Cape Karen
It's that time of year when the light becomes more intense, the hummingbirds start to return from their winter sojourns and the trees begin to bud and bloom. The robins are everywhere this year, listening with their heads cocked, hoping to find those yummy worms beneath the ground. April school vacation week is coming, Easter is around the corner, and before you know it the kids will be off for the entire summer.
O' gawd - it's time for Spring cleaning, and digging out again!
No, not just the garden beds or the mulch piles - but the closets, the drawers and those other little storage areas, like under the bed and, if you have one ~ the basement or the garage ~ where everything seems to find its way sooner or later. We have become a nation of hoarders and pack-rats. All those 'for sale' items, we just couldn't live without, have taken over our lives. And, a whole new industry has sprung-up and is flourishing ~ thanks to our unending passion for, and inabilty to let go of. . . everything. http://www.napo.net
For me, this year, it's all that wool I bought to cut-up and use in hooked rugs ~ that is, until I got carpal tunnel in my hooking hand from overdoing it. Now, I am looking at the 1,000 pounds of as-is and hand-dyed wool, stacked floor to ceiling everywhere, and saying to myself, "What was I thinking? Ten hookers couldn't possibly use all this wool in one lifetime. . . carpal tunnel or not!" And that's just one item that's cluttering my life. What to do with all those books and magazines I've read and re-read? They're just sitting here filling up my bookshelves, cluttering my tabletops and gathering dust. And paper - lots and lots of paper; and clothing I will never, ever wear again ~ too nice for donation, but not nice enough to consign.
What to do, what to do?
Funny thing is, Frank has more clothing than I do; and the large bedroom walk-in closet is filled to overflowing with HIS stuff. In his mind, to throw a single thing away, or even to give it to Goodwill, is nothing less than a cardinal sin. He bought it - therefore it is HIS - and it STAYS. Do not touch! He's a man who grew up on a farm, way out in the middle of nowhere. He came from humble beginnings, and a life spent stocking up and hunkering down for those long, cold MN winters. . . . "You betcha" - a lifelong pack-rat was born!
Frank is (was?) an outdoorsman; a fisherman, hunter, woodworker and avid golfer. Those "hobbies" come with lots of STUFF. When I met him he came, with many boxes, into my life. Boxes he lugged from MN to IA, from IA to VA, from VA to TN. Now, all those boxes ~ that contain photos of his past, receipts for every item he has ever purchased in the last 30 years, notebooks, notebooks and more notebooks from 40 years of working in sales, 10 big, leather-cased guns, boxes and boxes of bullets, lots of bulky, bright orange hunting gear, fishing poles, tackle boxes, bait cans, three (?) pairs of long, green rubber wading boots (taller than I am,) some really ugly, plaid flannel shirts, padded, multi-pocketed khaki vests, hundreds of hunting and golfing caps, 3 sets of leather-bagged golf clubs, bunches of mesh bags filled with "free found" golf balls, gathered from every golf course in the U.S. And I haven't even mentioned the huge mass of clothing he actually wears! All that stuff is stuffed into our nice, big walk-in closet. . . the one that we can't walk into.
I have my stuff and he has his. Between us, the house is bulging at the seams. And, did I say that we have two outdoor storage sheds? One is now being used as a woodworking shop. Tablesaws, hand saws, drills, wood planks, measuring tools, big clunky metal clamps, wood glues, stains, and paint fill it to the rafters. That means "my" storage shed (built as a craft room - pffffffftttt!) now houses the lawnmower, the weed-whacker, the fertilizer, the grass seed, the bug sprays, the weed killer, the flower pots, broken lamps, crafts started and stopped, lots of unused Christmas decorations, and, of course, all those 'must-keep,' valuable items that fill the 20 cartons of my life.
I can't even step inside to try and dig it out. (I tried last year, and almost killed myself stumbling over the all the multi-bladed machinery.) So, it's that time of year, again; time to hire a professional organizer and a big truck, driven by at least two, large muscle-bound men. . . or, maybe, just having a nice bonfire would do the trick?
This year, I'm going to get organized ~ Frank or no Frank!