Today I am tackling the basement, with the help of my younger daughter and her boyfriend. I've had stuff on the stairs for six months, but each time I thought of the job, I felt faint and nauseous. But it's got to be done, and it's summer now and if I don't watch out, it will be fall and rainy and cold and then I won't be able to do it until next spring. So I'll be sorting through the kids' old toys, artworks and stuffed animals, papers from my parents, and millions of legos. I want to clean up the Playmobil house and pirate ship, for our granddaughter, and see if the Breyer horses can be cleaned and boxed up. Then there are no doubt bags and bags of stuff for the trash. I must be ruthless. Show no mercy. Or the basement will still need a bulldozer to get through to the back.
My parents were the opposite. They held a few things of mine under the house for a couple of years after I left for college, but when I married, at nineteen, it was all disposed of. I have a feeling there was some anger involved, but I didn't realize it was gone until I had my daughter, and searched for dolls I'd saved. Long gone. It was the same when my father died. Everything had been cleaned out except a file cabinet with tax copies for the estate. No personal stuff, no letters from us or cards or dresses or baby shoes. All gone. There was one small drawer of photos, all mixed up. I kept their drivers' licenses, passports and anything I could find with their handwriting, but it wasn't much. They were not sentimental about objects.
I have to think like them today, and see what is actually useful to save or give away, and what no one will want to sort through when my husband and I are gone. It's a tidying up. But am I such a messing being, I have a feeling the basement will be pretty overfull when I'm done. But organized in plastic containers from Target, and labeled. It's a start.
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