Columnists
Clutter challenge
It feels as if it’s been a very long time since I sat here and wrote a column. By “here” I mean, “Sitting on my couch, in my living room while watching CBS Sunday morning.” So, here I am. So much has happened in the two weeks since the last publication of The Times. So many good things and far too many bad things. I’m hardly in the mood, nor do I have the energy, to blather on about the shenanigans that have been flashed about as democracy and patriotism. And I’m not just talking about the toxic miasma emanating from the good ole U.S. of A.
So, today I’m in my “office” and I’m going to tell you all about my continued resolve to declutter “this old house”. I started this newest round of the decluttering by purchasing unassembled shelving units for the storage room. The shelves, still shrink-wrapped, are now stacked just outside of our second floor storage room. I’ll call that a step in the right direction. I don’t have a plan. Should I have a plan? I certainly haven’t pressed the storagetific method into use. I looked into the storage room and figured there might be a whole lot of productive, decluttering time spent in there. That’s all I’ve got. I know myself well enough to realize I’ll probably spend more than half the decluttering time reminiscing. Every piece in the back left corner of that room is from our parents’ homes after they passed away. It isn’t a lot, but it’s enough for me feel the time and emotion of each bit of their lives. My dad’s shaving kit is over there. I know he had that when he was a young Flight Sergeant “overseas” during WWII. It’s a beige canvas roll-up pouch holding his shaving brush, his razor and a little Bakelite comb. It smells of Sunlight bar soap and it’s sure to make me tear-up a little bit. There’s a small wooden box with my mom’s gift cards from her bridal shower and their wedding. Eight-two years in the little wood box. I know a ruthless decluttering expert would say, “Time to let go. Out they go.” I can’t do that. I treasure the notes handwritten in each wee card. There’s a banker’s box and cardboard tubes filled with my youngest brother’s sketches and paintings from his days as an art student. Who am I to say they need to go? I could probably donate most of the clothing that is hanging in there—but not the Persian lamb jacket. I couldn’t possibly let go of that. A very dear family friend gave that to me when she felt her “fancy days” were over. I wore it to proms, on corporate dinner dates and several very formal occasions. Her initials are embroidered inside. Bea purchased that jacket when she was a young woman in the 1930s. It stays. It reminds me of a funny, elegant lady who was always kind and a great good friend to my late mother-in-law. Maybe I’ll wear the jacket while sorting. The storage room isn’t heated.
In other boxes are the immigration documents my mom’s family were so proud of. They came to Canada for a better life. Their medical records, their travel visas and their arrival documents are in remarkable condition and retell their story every time I read them. My dad’s flight log book (thank you Brother) rests beside the guest books from his parents’ funeral visitation, along with cards of condolence from people who names evoke memories of backyard bonfires, mid-century rec-room parties and holiday dinners. There’s a couple of bags full of MLB caps avidly collected, and worn, when our boys were young guys in high school and college. I don’t have any feelings for the ball caps, but those two sons have basements of their own where their ball caps should be living and welcomed. Ball caps and baseball cards and comic books! They will no longer take up space in my home.
I see the “storage room” as a challenge. Its contents take up far too much space in my head and in our home. I’m confident by Valentine’s Day I will have recovered from my “decluttering thing” for a while. I have a couple of concerns. What if I declutter and wish I hadn’t been so ruthless. What would Marie Kondo say about my clutter? Or, and this is more likely to happen, what if I start to declutter and become distracted by other spaces that need some attention? I get distracted by memories and emotions. The storage room isn’t the real challenge. My deep emotional connection to some of “the things” is something I’ll have to figure out.
I’m the challenge.
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