One of Everything Ever Thrown Away

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

Son #1 has spent several full days in the last month cleaning out his elderly mother-in-law’s home and getting it ready for sale. (She and I are not that far apart in age, so I am entitled to call her “elderly”.) He called me after one of those long days and warned me that I needed to start getting rid of stuff immediately so he doesn’t have to do this when I pass on. I don’t blame him. I don’t want him to have to go through my stuff either. I made a vow to start winnowing down my possessions immediately. But truthfully, Son #1 and I know the problem isn’t me. It’s his dad—who cheerfully declares if he needs to, he can recreate our current standard of living up until about 10 years ago (because he owns one of everything ever thrown away–and it takes about 10 years for most people to start discarding their stuff).

In the days when neighborhoods used to sponsor Deseret Industries drives, we’d all put our no longer useful belongings out of the curb for pick-up. For my husband it was an opportunity not to be missed. He’d wander around loading donations he thought we might need someday into the back of our VW van just ahead of the DI truck—with our neighbors watching and shaking their heads from their front windows. We are still using a pedestal weight scale he grabbed off a neighbor’s curb somewhere in the early 90’s and repaired—truth.

When we bought our house in West Jordan 20 years ago, my husband built a double-wide, double-deep garage to house all the tools for his very eccentric hobbies. It got so full, boxes spilled into the unfinished portion of our basement and then overflowed into a canvas garage tent on the side of the house. Anytime we have a family gathering, one topic of discussion is always “How can we get dad to throw away some of his crap.” (An actual quote.) Every once in a while, I get irritated, and I start going through the boxes piled up downstairs. This was our conversation last week.

Me: We need to move all your medieval cookbooks and armor manuals out of the food storage area and into the garage. We are running out of space down there.

Him: I’m planning to donate them all to the BYU library.

Me: Why?

Him: All the original ones in the BYU Library have been stolen. They need my copies.

Me: Who stole them?

Him: I dunno. Somebody like me, I guess.

Me: There is nobody like you.

Him: Humph!

Me: Well, now seems like a good time for a donation—while you are still alive to feel the satisfaction of your contribution.

Him: I’m not ready to do that yet.

Me: You are almost 76. When will you be ready?

Him: Ten or fifteen years, maybe.

A decade ago when I had yet another urge to get rid of some of his stuff, at the bottom of a box of old Popular Mechanics magazines, I found a mimeographed copy of a Houston, Texas, ward sacrament  program from 1958. His mother was listed as the organist. “I’m just going to chuck this,” I said.

He grabbed it out of my hand and read it carefully. “We might need this.”

“What for?”

“They might hold a meeting like this again.”

“Your mother passed away 45 years. She’s not likely to be playing the organ.”

“Still . . .” he said, and he tucked it away.                                                              

Recently, Son #1 convinced his dad to hold a garage sale, “just for the things you’ve lost interest in, Dad.” All the boys came over and sorted through the garage, emptied boxes from downstairs, and laid the whole mess out of the driveway one Saturday morning. The good news is that my husband made about $1000 dollars in cash which he loaded into his “hobbies” bank account. The bad news: there’s plenty of stuff left for at least a dozen more garage sales.

Oddly enough, my husband doesn’t really qualify as a hoarder. He actually remembers all the stuff he owns. Everybody in the neighborhood knows if they need a tool, call James. And he’s happy not only to lend the specific item, but he’ll also even come over and teach you how to use it. When we got married, he promised me that if the Prophet ever announced we were all trekking to Missouri, I wouldn’t have to walk. He had enough scrap steel stacked up in the garage to build me a train.

I have to admit, the older I get, the better that sounds.