You may have seen the television series, "Hoarders." These are people who apparently can’t bear to throw anything away. Their houses are full, room-after-room, with stuff; old food, cans, bottles, old clothes, toys, etc., etc.
Did I say stuff? Perhaps the right term is junk or even garbage. These people are hoarders. The accumulation of junk is destroying their families, if they have any. Their homes have been condemned by health authorities. They have been given a specific amount of time to clean up or they will be evicted.
Yeah, yeah. That’s like asking them to stop breathing. The very thought of throwing any of that stuff away traumatizes them to the bone; they simply cannot do it.
Enter now a unique team specializing in just such situations. They accommodate the psychological needs associated with extreme hoarding and work closely with the people to help them build a new life. The team helps the clients make the decision themselves as to what to dispose of. They’re good at persuasion.
So what does that have to do with me? I’m not a hoarder but I do have difficulty throwing things away; I always have the feeling I’m going to need it – some day. That and sheer inertia; I’ll take care of it when I get around to it and I do get around to it eventually. Sometimes, though, that "when" is a long time coming.
When Cody moved home several months ago and brought his pregnant sister and a friend with him, it was time to take the bull by the horns and start sorting and throwing.
Flashback: When hurricane Katrina was devastating the Gulf Coast, Cody headed west with the rest of his professional tree-trimming family to be part of the rescue/restoration processes. He did so well that he stayed behind when they came back and built a going business in Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana. Since it was obvious at the time that he intended to remain there, I converted his bedroom into a home office. I should have known that all that space was an open invitation to sloth.
I have a filing cabinet that has travelled all over the State of Florida with me. I have files dating back to 1965 and earlier but not much since 2004 when Cody left; that stuff has been accumulating since then and was stacked on every available surface including the floor. You know, "I will file it when I get around to it." Trouble is, I never got around to it. It’s filed now, though; most of it was shredded and tucked away in File Thirteen.
I had magazines that I had saved because there were articles in them I wanted to read. I couldn’t remember what the articles were that captured my attention.
I had photographs of people but couldn’t remember who they were.
I had birthday cards and Christmas cards from people whose names rang a bell but whose faces escaped me.
I had stuff, too; electric cords that no longer fit anything I own; parts and pieces from who knows what; keys galore the locks they once fit probably recycled into something else by now.
I had ballpoint pens and mechanical pencils that should have been resting in some landfill or other decades ago.
Rule of thumb; if you haven’s looked at most files for three years, you probably don’t need to keep them; I had files I hadn’t looked at in 30 years; what a pile of shredded paper they made.
Anyway, after we got done, I discovered I didn’t need to dedicate all that space to a home office. Cody got his room back and I have a more compact and much more efficient space in my bedroom. There’s an added bonus too; the room is on the front corner of the house and from both window walls I can look out on the river. It’s bright and cheery, has my favorite reading chair and just about anything I need. I practically live there.
As I write this, however, I notice there is a growing stack of paper on one end of my desk. Now if I can only get the initiative to move it to the other end where the shredder is waiting.