After a slight lapse of time, we come back strong as ever with the current bowl word “hold.” The word tripped us up as neither could come up with anything worthy of writing about. We agreed that neither would lapse into poetry as a last resort. Throughout the weeks, we’d look at one another and say, “How is that “hold” blog coming along” and sort of grunt a response and move on. With our extended Thanksgiving weekend looming in front of us, we were determined to knock this thing out. Per usual, our stories couldn’t be further apart on the literary spectrum. We are gluttons for attention so please comment if the spirit moves you. Enjoy!
His
Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way
“What’s in the hold, Captain?”
I cringed inwardly. I was expecting the question, of course. I had hoped it would not be asked so soon after we had emerged from the stasis pods.
“That’s ‘need to know’ only,” I told my overly curious co-pilot, George.
I didn’t really care if the only other crew member aboard the SXS Elon Musk knew what we were carrying, but I had been sworn to secrecy before launch. Time had been too short for questions when we boarded and were hustled into the pods. The ground crew had stowed our cargo after putting us under. Even I had not gotten a look at it.
“Oh, come on,” George pleaded. “I’ve got the same top secret clearance as you, and I really have a need to know.”
“Not the same thing, as I’m sure you’re aware,” I said.
I smiled. George could be persistent. Good thing I liked him. Even more saving to the relationship was being in stasis for most of the four-year trip out to Enceladus.
Without the pods, I would like him a lot less. One of us would be dead, and I probably wouldn’t have cared who.
As it was, we were in for a long couple of weeks of keeping each other company. Nobody, especially us, trusted the ship instruments to take us the last million or so miles to our destination. Too many things could go wrong in this crowded solar system neighborhood for us to remain asleep on the job.
“Do you even know what we’re carrying?” George asked.
“I do, and you will too, eventually,” I answered.
“Well, if I correctly guess what’s in the hold, will you tell me if I’m right?”
“We’ll see.”
I didn’t see any harm in that non-committal promise. I didn’t want George to get too squirrelly. I was confident that, with a little bit of misdirection, I could keep him guessing until delivery. The only condition I stipulated was that the questions could only be answered with “yes” or “no.” Besides, if George had even momentarily considered his childhood, he would have remembered that “we’ll see” means “no.”
So, he guessed — constantly — unless I called a timeout, or he hit his mandatory sleep period. Blessed relief!
I gave him quite a few hints along the way. Our mission was unique. Its more than $1 billion price tag had been internationally crowd-funded in record time. George never put the pieces together.
He was still guessing as we made our final approach to the designated landing site. All he had established about the contents of our hold was that it was “animal,” bigger than a breadbox and would not fit in his mouth. George was not a good guesser.
The landing was perfect. George was amazed after I keyed the door open, and he saw what was in our hold.
“What the hell! A stasis pod!” he exclaimed.
“What did you expect?” I countered. “You guessed that it was a living thing. Did you expect to see a food trough and litter box that were good for four years?”
“Who’s in it?”
“Still can’t tell you.”
“Chris, you are a bastard!”
“I know.”
With a little elbow grease and no small amount of robotic help, we were able to move the pod through the main airlock and onto the frigid Enceladus surface. We encased the pod in a survival tent, which we stocked with 2 years of survival supplies.
After setting up a video camera far enough from the tent to take in the entire scene, we quickly retreated to the Musk. We wasted no time on niceties like a countdown before we lifted for the return trip to Earth. If we wanted to get back before we were nursing home fodder, our window of opportunity was critically small.
I watched the moon grow smaller until it was time to head for the stasis pods. En route, I found Curious George with his eyes glued to the video feed from the surface camera.
Just microseconds before the Enceladus rotation took the transmission offline, I took a look at the monitor. Our former passenger had emerged from the survival tent. Even from a distance, the disheveled, badly-colored orange comb-over was unmistakable.
The man had finally gotten what he wanted. He was king of the world.
Hers
To Have and To Hold
Hello, my name is Mary and I’m a hoarder.
Okay, so maybe I’m not your Hoarder – Buried Alive kind of hoarder, but rather I’m more of a Hoarder – Please Don’t Open That Closet Door or You Could be Maimed for Life kind of hoarder. Yes, I am a hoarder.
I hold onto things. I collect things. I have numerous versions of things. I have boxes of things. I have piles of things. My office is full of things. Our storage room overflows with things. My closet shelves have stacks of things. I have pretty wicker baskets that accumulate things. Yes, I am a hoarder.
I came by hoarding honestly. My mother was a hoarder and a bargain shopper – not a good combination. Growing up, our kitchen counter tops and dining room table collected stacks of mail, bills, coupons, newspapers and missing homework assignments until they threatened to avalanche to the floor at which time a new stack was started. Our closets were a “throw it in there and close the door before it implodes” kinds of closets. Kitchen cabinets were filled to near capacity and once it reached that status, you simply stacked. Soup cans on top of spaghetti boxes, spices on top of fallen down cereal boxes, cupcake liners stuffed into a cracker tin…you get the picture. She was a hoarder.
In my mom’s later years, she discovered garage sales. She purchased framed pictures of big-eyed children, stormy seas, cows in a pasture, and outhouses – she bought them all and brought them home. She acquired dolls and dishtowels and dining room tables and kitchen gadgets and pretty necklaces and brought them all home to add to her current holdings. When she passed away, we all wanted to want some of her things, but it was hard to want something that still held a piece of masking tape on the back of it proudly proclaiming .25 cents. Yes, she was a hoarder.
Sometimes I think I hoard because it is easier than finding a place for it or perhaps it is easier than letting go. Holding onto items holds that place in time. It holds a seven-year old’s transformation from stick drawings to people with round bellies and rectangle arms and legs. It holds plastic containers of clothes that no longer fit but reminds me of that feeling I had when I was thinner. It holds ornaments of basketball and soccer balls hanging from a red strings and Peanuts characters and ropes of wooden garland purchased during a trip with my mom and sisters to California. It holds memories of days gone by that I’m not ready to let go of. Yes, sadly, I am a hoarder.
In my mind, I see three tarps laid out in my driveway. One enormous tarp has a banner proclaiming DONATE. One massive tarp has a banner screaming TOSS. One smaller tarp holds a banner that meekly suggests, “keep”. In my fantasy, I sit on my throne of decision in the middle of the hoarding chaos and I pitch thing after thing onto the TOSS tarp. Periodically, I find a treasure that I will hold close to my chest and smile at as I relive that memory and then bravely and gently place it onto the DONATE pile hoping that it creates a memory for another lost soul. In the end, I gather up the few arms-full of my keepers and bring them back into my home to find their rightful spot. In my mind, I have stopped the cycle and I walk away from hoarding.
As we put up our Christmas tree today, my husband will curse and complain as he bravely wades through our storage room to retrieve the unknown number of boxes of Christmas decorations. Once the boxes are stacked in the living room, he will retreat to his office in the basement and wait out the decorating ordeal. I will open each box anticipating the treasures inside. Frustration will rise as I sort through strings of colored and white lights. Smiles will grace my face as I uncover handmade ornaments of a 4-year old. Tears will fall as I find an ornament given to me by a loved one passed on.
When it’s all said and done, six or seven half-filled boxes will remain with rejected contents. Perhaps I will take a deep gulp and TOSS or DONATE the contents of those boxes. Maybe I will realize that the memories that the rejected items hold are just that – memories, and they do not need physical placeholders to be relived.
Perhaps I will end the day relieved that next year the decorating process will be quicker, lighter, less emotional.
Perhaps.
Dueling Laptops 
