The trophies made the cut during the great garage clean-up
The box of trophies was holding us back.
I’d walk past it every time I went outside to my car. Although they held years of memories – from when my kids were awarded for swimming and football and baseball wins (and also for just showing up) – they are emblematic of all the things that were standing between me and what I really wanted: to park my car in the garage.
The farmer and I are at a point where a convergence of life events has left us buried under stuff. In the space of a year we downsized to a smaller house and also sent our younger child off to college. One of those events would have brought clutter, but we are dealing with two.
What to do with all the stuff? Notice I didn’t say “junk,” because we jettisoned that with the move. What’s left is the good stuff, the pretty stuff, the holiday stuff and the kindergarten artwork stuff – so much of it that our two-car garage had crowded out even one car. When the storm came two weekends ago, and as I hacked at my enrobed Subaru with an ice pick, I announced it was time for a purging.
“You need to go through the boxes,” said the farmer. I would wander down there, stand looking down into a bin, pull out a framed photo or a handmade knickknack, and then be so overwhelmed with the gravity of the decision I’d drop it back into the bin and run upstairs. This went on for days, with the farmer growing increasingly frustrated.
“We need to make a car-shaped space in that garage,” said the farmer, pointing to the boxes.
How does a mother part with the artifacts of her younger self? Here was the magnificent lion costume I sewed for my daughter’s second Halloween. The blue plaid shorts and bow tie I sewed for my son’s christening. The cookbooks I used when I first started caring about things like dinner parties.
“There are 23 pot lids down there,” the farmer said as he emerged for another long afternoon of sorting. “They have no pots.”
“Toss,” I said. It was a brave pronouncement, made possible only because I ignored that little voice that told me “What if the matching pots turn up? You will be filled with regret.”
And that’s how things went down in our basement. Day after day I would look into a bin, unearth an object, and allow the memory of its story to play in my head. And just as I was about to toss it into the trash, the regret would emerge. What if?
I have a friend whose house is so uncluttered you would never guess she has three children. She keeps nothing but the memory. She doesn’t seem to be filled with regret or longing for old handmade Mother’s Day cards.
Putting myself into that mindset, I descended the stairs. Box of photos? Keep for digitizing. Old baby clothing? Launder and donate. Cookbooks? Donate. Halloween costumes? Trash. Christmas cards I received over the years? Sorry, trash.
It’s a mean business, this winnowing. But I’d hold a treasured object, consider putting it back into the box, and then picture my car covered in snow the next cold morning. And then I would toss it. Memories may be warm, but in the end, a warm car wins.
The farmer and I hauled eight trash bags to the curb last night. I’ll be taking a load to Goodwill soon.
And the trophies? We’ve pushed them to a corner of the garage. I guess it’s not their time to go.
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.