Stuff and Stories
I don’t do spring cleaning. I’ve never seen the point of it. After being stuck mostly inside for months, the second the weather warms I am out! The best that can be hoped for is that I will remember to open the windows before I go.
Fall, however, turns me into a compulsive cleaner. When faced with the prospect of being mainly inside four walls, I want my space to be spotlessly clean and cozy. I purge, dust, wax, vacuum, polish, and rearrange like crazy.
Which of course means that my house currently looks like it’s been hit by vandals. There are boxes in every room with mismatched items that I am hoping to get to the Thrift Store before someone in my family decides it’s suddenly indispensable despite spending most of its life in the recesses of a closet. An array of winter hats, scarves and (mostly) single gloves is lined up on the dining room table in the hopes that people will choose their favorites and part with the rest.
(F-Nope, I need that.
M-That glove doesn’t have a match.
F-I think I saw it in my room last month.)
There are various bottles of floor wax, wood polish and window cleaner cluttering the horizontal surfaces. The Halloween decorations, which have somehow multiplied over the year, have been up since the beginning of September. And it’s not just the Halloween decorations that have multiplied, oh no. It’s all the Stuff.
I feel like I am in a never ending battle with Stuff. When we moved, just over a year ago, we rented a dumpster, which we filled. We also took seemingly endless carloads to various resale stores around the state, and even offloaded some stuff on marketplace. Despite that, and the fact that we moved into a house twice the size of our old one, every corner seems filled with Stuff. Pre-husband and child I could barely fill one floor of my 1200 square ft house. Now, between my husband’s penchant for collecting beverage receptacles and every tool imaginable, and the fact that nine year olds do not like to part with ANYTHING, we’re definitely edging closer to hoarders than minimalists.
They aren’t the only ones at fault. Me? I collect stories. Over the last decade or so I’ve helped various parental figures downsize their homes. More than a few items have ended up in my possession because my loved one shared the story of the table, plate, or tchotchke with me and while the item may not be my style or may not quite fit in a room, it brings a smile to my face everytime I think of the story attached to it. I have the same struggle with my son’s old things. There’s a whole box (or maybe two) of toys or books he has agreed to let go of that I have then had to sneak out of the donation bin because the memory attached is just too sweet. I am not quite ready to let go of a concrete reminder of that particular story. Not just yet. So as I clean I navigate my way between stuff and stories.
And of course the dog has decided to explode. Again.
When you put any measurable percent of Great Pyrenese in a dog, it creates a charming effect. No matter how short haired your dog seems to be, twice a year he will blow out the undercoat you didn’t even know he had when you got the adorable puppy who looked NOTHING like a Great Pyr.. What this means is that you can sweep the house twice a day and still find tumbleweeds blowing into corners. Every. Day. And yes, they go through this ridiculous process, for some reason, just as it starts to get cold. Apparently he can’t just add to his summer undercoat, he has to get rid of it completely and make a new and improved winter undercoat. Which will not stop him from needing to wear a winter jacket, because somehow this Pyr mutt has a totally naked underbelly.
Seriously, at this point I’m ready to sell all my belongings and winter in a windowless yurt with just some blankets and floor pads. I’ll keep the dogs though. Maybe all the fur will serve as added insulation.