Sentimentality makes spring cleaning quite a chore

Judy Hauser | Sound View • Published March 25, 2008

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As this house springs forward, not everything is making the leap with it. Gone are old books, videos and a VCR. Gone are knickknacks, the hot-tub cover and a tattered carpet.

Gone is the closetful of World War II Army coats that had belonged to my husband's father, and hung onto by a nostalgic son until the sleeves all but turned to stone.

Gone are 10 years of gamy sneakers my daughter left behind as she leapt into adulthood, memorialized by her sappy mother in hopes of getting one more whiff of her youth.

There are things we hold onto and things we let go of. The journeys our belongings make from "must haves" to "castaways" can be brief. In a blink, most of us swapped our videos for DVDs. Serious gamers moved from Ataris to Xboxes. Now we're replacing our analog televisions with HDTVs.

Much of our stuff sits in limbo, buried in strong sentiment or just idling with other stuff, waiting to be used again. Common sense tells us, if we haven't worn it, if we haven't used it, if we haven't reached for it in half a decade, it probably needs to find a new home.

Some people have no trouble liquidating their stuff. They can be found on weekends pitching lamps, sofas, chairs; heck, entire living rooms into the colossal pits at the landfill.

Most landfills today have an orderly system aimed at cutting waste — offering a charity drop, free recycling and a free collection center for hazardous, household waste. Still, the biggest attraction at the landfill is the Indiana Jones of colossal pits.

Before the first daffodil of the season popped its head up, Mike made a list of spring tasks that included installing a new floor in the back bedroom, which, since the holidays, had bred its own little landfill. We surveyed the room, with its overstuffed closet and a TV cabinet loaded with obsolete dictionaries, stereo components, videos and a set of Encyclopedia Britannicas from 1980.

In 14 years of wedlock, we had amassed an incredible amount of stuff. We knew what we had to do.

"We need to get rid of stuff!" we both sang out.

"Let's donate those old Army coats to charity," I said, realizing this was a golden opportunity. Clearly wounded by the idea, my husband protested.

"But they were my father's! Besides, they're probably worth something." I decided to go for the jugular of human decency.

"Wouldn't your father rather have his coats keeping less-fortunate individuals warm and dry?" How could he argue with that?

"I'll get rid of those, if you get rid of Whitney's stuff, too." I agreed, but wondered who on earth would want my daughter's old sneakers.

In less than a week, Craigs list, charities and secondhand stores swallowed up our discards. For the first time in years, we were clutter-free. At least, I thought we were, until I wandered into the spare room and opened the closet.

There, tucked between ski jackets and a wetsuit, were two Army-green coats that had somehow trudged across war-ravaged Europe, but couldn't find their way out of my husband's heart. But how could I say anything? A few steps down the hall, inside another closet, sat a clandestine pair of well-worn Reeboks.

Judy Hauser is a South Sound writer who can be reached at mjhauser@mindspring.com. Her column appears on this page on alternate Tuesdays.