Hugh Mackenzie is on a break from Listen Up!
By Sally Barnes
A simple cartoon sent by an internet friend has unleashed a torrent of responses from the horde of people suffering the torture of decluttering.
A bald old geezer leans on his walker, points to a garage crammed with a lifetime collection of stuff, and says to the kid next to him, “One day, Son, all this will be yours.”
The cartoonist has hit a nerve with all those guilt-ridden adults like me (especially the elderly) who know they should get their houses in order before they sever their mortal coils and bequeath a mess to their survivors.
We are an aging society. As baby boomers retire, adults aged 65 and over will outnumber children under 15, and by 2030, nearly one in every four Canadians will be an older adult.
With aging comes public policy concerns about who will pay the bills, and individuals face challenges such as downsizing and decluttering.
All executors and heirs of estates should hope that their long-lost, eccentric old uncle is not one of the world’s great hoarders and a collector of poisonous snakes and insects.
There are at least a thousand excuses for postponing decluttering. Some of it is just plain laziness and indecision. How else do you explain clinging to appliances and gadgets that broke decades ago, athletic equipment with missing parts, and home décor dating back to orange rugs, rabbit ears, fancy ashtrays, and Barbara Ann Scott dolls?
There is the physical demand of hauling the stuff out of closets and backrooms and basements, attics and garages, but that doesn’t compare to the anguish of parting with a lifetime of memories and memorabilia.
At the best of times, parting with your stuff can be an emotional tug of war. It is especially gut-wrenching when you realize that nobody wants it. Admitting you can’t even give the stuff away hurts.
Your first pair of baby shoes may warm your heart, but who else wants them? This pales in comparison, of course, to a family who has the ashes of several dead relatives in urns over the fireplace and no takers for who gets them next.
So many firsts….so little space. Kids now graduate from preschool, and these certificates pile up year after year as they move through the education system. Add to this the athletic and other awards.
Wedding dresses used to be boxed up and preserved. Not so much anymore, I’m told. Chances of a young bride today wanting to wear a family relic on her big day are slim to zero.
God bless those social agencies that welcome donations. Some will even come and pick them up. And for a handsome fee, private companies are more than happy to help with the task — especially if a house sale is involved and they get the listing.
There’s a whole industry out there flourishing as a generation of baby boomers moves to retirement complexes and nursing homes and eventually perpetual care.
While my husband and I have no moving plans, we have been decluttering for many weeks now, recognizing that we aren’t getting any younger and have heard the lament of so many families struggling with generational change and the headaches involved.
First, we needed a plan. We named it Operation Overload, and it calls for lugging unwanted stuff to the garage, hiring someone to dispose of a load of paint and other hazardous materials, giving away what we can, and then bringing in a dumpster to dispose of the rest.
Excessive heat drove us inside on many days. A few health issues slowed us down. As the pile of stuff got higher, we learned the hard way that possessions we agonized over mean little or nothing to anyone else.
In fact, Operation Overload was threatening what we hoped was a good reputation for hospitality. Otherwise frequent visitors — friends and especially family — suddenly found better things to do than darken our doorway. Or if they did drop by, they would leave without notice and sneak out the back door.
It finally dawned on us that they didn’t appreciate our generosity in trying to foist our stuff on them — in some cases, slipping a family heirloom or two into the back seat of their car that they discovered only after returning home. It was especially cheeky of us to interest kids in an item their parents were bound to refuse.
At the time it was gifted to us, we thought a wall piece in the form of a fish was a real hoot. Clap your hands, and the sucker wiggles like you have him on a hook. No grandchild could pass this up. Several men have expressed an interest in adopting this aquatic specimen, but fear the wrath of their spouse if it comes home with them.
We remain ever hopeful about other items and our sales pitch goes something like this:
- This is your great grandmother’s favourite dish and she’d surely spin in her grave to know it will no longer be in the family.
- Well, of course, the silver will need to be cleaned but maybe you’ll win a lottery and can pay someone to keep it shining.
- The head is missing from Uncle Ted’s big pottery dog, but it’s here in a box somewhere, and a package of Gorilla Glue will easily fix that.
- You’ve always admired this painting — now it can be yours.
- This collection of buttons and badges from countless election campaigns represents a lot of history and could be valuable someday. My favourite is This is My Billy Button. Whadya mean you’ve never heard of most of these guys? Neither did the voters at the time.
- You have no idea how much fun you’ll have reading these old Eaton’s and Simpsons catalogues. The mice have been chewing away on them, and that only adds to the allure.
We’ve learned there is no interest in old time pieces and family diaries. We forgot that today’s kids don’t understand cursive writing and can only tell time in digital form. What’s going to happen to all the clocks and watches? Ending up in the same place as millions of old ashtrays, I suppose.
Misery enjoys company and we take comfort in knowing that we’re not alone in this decluttering stage of life. A friend, whose husband is an avid golfer, laments his fixation with used golf balls. The old duffer has shelves of empty paper milk cartons filled with balls he has salvaged from countless courses over many years. And he’s not done yet.
Meanwhile, we’ve run out of excuses and we’re about to fire up Operation Overload with a passion.
Family and friends will be notified when it’s safe to start visiting again.
Sally Barnes has enjoyed a distinguished career as a writer, journalist, and author. Her work has been recognized in a number of ways, including receiving a Southam Fellowship in Journalism at Massey College at the University of Toronto. A self-confessed political junkie, she has worked in the back rooms for several Ontario premiers. In addition to a number of other community contributions, Sally Barnes served a term as president of the Ontario Council on the Status of Women. She is a former business colleague of Doppler’s publisher, Hugh Mackenzie, and lives in Kingston, Ontario. You can find her online at sallybarnesauthor.com.
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This certainly hit the nail on the head! You must be overhearing conversations with my children and grandchildren! I still think one day they’ll regret not taking the Minton “wedding china”