Out with the old, but not with everything
While in the basement trying to store my red and green tubs of Christmas décor, I stubbed my toe on the empty glass tank. That fish tank has occupied various spaces on the family room floor since Mable, our final fish, died in 2007.
Grabbing my toe and biting my tongue to keep from swearing, I stumbled into the silk ficus tree and was showered in a cloud of dust. The ficus had been banished to the basement sometime in 2009.
That tree dust loosened my tongue and a string of words poured forth, most of them starting with “D” – as in Derek. You see, my husband says we NEED to keep the fish tank because someday he wants more fish. He also refuses to part with the ficus tree. He loves that fake tree and I’m not exactly clear on the reason for his attachment.
He’s no hoarder. It’s just the “someday” stuff he clings to. Broken things that he could mend if he just had the right kind of glue, battered paperbacks he wants to read though he’s had a Kindle for years, collectibles he’ll display when he has a home office … someday.
Since mentions of fish tanks and ficus are nonstarters, I looked for clutter I could control and found it in a hallway where snow pants too small for even the smallest Hval dangled forlornly from hooks. Grabbing a garbage bag, I filled it to the brim with winter gear. Zachary had already filled a bag with cast-off clothing, so I nagged Sam to do the same.
I delivered the bags to the nearest thrift store. Invigorated by the purge, I scoured my home for more stuff to toss, more areas to tidy. I can’t help it. January always affects me this way.
“Out with the old,” I muttered, as I drug my under-the-bed storage box out from its dusty recesses. The plastic container holds high school yearbooks, birthday cards, preschool artwork and precious memories.
I purchased four bins, one for each son, and began sorting through their school things with Martha Stewart-like zeal.
My plans to finish by the end of the day became hopes that I’d finish by the end of the week, as I unearthed long-forgotten treasures. Priceless things like Zach’s Christmas letter to Jesus, dictated to his teacher when he was 5.
“Dear Jesus,” it read, “For your birthday I will show you love by being kind to my friends. I will be happy that I grew up in New Jersey. I will feed my dog for my parents.”
He’s never been to New Jersey and never had a dog.
I also found his three wishes from the same year.
“I wish I would get married to Carrie. I wish I was a teenager. I wish I could spank my mom.”
Well. One out of three of those wishes came true.
I also discovered Alex’s kindergarten Mother’s Day ode.
“I love my mom because she takes me to Chuck-E-Cheese every day for lunch. She teaches me how to read books. On Saturday mornings she lets me watch any TV shows I want. She gives me candy sometimes.”
Two out of four of those things were true.
Then there was Sam’s 2010 Christmas letter.
He wrote, “My mom is currently writing for the Spokesman Review and Chicken Noodle Soup for the Soul. My dad owns his own business and has a wonderful time doing it. My dad also has a foot problem. My brother Alex has a girlfriend and is taking advanced pottery in school.”
Each bin slowly filled as I found little to toss and much to keep. I’m pretty sure Sam won’t need his perfect attendance awards from fourth and fifth grades, but what if one day he wants to show his own children what a faithful student he was?
A baby tooth in a plastic baggie stumped me. It was obviously a son’s first lost tooth. The tooth fairy saved it, but failed to note which child it belonged to. This prompted me to wonder should baby teeth go in the boys’ bins or mine? And is it weird to save teeth?
Finally, I finished sorting. Someday each son will take his box to his own home and sort through what to keep and what to toss. But for now, I took four new neatly labeled bins holding old treasures downstairs and stacked them between the fish tank and the ficus tree.
This time I didn’t stub my toe, instead I smiled. I’d found my own someday stuff.
Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.