I’ve built kind of a reputation among the people who know me best. Not sure it it’s a good or bad thing, but I’m known as The Purger. I love to purge. To get rid of things I’m not using or don’t need. I’ve always been this way. I loved cleaning out my desk and my pencil box and the drawers in my room when I was little. As a teenager, it was my purse and my car. Now that I’m grown, I’m always trying to keep clutter from taking hold in our house. Clutter just makes me feel out of sorts. I like for things to have a place and to be somewhat orderly, although you certainly could never accuse me of being compulsive about it. I mean, I’m not like the guy on Sleeping with the Enemy, for goodness sake. 

From time to time, I get called by friends for help. They call when their habit of hanging onto stuff has caused a clutter pileup and they’re ready for intervention to help them free up some space. Knowing how I am, they think if I come over, I can help them pull the trigger on getting rid of some things. There are some hard nuts to crack when it comes to purging. We all like our stuff. And there are so many different kinds of “collectors of things” as we’ll call them. There are the “that’s perfectly good- not a thing wrong with it” crowd, who believe if the item in question is in good, working condition, they should hang onto it- even if the item in question is a VHS camera the size of a briefcase or a hooded hair dryer from the ‘76 Sears catalog. There are the “I’ll need that if we ever fall on hard times” -which, nowadays, it’s kind of hard to argue with that one. I’ll give you that. The “I still use that, sometimes” collector- um, every other leap year doesn’t justify the space it occupies. I have several teacher friends and they’re the “I can use that in my classroom” or “one of my student gave that to me” kind of collectors. Ok, I can appreciate that. There’s the“that might be worth something” collector, who will never know if it is or not because it will likely never leave the spot where it sits and Antiques Roadshow does not make house calls. There’s the “I’m going to save that and, one day, when I have more time, I’ll (fill in the blank) person, who always has big plans. Then, there’s the most common collector, the “I’m going to ask my children if they want that before I get rid of it”- let’s all just remember that there’s nothing we have sitting around that your children or my children want, so let’s save ourselves some time and effort. We all have our points of weakness when it comes to cleaning out, but always with good intentions. 

I like to talk tough about getting rid of things. I mean, I do have my reputation to uphold. I come across as being a hard-nosed purger, but I do have my weak spot- that one area where even I have trouble. I’m a big ol’ sentimental fool. So, if the clutter in question has anything to do with family memories or growing up or a time or people that are no more- well, even I struggle with letting that kind of stuff go. It’s not like I get these artifacts out frequently to look at and remember. No, I’ll go years and years without even thinking about those things, but I know they’re there and maybe that’s all that matters. 

In the process of moving things back into our house recently, I’d conducted my usual purge operations that occur with any kind of move or transition. There were just a couple of closets that had escaped my inspective eyes. One of them housed all of our memories. There were all the scrapbooks. My friends and I were into that craze when it was the thing and I meticulously documented both children’s lives from their baby showers to their high school graduations. There were the baby books. I was determined that our first and second child would have every line of theirs filled in and I’m happy to report they are. There were stacks of photo boxes and photo albums. All of that was, of course, put in the keep pile. But, then there were all the plastic tubs full of keepsakes. Tubs and tubs of it. You know what kind of stuff I’m talking about. That stuff we can’t bear to throw away. What kind of mother throws away the little sign that the hospital hangs at the head of the bassinet? Those worksheets where they first trace the letters and then try to write them at the bottom without help. Mother’s Day cards fashioned from doilies and painted handprints. Letters to Santa, certificates, report cards, Valentines, popsicle frames with a Polaroid taped inside. There were medals that I had no idea who’d earned them or how. Of course, the medals and ribbons are totally separate from the trophy section- the trophy box is a whole different deal and is kept in the attic because of its vast expanse. I guess you could even say I was storing body parts in the tubs- a little silver hippo housing baby teeth and a couple of envelopes of first haircut locks. 

Not only were there the tubs storing the kids’ keepsakes, but there were even a couple housing things from Davis’ and my childhood. Things our mothers had kept for us. At some point, my mother asked my brothers and me to come and take possession of our “boxes”- meaning our childhood keepsakes which she was ready to hand off after 45 years of housing them. After both of Davis’ parents passed away, we took ownership of his things, too. We were storing a lot of memorabilia and I decided it was time to try to pare some of it down or, at least, try to reduce the amount of Rubbermaid products required to store it all. Surely I didn’t have to keep every coloring sheet they’d brought home from Sunday school. Certainly, I didn’t need to hold onto every card they’d received at their 5th birthday party. And what would one ever do with teeth and hair? Mothers are told to keep these things but then what? 

Yes, it took me a day and a half to go through it all, piece by piece, and I did slim down our memory heap. We went from 6 tubs of memorabilia to 4. It doesn’t sound like a lot of reduction, but there are a lot of itty bitty pieces of paper and and handmade cards and school work in one storage tub, so I’ll count the effort as a success. Y’all know how this plays out, don’t you? I could call my kids now and tell them they have to come get their stuff. They’ll say they don’t have room for it. I’ll say ok, but I can’t keep all this forever. In another 20 years, I’ll remind them again. They’ll say they’ll get it, but add that they have no idea where they’ll put it. Somehow, when they come home, they’ll always conveniently forget and leave here without it. Finally, Davis and I will croak or they’ll put us in a home because we’re not taking our medicine and writing large checks to random people and they’ll have to come clean out our house to sell it. There, they’ll find the 4 tubs. Some full of their parents’ handprints and Vacation Bible School diplomas. And theirs with all the construction paper and glitter and misspelled words. And they’ll say they don’t know what to do with all of it, but they’ll load them in their cars and take them to their homes. Their homes that are already full of their own family tubs. The tubs will join them there until they’re passed down to their children. It’s like a game of sentimental hot potato. No one has the heart to throw it away, so we just pass it down the line. 

Yes, one day, my kids will hear those words- Tag. You’re it. The keeper of the tubs. 

Memories do live best in the corners of the heart and the corridors of the mind, but, against those little papers with too much glue and pinking shear edges, this hard core purger admits defeat. 

Y’all have a happy weekend and try to keep cool! Maybe stay in and work on your tubs. 

JONI