America's Hoarding Habits Are Making Self-Storage Entrepreneurs Rich

Two weeks ago I saw a story in the Wall Street Journal titled: Is There a Limit to Americans’ Self-Storage Addiction? Billions of Dollars Say Nope. The article begins with a little story about how one entrepreneur milked Americans' addiction to "stuff" to become a multi-millionaire. From there the authors drilled down into more details about the self-storage phenomenon.

One of the observations I made during my trip to Italy in April was that the Italians I stayed with in Florence and Parma (at Air BnBs) had a lot less living space and even fewer possessions. Where did they keep their things? When I looked into it, as of 2018 there were only 50 self-storage facilities in all of Italy. By way of contrast, in this country we have over 50,000 facilities containing 546 units each.

How much stress is created simply by agonizing over where to put all our stuff?  Clutter is a major U.S. industry. How did we become this nation of hoarders? 

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According to the Self Storage Association, Americans spend an average of $180 per month on self-storage rent. This number can vary depending on the size of the unit, the location of the facility, and the demand for storage space in the area. For example, a small unit in a rural area may cost $100 per month, while a large unit in a major city may cost $300 per month.

In 2022, Americans spent a total of $38 billion on self-storage rent. This number is expected to continue to grow in the coming years, as the demand for self-storage space increases. Here are some of the factors contributing to this growth.

Declining homeownership  The number of homeowners in the United States has been declining in recent years, as more people rent their homes. This trend is leading to an increase in the demand for self-storage space, as renters need a place to store their belongings.

Declining living space The average size of homes in the United States has been declining in recent years. This is due to a number of factors, including rising housing costs and the growing popularity of urban living. As homes get smaller, people need more space to store their belongings, which is leading to an increase in the demand for self-storage space.

Of course the flip side of this argument is this: how much junk doyou really need? To reiterate, this seems to be an American problem, not a global one. Consumerism has bedazzled us so that we think we have to have every new toy, even though last year's toys already bore us.

The rise of e-commerce The rise of e-commerce has contributed to an increase in the amount of stuff that people need to store. As more people shop online, they are ordering more items, which they need to store somewhere. Self-storage may seem an affordable option for storing these items, but wouldn't you money be better spent paying down your debt and achieving financial freedom? Instead, we load up our credit cards and pay even more to store what we don't need or use.

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Here's a little reminder from a fellow hoarder: you can't take it with you.

Light Waves, Sound Waves, Wi-Fi and the Universe

"Beyond Imagination"

At the beginning of the film Oppenheimer there’s a scene or sequence that conveys this sense of the young physicist’s mind being blown by his awareness of the incredible universe we live in. As I watched that scene it triggered thoughts and imaginings of my own regarding the nature of reality. It’s almost strange how we lose our curiosity about the galaxies and matter and how do our minds and bodies work and where life comes from. 

I remember learning about the structure of atoms in high school chemistry. There's a sense in which atoms are like our solar system. There is more nothingness than substance. That is, we have this huge space but a handful of planets circulating within it. So, too, an atom has a tiny nucleus made up of protons and neutrons which has even tinier electrons floating around it. In other words, there is more space than substance. And this is what our bodies, tools, furniture and everything else is made of. 

One of the questions that crossed my mind back then was this. What if you could line up all the molecules in your body in such a way so as to be able to walk through a wall? Those kinds of questions are where sci-fi comes from.

In 2014 I wrote a blog post about another physics conundrum. I was thinking about all the things that surround us that we can't see. In fact, it's somewhat staggering. 

I started the strange thought that the room I'm in is filled with sound waves but I couldn't hear them. Wherever you went, if you had a the right kind of radio you could pick up a radio station.

When we were kids, my dad had purchased a multi-band radio that could pick up short wave signals from all over the world. Even though he mostly listened to WOR on the AM dial I remember occasionally tuning in to strange languages on some of the other dials and trying to guess where they were coming from. "Is that Russian? Is that Finnish?" I imagined that I was listening to a submarine captain in the Baltic Sea.

All these sounds were accessible, surrounding us, but we couldn't hear them. Nor could we see those sound waves even though they were streaming all around us.  It was interesting to contemplate.

Fast forward to the present. Think of the bombardment nowadays. Satellite radio is spraying signals continuously, and satellite television. Your GPS device signals are ever instructing, and the old fashioned network TV towers keep singing. We're surrounded by a cloud of noises we can't hear at all.

Now consider this. Science has shown us that we're also awash in light waves. We don't see light waves, of course, but only see the objects that they reflect off of. Our light bulbs emanate photons likewise invisible to perception or comprehension. The sun, too, is perpetually spraying light in all directions. Scientists point out that light is a wave but also has particle-like properties. So we're surrounded by all these sound waves and light waves we can't see.

And then there is air. Oxygen and nitrogen not only fill the rooms we sit in and the atmosphere outside, but also go into our bodies as we breathe. We can't see these gases either. It's simply amazing how much stuff is wrapped around us that we are blind to.

So here is the question I asked in 2014: What if we could see all this unseen "stuff"? 

It might be interesting for a moment, but somehow I have to think if we could see all those sound waves and light waves, and all that air swirling around, it would be a little challenging. I can envision my room here stuffed with a giant mass of shredded cottonball-like material, and myself absorbed in it. Maybe I wouldn't even be able to see this computer monitor because all that "stuff" was in the way.

Bottom Line: I think I like it just as it is, the room an empty space with an easy chair where I can curl up and read a good book.

What do you think? 

Baseball, Pitchers and Stuff

It's that time of year when even the most latent baseball fans begin to awaken to resume interest in what was once our national pasttime. The playoffs are here, and our enthusiasm for the game rises to the surface once more. Newspaper stories bring us up to date on what went down in Major League Baseball during the regular season, all especially useful for the irregular follower like myself.

Last Sunday's New York Times had several stories designed to warm up our appetite for the post-season. It's only natural that the sports section would provide an overview of the season's top pitchers and players. But the fun story of the week appeared as an item on the front page, an entertaining riff on the way baseball commentators use that most elastic of words, "stuff."

The article by John Branch begins:

It was the second-to-last weekend of the regular season, a pivotal moment for baseball’s pennant races. Pitching was scrutinized. Analysis was deep.

“His stuff was really good,” Cubs Manager Joe Maddon said of one pitcher, adding of another, “I’ve never seen anything like this — a combination of pure stuff and results.”

It's the kind of baseball lingo we've heard all our lives so that we pretty much take it for granted. John Branch, however, decides to drill down. Whereas jargon like "set the table" and "shoestring catch" and "sitting on a pitch" are perfectly discernible when used in context, the word "stuff" has an altogether different character. It's a wonderful catch-all term that seems to mean everything and nothing. And Branch has a blast pointing this out.

"He's got great stuff" has become a descriptor as common as a Minnesota loon. Or, "he's lost his stuff." Or, he just didn't have his stuff tonight.

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The article reminded me of a story someone once told us about a woman from France who came to visit them for a while. After about a week she got a perplexed look on her face and asked, "What does this word stuff mean? You say, 'put your stuff over there,' and 'I have stuff to do.' I can't figure out what it means."

Our friend explained that it was one of those words you can insert just about anywhere when you don't have a better word. "It can mean anything really."

The visitor from France pondered this, and finally broke into a grin, eyes sparkling. "Ah... Stuff! I really like this word."

For a good read check out "The Mysteries of Pitching, and All That Stuff." Then sit back and enjoy the Playoffs. Unless you've got other stuff to do. 

The Unfinished Stories (part 3)

SHORT STORY MONDAY

The narrator, writer Joe Urban, has learned of a relatively unknown writer whose work is purportedly incredible. Till now, his own writing has been impotent in part because of a lack of passion for his subject matter. As he learns more about this unknown, it fires him and sets him out on a quest...

Only two people have ever had access to Richard Allen Garston's works. One was his friend Gary Spencer. The second, Garston's brother.

The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston (3)

I set about to find his brother and it led me to Camden in South Jersey where he had been pastor of an Independent Baptist congregation. Greg Garston had died the year previous. My determination to locate his wife, however, was rewarded. Her name was Emma and we spent a small portion of an afternoon together talking in generalities until I finally came to my point.

"I don't mean to pry, but can we talk a little bit about your husband's brother?"

"Well, he was a writer."

"Anything else?"

"He seemed very sad and dark, like he had secrets."

"What kind of secrets?" I asked.

She seemed unable to answer.

"I was told that your husband became caretaker of Richard's manuscripts after Richard died."

"I don't think so."

"What do you mean, you don't think so.?"

"I mean, Greg did that before Richard died."

"Did what?"

"Was caretaker of Richard's work. I'm using your word. I would have put it differently. We stored a lot of his things at our place. Collected them in our attic. Richard had a small apartment in Somerville. Not a lot of space."

"Did you ever read any of his stories?"

"They were stories? No, Greg made me practically take a vow not to look inside those boxes. One day he decided that he didn't want them in the attic anymore and he had them incinerated."

"And you never opened any of those boxes? Weren't you even just a little bit curious?"

She lightly scratched her chin with the tips of her fingernails.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I was."

"But you never looked?"

"One should not make a habit of keeping secrets from one's spouses."

"So you did look!"

"Please, I'm sorry."

"Sorry about what? So you opened a box."

"You never know what you'll find when you open boxes. Some boxes are better left unopened."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure what to say. I'm afraid to tell you the truth."

"Why? What is there to conceal? Your husband isn't going to be angry any more. He's passed away. And Richard Allen Garston has been dead for a dog's age. Who is there left to offend?"

Emma stood up and left the room. I could hear her crying in the other room. Then I heard the sound of drawers opening, interspersed with rummaging. When she returned she was hold a single sheet of yellowed paper with typing on it. In the lower right it had the initials R.A.G. I took it from her as if receiving a sacred host. It was a fragment from a story beginning, ending with these words:

Untitled
A sunday afternoon ramble through the underbrush, nettles and thorns, where ideas lay dormant, nestled in for winter, hibernating against the cold. He had left the path to forge his own way. He wasn't sure what to write about any more. There were so many things he had become unsure about. Now this. He had lost his way.

Here's the reality: he was tired. And indecisive, vascillating between an ideal of what his life ought to be and trying in vain to find a voice that was authentic. All decisions originating from within himself seemed arbitrary, thus incapable of commanding his complete and undivided allegiance. The result: a paralysis of will, an inability to mobilize his powers, to consolidate the resources of his mind, heart, soul, experience, training.

He was wounded, with a wound he knew incurable.

In an upstairs room, sitting in the dilapidated cushioned chair which he had obtained at a flea market for fifty cents, he organized his thoughts and prepared to scratch out the story of his life, a suicide note. --R.A.G.

I was stunned, for this writer, this writer who had lost his way, who had been wounded with an incurable wound, who was once confident but now confused... this writer was me. Inside I trembled, though I concealed it from my hostess.

"Do you have more?" I asked.

She looked as if she were about to break down. Her cheeks were red, eyes averted.

"I'm having trouble putting this all together," I said. "For years your husband stored his brother's manuscipts in his attic. Then one day he decides to burn everything. Did he ever say why?"

"He only said that it was 'God's will' and that he didn't want to talk about it."

"Was this like, say, a week after Richard died?"

She shook her head.

"A month?"

She continued shaking her head.

"A year? Or when?"

When she didn't make any reply there was a long pause in our conversation which, though awkward, gave each of us a few moments to reflect. As I studied her pale grey eyes I could only guess where her thoughts were escorting her. The ticking clock on the mantle seemed to stress that I had overstayed my welcome, nevertheless I did need to ask about one more thing.

"Would you mind if I asked how Richard died?"

"It was terrible. He died in a fire."

"I thought it was a suicide."

"Yes, he set himself on fire in his bed."

"Sounds like an awful way to choose to die. How did they know it wasn't accidental."

"Oh yes, that's exactly what they thought until Greg got the letter."

"So there was a suicide note?"

"It was mailed the morning of the day he died."

"You're sure of that? And you're sure it was his handwriting."

"Definitely. He had a very distincitive way of making his letters, all full and round. His penmanship was like a work of art, like calligraphy. His whole life was that way, actually."

"Do you remember what it said?"

"Something like, 'When you read this I'll be gone.'"

"You sound as if you almost liked him."

She did not reply and I could tell she cared about him very deeply.

"How often did you see him?"

She didn't answer again.

"Do you still have his last letter?"

It seemed a stupid question as soon as I said it. Her husband had burned everything else the guy had written.

The story fragment was lying on the table and I selfishly wanted to ask if I could have it. Instead I pulled two dollars from my wallet and set them on the table. "Can you photocopy this for me?" Then I scribbled my address on a piece of paper. "Mail it to this address."

She nodded, as if this wouldn't be a problem.

"Oh, did you know his friend Gary Spencer?"

"His name was mentioned a few times. A writer friend, I believe."

"I'm trying to find him. Someone said he joined a monastery. You wouldn't have any idea where, would you?"

I left feeling pretty much like I'd come to a dead end and feeling sad in myself for these two brothers. Still, the blue sky and brightness of the sun lifted me up a bit as I returned north to my home. Though my thoughts were strange and all over the place, they continually returned to a single notion: to now find, if it were possible, Gary Spencer.

CONTINUED

Camnesia and Other Wonders

We live in amazing times. I'm referring to the power of the Internet here. Whatever your interest, you're but a mouse click away from more info, images, sometimes even videos about that subject. And many of these cyber places and spaces have email newsletters and RSS feeds which you can subscribe to so you don't even have to look for them any more. They come looking for you.

Whatever your interest, whether literature, languages, rhetoric, philosophy, ethics, logic, sports, science, history, theology, politics, media, auto mechanics, art, shopping or simply diversion, you can probably find something in your daily inbox just for you.

I personally dislike subscribing to too many things, especially since some seem hard to unsubscribe to... and some are probably collecting emails for other things you don't really want like Rolex watches and enhancement meds. But there are some really cool things out on the Net and here are a couple of my favorites: Storypeople and wiseGEEK.

I wrote about Storypeople a few months ago and you can click the link here in my favorites list, just below Quiet Heart Music. The wiseGEEK emails are something akin to a trivia feed where the subject line is usually a question and you can read the first portion, or click on the link and read the entire article.

Here's what I received this morning...

What is Camnesia?

There's a reason why the world is not overrun with pictures of Bigfoot, the Loch Ness monster, UFOs or your cousin Jim's first birthday party, and that reason is known as camnesia. Camnesia is a condition in which a person either forgets to take pictures at a once-in-a-lifetime moment, or else forgets to bring a camera at all. Many sufferers have a flare-up of... hotlink here

Apparently camnesia is a real condition, even though I never heard about it till this morning. I've experienced it, though.

As for the Loch Ness monster, a friend of mine did not have camnesia when he was in Scotland. He came home with an interestingly ambiguous shot and I wrote about it for the Highland Villager, one of my first published stories. Undoubtedly he'd only captured shadows, and maybe there had been a little too much time spent at the pub before that sunset boat ride. It was fun to hear and write about.

Let's hope we remember our cameras when we go to the Grand Canyon next spring.

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