Columnists
Declutter? That is the question
I actually lost sleep, recently, wondering how to get rid of some of the things I’ve accumulated over the years. It seems the more room I have, the more crap I manage to find to fill the space. I am the carp of crap. Nature may abhor a vacuum, but I seem to fear open space inside this old house. I suppose the first step in correcting this problem is recognizing I actually do have a problem. And I do have a problem. I am sentimentally attached to loads of stuff.
When I was a kid, I was one of seven children in a family that lived in a three-bedroom, onebathroom house. Our parents didn’t encourage us to accumulate things. If we had something we wanted to keep “forever” it had to fit into one of the two dresser drawers we were allotted in a bedroom we shared with the other siblings. My parents struggled to contain the things a family of nine, sometimes ten or more, could amass. All of our toys and books were, sooner or later, shared with siblings. It all had to fit into the postwar house my parents built, originally for a family of four. By 1952, when the house was close enough to being finished, we moved in. At that time we were a family of six people. Within eight years there would be seven kids and, occasionally, our mom’s youngest sister. Mom and Dad were pretty strict about what, and how much, came into the house. They had to run a pretty tight ship. The unspoken rule was “one item in, one item out” and most things had to have more than one reason for being in the building. Oh how I wish I’d paid more attention to their views on accumulating stuff. While our childhood home could be a bit messy, everything had a place. At the end of the day, everything had to be put in its place or there was H E double heck to pay.
So, here I am. I’m thinking about freeing myself from years of sentimentality and extreme attachment to old stuff. Each of our children has been asked to go through “their bin” of things, take what they want and leave what could be recycled, repurposed or used as fuel for a bonfire. And they did that, bless their little unsentimental hearts. Each of them spent a couple of hours taking a walk down memory lane. Each was told to create three piles. The “I’m taking this home” pile, the “you’re donating this” pile and the “egads, recycle/ burn or trash it” pile. It was a good idea. It worked for them. And then?
Well, and then I couldn’t understand why the kids put things like their “shoe tying award” in the recycle pile. A nice frame and the whole world would know your kindergarten teacher had certified your ability to tie your own shoe laces. My heart and head hurt as I watched each one send their early-years, impressionist art pieces and their report cards to the Saturday night fuel for the marshmallow toasting pile. I couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t want to stash those precious items in their basement storage or attic, like Mommy had done for decades. Why wouldn’t you want the things your mommy carefully saved and preserved for years and years? What the heck is wrong with kids, these days? Which reminds me, time to get a new burn permit.
Yeah, yeah, I struggle with letting things go. I don’t see a pile of papers, scribbles and class photos. I see stories and am reminded of little lives lived, and lovingly stored in those Rubbermaid ® bins. I see family history. And, I fear if I clear out too much, I’ll regret the loss—and fill the new-found space with more stuff. Maybe I’ll pour myself a coffee and be grateful for all that I have, or shall I consult with Marie Kondo?
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