Julia Roberts, who, rather out of character, plays a disgruntled wife and mother who freely says she hates people. I’ll admit here that I enjoy women on screen who eschew the need to be likable and beautiful in every scene. Robert’s character is distrusting, indignant, and racist even prior to what might be a nationwide—or perhaps worldwide—blackout. My favorite line was uttered by Hawke’s dimwitted character, when in frustration he yells, “I can’t barely do anything without my cellphone and my GPS. I am a useless man,” sentiment he proves while driving around completely lost, unable to manage without technology telling him what to do and which way to go. As giant oil tankers run aground and planes fall from the sky, the families try to make sense of a world gone mad.

Finally, one of the most stunning pictures I’ve seen in years: Maestro, another Netflix original. The biopic details the life of the brilliant American composer and director Leonard Bernstein, focusing mainly on his relationship with his wife Felicia. Bernstein, played by Bradley Cooper, is mercurial, flamboyant, and sometimes depressed. He loves his wife without reservation, but still has sex with men, partners who become part of their household. Cooper, I think, will win awards for his portrayal, and might take home a statue or two for writing and directing, as well. The scenes with Felicia, played by Carey Mulligan, are dynamic and exhausting, the dialogue so quick-paced and overlapping, that viewers get caught up in the urgency. Mulligan displays Felicia’s anguish with small glances and gestures that are heartbreaking. No doubt there might be some hardware in her future, as well. Then, of course, there is the music. Bernstein’s magnificent works are played throughout the film by the London Symphony Orchestra, sometimes as scene-setting background music, sometimes with Cooper brilliantly conducting from the podium.

There you have it. Three beautiful and thought-provoking pieces of cinema, so grab some popcorn and hit the couch.

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Do we ever get to stop proving ourselves?

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The idea of bucking up under criticism and proving others wrong is a solid one, but what happens when you can’t turn it off?

Since I was an overweight, dyslexic, sometimes bullied child, I have yearned to prove people wrong. “You’re stupid!” “You’re ugly!” “You’re fat!”

When I was 18, my brother made me a twenty-dollar bet that I’d flunk out of school before the end of my freshman year, explaining that I was too stupid to get through college. I took that wager with one thing in mind. I will prove you wrong!

And I did. Even today—and don’t judge me here—I enjoy the fact that there are more degrees on my wall than his. I proved him wrong, which I also did to a lot of other people who told me I wasn’t worthy. “You can’t be a sportscaster!” “You can’t be a referee!” “You can’t be a writer!

Obviously, I believe the idea of pushing past the naysayers was admirable. But I wonder if we ever get to stop proving ourselves. Today, I’m retired from fulltime work and have accomplished most of what I set out to do, and yet I yearn to do more. This attitude, however, is apparently not a positive trait. Insecurity may be at work, especially when one places too much importance on garnering approval.

In the article “Feeling The Need to Prove Yourself to Others,” Michael Schreiner points out that “…if you’re sure of your own talents, abilities, and accomplishments others’ opinions won’t matter to you much, but if you’re secretly unsure of your talents, abilities, and accomplishments these opinions will matter to you very much indeed.”

After thinking about that, I realized that I fall somewhere in the middle. I know I’ve done things well in my life, but—though I hate to admit it—I still care what others think, something Schreiner explains is a waste of time.

“Your time and energy would be much better spent focusing on your own development than on proving yourself to others. Once you get to a certain point of development you’ll no longer care about that approval anyway so you might as well stop caring about it now and decide instead to go about proving yourself to yourself.”

How is that accomplished? I found a few hints. First, stop angling for perfection. It doesn’t really exist, so let it go. Then there’s the idea that praise can be addictive. When people tell us we’re great, we tend to want to hear it over and over and, like a hamster on a wheel, we keep running to get that praise again. So, remember your own strengths, give yourself an attaboy, and move on. Also, stop comparing yourself to others, which in this social media world is almost impossible but which is a much healthier attitude. And finally, be grateful for  the life you have and for what you’ve already accomplished.

Having said all this, I’m pretty sure switching off that little voice in my head that urges me to do more won’t be easy, but I’m willing to give it a try.

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Should we be pushing beauty products on kids?

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The face product industry is promoting products for children, insisting it’s never too early to worry about your looks.

As a person who’s spent a crap load of money on face products over the years—I was a TV sportscaster, so my reasoning was I wanted to keep my job—I should probably not be one to complain. Still, a commercial I watched recently has me riled.

A 50-something, stunning movie star was hawking face cream. Her skin looked flawless and was no doubt the result of good genes and perfect lighting, and, okay, maybe some moisturizer and sunscreen. What really irked me was when the next shot showed a child, a young actor chosen to appear as we might have expected said star to look when she was say 12.

The point, of course, was to let the viewer know that the younger one begins a skin regimen the more likely they are to look beautiful. I thought perhaps I was over reacting until I watched a story on NBC. The piece pointed out that face products are a $90 billion industry annually, and that the makers of said products are now marketing their brands to Generation Alpha, those born from 2010 and beyond.

While I’m not great at math, even I can surmise that those kids are currently 13 and younger, so it appears the makers of face products are doing their best to cash in on children. And boy are they smart. These companies are using internet influencers—called skinfluencers—to convince young girls that they must use expensive face products if they want to be beautiful. And it’s working. According to the TV story, parents all over the country admit that their daughters are not asking for the usual toys and electronics this holiday season. Nope, they have cleansers, toners, moisturizers, and face masks on their Christmas wish lists.

The reporter in the story gathered a half-dozen 11-year-olds, friends of her daughter. Without exception they insisted that of course they wanted these fancy face products. Now I’m not saying children shouldn’t take care of their skin, but a gentle cleanser, moisturizer, and sunscreen should be sufficient and should not break the bank.

The problem is our culture is constantly beating the drum about beauty being the only thing of importance and the pressure this puts on children. Consider the use of online filters. Eighty-seven percent of those between 13 and 21 admit to altering their looks on line, and 20% use filters on every post, all in an effort to look more beautiful. Sadly, this obsession with looks makes the majority of kids feel worse about their actual appearance.

Now I’m not blaming the face product folks for all of this, still their attempt to draw very young children into the beauty fray is disappointing. I can’t help but imagine how nice it would be if we could give children a little more time to just be kids, ones that don’t have to constantly compare their looks to others.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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The future of beer is in your hands

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It’s time for the world’s beer drinkers to unite and fight climate change.

As someone who’s spent a great deal of time in wilderness areas, I’m concerned, perhaps more than many, about climate change. I live in the Sonoran Desert where drought and wildfires have sadly become the norm. I’m also a scuba diver and sometimes mourn when I find myself hovering above a dead reef, the coral ghostly white, absent of any fish or other sea life.

I mention these things because I am astonished by how many people seem to believe that our climate is not changing. But now, I think I have a way to get the naysayers on board.

Beer.

Yep, our shifting climate may soon affect our ability to acquire a nice cold brew, a thought that just might send a bolt of terror through the spines of many beer aficionados and push them to advocate for tackling climate change.

It seems that the warming climate is altering our ability to grow the crops needed to make beer. According to the Associate Press article, “Safeguarding beer against climate change,” “Climate change is anticipated to only further the challenges producers are already seeing in two key beer crops, hops and barely. Some hops and barley growers in the U.S. say they’ve already seen their crops impacted by extreme heat, drought and unpredictable growing seasons.”

Now, for those of you snooty beer folks who buy imported versions of the beverage, stop feeling so smug, because the same issues befalling U.S. producers are also affecting European beer makers, people who are already working on crops that can withstand hotter summers, problems associated with less winter snow that affects water sources, and combating the changing diseases and pests that come with a warming climate.

At last count, 35% of Americans drink beer, which means that roughly 100 million of us enjoy a bubbly brew now and then. It might surprise you to know that people in China consume even more beer than we do. I mention this because the U.S. and China are the top greenhouse gas producers in the world. Which has me wondering what might happen if all the world’s beer drinkers—people who down about 50 billion gallons of beer annually—might consider joining hands, singing Kumbaya, and coming up with some options to stall climate change, if for no other reason than protecting the crops that produce the frothy beverage we love.

I believe that people might be more willing to fight climate change if they can see the effects of the problem directly. So I ask you now to picture empty beer shelves when you make that weekend run before kick off. Or standing empty-handed after that long, tough hike through the woods. Or sitting at a baseball game sans that comforting cry: “Get yer cold beer here!”

Think about it, people. No beer!

Now, let’s get to work.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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A trip to the sleep clinic

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The first step in determining if one has sleep apnea is to affix a box to your forehead. Then you have to wait for the British lady to speak.

“You snore!” My sweetie-pie squinted at me.

He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I periodically snored so loudly I would wake myself up. Ironically, he was the one who used to saw wood, as old folks once said. But then he lost 65 pounds and now he doesn’t make a peep when he’s off in slumberland.

He eyed me. “You should go see a doctor. What if you have sleep apnea?”

I flashed on those TV commercials where frustrated sleepers rip off a facemask attached to a tube attached to a box that pumps oxygen into their lungs, ostensibly to keep their snoring to a minimum. The contraption seemed worse than the problem, so my first thought was, “Heck no!” But eventually he talked me into a visit to the local sleep clinic.

A nice young doctor—Why do they all suddenly look 15?—looked down my throat and took a few notes. “We’ll do a sleep study,” he said.

I glanced at the corner of the examination room where two plastic heads wore versions of continuous positive airway pressure machines, more commonly referred to as CPAPs.

“They’re not as bad as those TV commercials make them out to be,” the doctor explained when he saw me staring. “I wear one every night.”

Later, I pulled a device from a small black box. I’d been instructed to place two sticky pads on the machine, affix it to my forehead, arrange the strap around my head, then situate a tube beneath my nose.

I couldn’t help but stare at the dummies with the CPAP machines at the sleep clinic.

 “Please lie down and sleep.” A lilting female voice with a British accent startled me, but I regained my composure and did as she recommended. I slipped between the sheets, pulled up the covers, and closed my eyes. Though the box sticking to my forehead felt a little strange, I nodded off.

“Your device has been disconnected!”

I jolted up.

“Please reconnect your device!”

It took me a moment, but I soon realized it was the British lady addressing me. One of the sticky pads had come loose, so I pressed it back onto my forehead.

“Please lie down and sleep,” she instructed in a more soothing tone.

I wondered if I should apologize for upsetting her. Then I considered whether she was a real person, watching from some far-off observation facility. Was there a camera in the little box? Or a microphone? I was tempted to say hello, but she again ordered me to get back to sleeping.

The British lady—and perhaps her medical minions—tracked my sleep for three nights, after which I returned the box to the clinic.  

“The doctors will examine the results and inform you of the next steps,” the receptionist explained.

While waiting for the process to play out, I learned that sleep apnea affects roughly 30 million U.S. adults, though only about six million have been diagnosed. The problem, of course, is that the affliction can lead to medical issues like heart attacks and strokes, as well as memory problems, insulin resistance, and an overall sense of exhaustion. I’ve also learned it can cause grumpy partners.

It will be a month or so before I hear if I have to spend a few nights at the sleep clinic attached to wires and electrodes to check my heartrate, breathing, oxygen levels, and some other things. I passed a few of those pretty little bedrooms the last time I visited. I wonder if the British lady will be there and if the minions might leave me a mint on the pillow.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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No, your kids don’t want your stuff!

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You’ll have no problem pawning off things of value to your kids, but if there’s no monetary value, they probably won’t be interested.
Courtesy DonaldIndia/Flickr

When my mother was preparing to move from Arizona to Colorado so she could be closer to the grandchildren and great grandchildren, she was obsessed with giving me her stuff. I’d already taken several pieces of furniture over the years, a couple of paintings, and two sets of china, and still she wanted me to take more.

“Here’s my Penn State yearbook,” she said handing me a weathered, green volume with 1948 stamped on the front.

“No, Mom. I barely have room for my own yearbooks.”

Then she dragged a large, two-handled bag across the floor. “These are the notes I took when I was writing my books. You should have them.”

While it’s true that my mother wrote a handful of historical fiction novels over the years, the idea that I might want her old research had me stumped. “Mom! What would I do with it?”

But she was already off, pulling more things out of the closets for me to take.

Recently, my sweetie pie found himself facing the same issue. His dad and stepmom were preparing to move into an independent living facility in Vancouver, Washington. “What do you want?” Ryan’s father asked. A number of firearms had been handed down over the years. There was also a grandfather clock that had been lovingly passed from generation to generation. But when Ryan and I discussed those possessions, we realized we had no use or room for any of them.

And we are not alone. Many younger people are simply not interested in family heirlooms. Millennials, especially, are turning away from possessions, instead focusing on making memories. According to The Simplicity Habit article “Sorry Parents, Millennials Don’t Want Your Stuff,” “… many millennials are renting smaller spaces close to urban areas. And instead of filling their homes with stuff, many prefer to fill their lives with experiences and adventures.”

The article goes on to say exactly what Millennials don’t want: wedding dresses, dinnerware, dark heavy antique furniture, figurine collections, antique dolls, and old school technology like sewing machines and film projectors.

There are several problems in regard to our stuff. One, as previously mentioned, is that young people tend to live in smaller homes and have nowhere to put those spoons you collected from all 50 states or that stack of 1970s rock-and-roll albums perched in the back of your closet.  

I know what you’re thinking. These possessions have sentimental value. But you have to remember, those are your memories. To your kids they’re just so much clutter, objects that will hold them down.

“The more stuff you have, the more difficult it can be to embrace that sense of freedom,” the article explained. “You can’t just pick up and go. You can’t just sell your stuff and travel. You’ve got a house full of things you need to make arrangements for instead, which can be a big barrier. Which is why many Millennials don’t want stuff.”

Now, your kids are not dopes. I’m sure they’d be happy to accept things that have monetary value. So if you have a few original Picasso’s hanging around, or perhaps a large collection of jewelry bearing high-quality gemstones, or a bag of 18th century gold daubloons, I’m guessing your very smart children would say, “Sure. Mom! Okay. We’ll take those.” But let’s be honest, most of that stuff you’re handing down has probably depreciated in value over the years and really isn’t worth very much.

So…what do you do? Donate, donate, donate! Find your local Goodwill or thrift shop. Or, if you need the cash, take it to a consignment store or sell it online. The thing is, don’t make family members feel bad for not wanting your stuff.

As a bonus…you might be surprised by how much better you feel once you’ve spent some time decluttering. So get to it!

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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