I love my Edison phonograph, my antique wall phone, and my grandmother’s quilts. I have two sets of china and enough table linens to serve royalty. My husband and I are the repository of the older generations.
Our kids explicitly told us they don’t want any of our stuff. They tell me young people don’t use elaborate china patterns; they don’t cover anything with handmade lace doilies; they don’t care that the rocking chair belonged to Great Grandpa.
So my house is filled with random items, augmented by things we’ve added over the years and by our affection for garage sales.
Now that I’m 81. I know it’s time to face the truth: If I don’t declutter my house now, my kids will have to face the larger task after our deaths.
As I get older, I know I need to clear out my house.
My husband and I have made a 2,500-square-foot, four-bedroom house a home. We have no plans to leave anytime soon. We love our home surrounded by acres of trees and wildlife. We hope to stay here for a long time. But soon, it will be our time.
Someday, someone will need to clean this house out, and it will most likely fall to our kids. So, we are starting the process now.
Every time our kids visit, they bring down more boxes from the attic. We sort the contents together, and it’s actually kind of fun.
It’s harder than I thought, but adjusting my thinking has helped
I’ve finally acknowledged that the reason I love old things is because they represent the memories of the people who used them. Grandmother used to crochet in her chair; my mother loved setting the table for company; my father hooked up an old phone that actually works. But I’ve finally realized I can keep the memories without the things.
I’m also just happier with less. One of the reasons I love our annual vacation to the Caribbean is that we take so little with us. We rent a condo; we cook our meals; we take just enough clothing to be covered. It’s liberating not to have to rummage through 20 pairs of jeans to find my favorites.
It feels wrong to keep things unless you’re using them. I don’t need eight jackets, but there are people in our community who could benefit from one. I don’t need my grandmother’s crocheted afghans I store in the closet, but someone else might benefit from them. I don’t need my childhood collection of ceramic horses, but they might bring happiness to another child.
I’ve found joy in giving items away
Sure, I could sell these things on eBay, but it’s more rewarding to give away all my prized possessions.
A friend admired my cut-glass pitcher recently, so I just gave it to her. I’ve brought my collection of Annie Fellows’ “The Little Colonel” stories to a book club friend for her granddaughter.
I’m no longer teaching, so most of that wardrobe is going to the local Goodwill. I love tablecloths, but I’m keeping only my three favorites. I am looking for a home for the second set of china and way too many teacups.
Books are our biggest challenge
As lifelong readers, my husband and I have a large collection. I always thought being surrounded by books felt cozy, so I stocked our home full of them. There are books in almost every room.
Except for “The Joy of Cooking,” I cleared out all the ones in the kitchen. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the hall is now half empty. I am thinning out the reference books in my office.
Unfortunately, we found that donating books is harder than donating clothing or housewares, but there are places that accept them. Schools, libraries, thrift shops, retirement homes, and even prisons accept books in good condition.
Even though this is a strange and difficult process, I know it’s the right decision. Decluttering isn’t just for me; it’s about caring for and considering the people who will deal with what we leave behind.
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