Talkin’ trash: The past
simply clutters our lives

Robyn’s Hood
By Robyn McCloskey

Just last week my husband and I did one of the most stressful things a married couple can do. We moved. Not far from where we had been living, but a move is a move is a move, and so we had to box up almost 20 years and three kids’ worth of stuff, or "meaningful possessions," as my husband refers to it, or "crap," as I prefer to call it.
My husband Chris is what is affectionately known as a "pack rat." To me, when the words "pack" and "rat" are used in the same sentence, I better be able to find Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra or Peter Lawford, at the very least, and not boxes of old albums for which turntables no longer exist (except in the basements of fellow pack rats), cabinets full of tax returns from over 15 years ago (because "you just never know"), and a set of Encyclopaedia Britannica published back when Franklin still loved Eleanor.
A bunch of our friends came over to help on moving day. Great group of guys, they are, and every single one had some snide comment about the encyclopedias. I told them they all should have backed me up, but they refused to move the books. I no longer consider these people my friends.
Chris is one of those sentimental husbands that most women would give their right arm for. He likes to hang on to every note I’ve ever written to him, every holiday card I’ve ever sent him, every gift I’ve ever given him. He squirrels away our kids’ Stone Age artwork like a Latter Day Saint preparing for Y2K.
I, on the other hand, am one of those moms who did not document when any of her children said their first word, took their first step or got their first tooth. To me the important thing is that they all walk and talk, and judging by how much we have paid our orthodontist, that they have all their teeth.
I don’t need a "baby’s first album" taking up space in my attic to prove all those milestones. Of course, I would never want to scar my children for life, so I do hang their homework and report cards on the refrigerator. I just pray they won’t notice it in the trash can later that night.
I am not only anti-hey-keep-those-scraps-of-paper-and-we’ll-use-them-for-something-else, but I am anti-knickknacks as well. Who needs more things to dust? This longing for the simple life has, on more than one occasion, inspired first-time visitors to our home to wonder if we’re Shakers.
Chris and I have gotten to the point in our marriage where we don’t fight nearly as much as we used to, except on Thursday nights. That’s trash night. I am not one of those wives who insist that their husbands take out the trash, mainly because I don’t want my husband to know what’s in our trash. When something is missing, he will actually root through the cans until he finds it, which he usually does, and then the fight starts all over again.
Our last tag-team match was right before we moved. I wanted to discard a bookcase. Since living with a saver has taught me how to refine my technique, I lovingly waved goodbye to Chris as he left for work, then I threw away the bookcase. I wasn’t expecting him to stop home during lunch. Who knew that ditching 10-year-old compressed faux wood chips from Kmart could drive a man to tears?
The battered bookcase is now in our new home — in our new garage, to be precise — awaiting repair. Maybe when it’s fixed we can put the encyclopedias in it!
I had a deal with my former neighbor, since he was in a similar situation. He could put anything in my trash and I would turn a blind eye, and he did the same for me.
Hopefully one of my new neighbors is a purger too; I guess I’ll find out Thursday night. Maybe we can all form some sort of sub-support group, like how the friends and families of problem drinkers have Al-Anon. Our motto could be "Who you see here, what you say here, what you hear here, throw away here."
So don’t ever ask me to collect your mail, because I will root through it and keep only what I deem necessary, which is precious little. And in this day of uber-technology, who needs paper anyway?
Which will inevitably result in a lesser need for bookcases, like the one in my garage. But I can wait for my next chance. In fact, as we speak, I’m planning the itinerary of a vacation for my husband. ••
Robyn McCloskey’s column appears each week in the Northeast Times. She can be reached at crmccloskey@verizon.net