The house is groaning at the seams with all the mementoes that come with marriage and children and years of living
THE LADY AT THE OTHER END of the phone was apologetic. The event was booked out. Of course I could have my name added to the waiting list, she went on politely, but I knew by the sound of her voice that it was a long waiting list and there was as much chance of me getting a ticket as snow falling in July.
This wasn’t a ticket for the hottest rock star in town. This was an event being run in my local library on the issue of hoarding: hoarding as in an over accumulation of possessions. That it was booked out within a few short hours says a lot for our jumbled homes and our tendency to hang on to our possessions for dear life; in this I am the chief culprit.
When we moved from a rented flat into our first home, all our worldly goods – basic furniture and about 12 black sacks – fitted into a small transit van. I can still picture the sacks lined up around bare kitchen walls on moving day and I had them emptied within a few hours. Twenty years later, when we moved again, emptying the attic alone was a gargantuan task, both physical and mental. I had to give myself a strict talking to – our modern new home was no place for pram skeletons, or mangled buggies, or baby walkers with broken wheels, even if they were the precious remnants of those cherished years of babyhood and toddlerhood. I remember the day we brought them to the council dump, my husband hurling them into the dumpster, and the threadbare wheels of the pram spinning wildly in the air as it landed upside down, breaking its back in the process. Even though we did a huge and painful cull, we still needed a seventonne truck to transport our possessions, and our new dining room was crammed to the door with overflowing cardboard boxes.
As the years went on, more things accumulated. Now crunch time has arrived. The house is groaning at the seams with all the mementoes that come with marriage and children and years of living. There is little or no room for any more but, I trust, plenty of life and living still ahead.
With the library event booked out, I turned to an article on hoarding. I was advised to clear the decks, start afresh, let things go and free up energy. Get a large skip – I was bound to fill it to justify the expense. Think of how liberated I’ll feel afterwards. Make space for the new.
As a last straw, if I can’t bear to do it myself, it’s best to summon the de-clutter experts. So far I’ve resisted all advice. I don’t want baleful eyes being cast across my mantelpiece, brimming bookshelves and clutter of ornaments.
I don’t want a stranger stripping my shelves naked, assessing what is suitable dump material. Yet I’ve watched with horrified eyes and a prang of conscience whenever I see all-too-frequent news footage of people who are witnessing their lives being demolished and whole houses being swept away because of earthquake, flood or hurricane, and I’ve told myself to get real. But what is real? Some people hoard items on the offchance that they might be needed again. I value my possessions because of the precious memories associated with each item. A blue candle holder my daughter brought back from San Francisco reminds me of the youthful, fizzing excitement on her face when she burst through the hall door, home from her first transatlantic trip. A bird ornament given to me by my son as soon as he had saved up enough pocket money sparks a memory of his eyes shining with love and pride. A glittery, tea light holder brings me back to our holiday in Istanbul and the kind smile of the wizened market stall vendor as he wrapped the cheap and cheerful glass as carefully as if it were spun crystal to ensure it would survive the long flight home. A Gaudi coloured figurine of an entwined couple striking a dance pose reminds me of how we soaked up the energy and vibrant beauty of Barcelona streets.
Wedding anniversary gifts and special keepsakes gleaned from my childhood home are also scattered around the house. I haven’t even mentioned the oceans of greeting cards that are squashed into nooks; birthday, anniversary, thank you and good luck cards, all with handwritten messages, and sent to us by those who love us and wish us well, some of whom are no longer around. And as for the mountains of photographs…
Far from clutter and junk, these are footprints of our lives; real, physical threads that combine to make a rich tapestry of our history and a treasure trove of memories. How can I consign them to the cold, indifferent scalpel of a minimalist surgeon?
However, if I must prioritise and make way for the new, there is some room in the attic – vacant space perfectly suitable for a well-worn pram and a buggy.