Where all my stuff ends up

What do I do with all my stuff?

Kathy’s answer: “chuck it.” 

But that’s easier said than done – for me, anyway.

I’ve always been a saver. Ten years ago I wrote about the stacks of stuff in my office at the newspaper: 15 or 16 of them, some several feet tall. I knew pretty well what was in each stack and about where in each stack a particular document dwelt.

But when I vacated the office, the stuff had to go somewhere. Most of it ended up in one of two places: the carriage house (garage) at our home or our home’s third floor.

A lot of it is still there. You never know – I may need it someday. (Ring a bell for any of you?)

Periodically Home State Bank holds a shredding day for the public. You can bring a big garbage bag full of paper and have it shredded. A perfect time to shed myself of old documents, right?

So regularly, just before that day, I sort through my stuff, bag some of it up, and take it to Shred Day at the bank. 

But much of it still remains, either in the garage or in the attic. The financial records are gone – they’ve exceeded their shelf life, and the IRS no longer would be interested in any of them.

But the remainder---old economic development records, political tracts, state commission papers, typed studies on various topics – remains. I expect that some day, before I expire, I’ll get it all to the shredder and it’ll finally be gone. 

There’s more stuff, though. 

When Dad died in 2007, he had been a widower for 18 years, and had lived alone in his house for nearly 17 years before he went to long term at the medical center. His house stood undisturbed for a little over a year until his passing, so all his stored records, furniture, extra clothing, kitchen items, etc., remained there. He, too, saved stuff.

My siblings and their spouses, and Kathy and I, gathered at his house and everyone took what they wanted. Most of it was distributed that way, and some of the remainder was disposed of in less humane ways.

But much of Dad’s keepsake stuff was still left. For instance, what do you do with 65-year-old high school track medals? And award plaques? You get the idea.

It didn’t seem right to throw away any of those treasures, but no one wanted to take them home, either. I’m the only sibling that lives in Jefferson, and “you have a big attic.” So logically (and unavoidably) Dad’s stuff that fell into the treasure category ended up on our third floor, to join my stacks of office documents.

Our extended family enjoys a large Christmas season get-together every year at some family member’s home. Part of the tradition is to hold a white elephant exchange, with each relative wrapping up something and placing it on the gift pile for some unlucky chooser to take. 

I generally wrap up some keepsake from Dad’s stockpile for the exchange. But I can’t live nearly long enough to divest all of it that way. Most of it still lives up on our third floor.

Then there is the collected detritus from our four kids. As they grew up and lost interest in their childhood toys, games, books, clothes, etc., their stuff eventually found its way to the attic. 

We’ve tried various ploys to encourage them to take re-ownership. None have succeeded. Our “kids” are now 52, 47, 41, and 39. Sometimes the younger grandchildren, when they visit, like to climb the stairs to the third floor and rummage through the old toys, but their parents warn them not to bring them home. More’s the pity.

So they lounge peacefully on the third floor with my stuff, Dad’s stuff, our luggage, our Christmas decorations, a couple of beds, and many other items.

The garage suffers from a similar burden. As some of you know, we live in the house where I grew up. Some of the old throwaway wood pieces, rusted tools, etc., that lived in the two-story garage back in my childhood are still there, more than 75 years later.

When Kathy and I bought the property in 1980, I climbed the stairs of the garage to see if the minutes of my childhood neighborhood club (no girls allowed) were still there, stuffed in a cubbyhole of one of the dormer windows. No such luck – they probably molded away. Disappointment.

I particularly wanted to find the entry in the minutes from the fundraiser circus we held about 1950 or so. We charged admission, and raised somewhere between three and four dollars. Our club was the Hospital Helpers Club, so we gave the proceeds to Greene County Medical Center. Dad took it out there and left it with hospital officials.

When the hospital’s financial records were published in the Jefferson Herald a short time later, there was a listing under donations: “Fred Morain, $3.57.” Several sharp-eyed readers bumped Dad about his generous contribution to the hospital’s treasury.

Anyway, no club records remained in the garage. They’re about the only such items that no longer survive somewhere on our property. 

That’s a shame. But most of my stuff is still around. You never know – I may need it someday.