stuff

Two men arrived early yesterday morning to begin phase one of our home renovation. This is the start of something big, guys. Big and dirty. Big, dirty and expensive. People are going to tear into our house, make a lung-choking mess doing it, and try their best to force us to pack up and move in with our kids in the process. And we're going to pay them for it- a lot.

It wasn't like we didn't see this coming. We've been talking about it since that autumn day in 1999 when we first looked at the house. That would be the day I naively shook my head yes, let's buy the darn thing- dark-stained wood, outdated carpet, ugly wallpaper and all. Yes, I can repaint all 3,600 feet of it by myself, where's my brush? Yes, I can turn this 1970's behemoth into House Beautiful. Yes, I can do it!

As I said earlier, two men arrived yesterday morning to begin our remodeling project. As I was schlepping clothes, shoes, jewelry, luggage and other various and sundry objects from my closet to a semi-empty closet across the landing the night before, it dawned on me that this was the first of many such redistributions of 29 years' worth of accumulated "memories". And let me tell you this, some memories are just plain best forgotten. Forgotten as in flushed. Jettisoned. Filed in that big, mobile file cabinet that comes around every Monday morning except the ones that fall on Christmas. We are up to our ears in those kinds of memories... memories that no longer fit, memories that are missing vital parts, memories that used to go to something but I can't remember what. Memories that I thought for sure I'd have used by now but never have. Memories that I just can't seem to part with because they milk that last, infinitesimal drop of sentimentality out of me just as my hand is poised over the trash can. The Barbie doll with the cracked neck wants to be kept. And of course she will still need her pink Cadillac. And what about the perfectly good safari hat left over from the zoo birthday party 15 years ago? Someone might use it. And the puzzles, stuffed animals, discarded backpacks, old dance costumes, VHS tapes, previous bedspreads- what of them? That old lamp without a shade, my grandmother's aprons, a single mitten, the empty picture frame, my husband's lederhosen, lederhosen?- don't they have a say in their futures?

Stuff, my friends, can make a mell of a hess if allowed to hang around too long. Would I let someone live in my house for 5, 10, 15, or 20 years while contributing absolutely nothing and taking up all the room in my closets, bathrooms and cabinets just because I thought they were cute at one time (and no, girls, that is not about you)? I should hope I wouldn't! So why this irrational connection to an accumulation of things that no longer serve a purpose? It defies logic. But that sentimental nymph that sits on my shoulder whispering "keep it, keep it" in my ear has almost always had her way over Mr. Business on the other side. Until now. For there's a great cleaning out a comin' the likes of which has never been seen, at least not at this house. I shall smite this clutter with my mighty arm, and it shall be smote, and it shall remain smit. The smiting began last night as I threw away 27 old hangers, a ripped garment bag, and some outrageously tight capris that hung in my closet since 1998 when they actually fit.

And the evening and the morning were the first day.