Clutter Trauma

We have clutter. So much clutter. So much that can be rearranged, donated, thrown away --  and I don’t know where to begin.

So one day a few years ago, I did begin. I noticed it was big trash day. You know, the day you can throw away nearly anything! I love big trash day like a dog loves to bury his old bone! Those old crusty lawn chairs, and pillows that have lost their fluff, boxes, and vacuums that no longer suck – all for the heap. It’s exciting I tell you! So I set off to the garage with a hitch in my step, to collect the old, the unwanted, the unused, and the broken.

When I was done in the garage there was a nice tidy pile by our regular trash cans, but I thought, nah, there’s got to be more! So off to the side yard I flounced with a determined grin. There had to be more trash and clutter and waste. And there was, oh yes, there was.

Bikes. Rusted bikes. There were 5 in total, 4 of them varying ages of children’s bicycles, left to rot in the rain and the dew and the fog that rolls in. So I wheeled them around to the front yard and dumped them on the growing pile of clutter I collected. 

Then I went back for the brown one, the big daddy bike, leaned up against the fence, its wheels rusted, parts falling off. The chain hanging slack, it had once been a beautiful brown, back in the day. Now it was faded and clearly a topper for the heap. The wheels couldn’t turn so I trudged, pulling and pushing the poor brown bike to the pile, as if he didn’t want to go. I went back and found broken toys, a few abandoned boxes and even a gardening pot with a broken bottom, dirt spilling out.

I was quite proud of my pile as I washed my hands and set the table for dinner. Then I heard the front door open and a holler could be heard. “Who threw my bike away???” It wasn’t a child or a teen that shouted this affront, no, it was none other than the Sir of the house. The man. The husband. Oh boy.

His bike, the big brown one, you see, brought back fond memories of its days of glory and he was offended  by my pile.

He regaled stories of himself riding tall on its brown, beautiful gleaming seat, clutching the handle bars as he executed first a left and then a right turn, using proper hand signals, of course. (He’s a Boy Scout through and through.)

“But dear,” I pleaded, “It is time. Your bike is old and rusted and needs to be replaced. I found it welded to the pavement with so much rust I had to hammer at it with my foot.”

He gasped and disappeared to sulk. That night the pickers and gleamers of goodies from the piles of trash trolled the neighborhood and David watched with exasperation as our pile of clutter was reduced to a much smaller pile with the bikes still on top. Ah, so they really were worthless and gone beyond repair, I thought.

David watched off and on as he heard the rustling, like little rats, picking the pile of trash down  to just the basics.  The bikes, carefully set aside, the brown one set back on the pile, the smaller ones on top of each other in a separate pile (the trash pickers were really quite neat). A pickup truck pulled up and, to David’s horror, the kiddy bikes were scooped up and carted off, but the old brown bike, with its hanging entrails of rust, was left in the heap with the cardboard and an old computer monitor.

The next morning, most of the trash had been picked up. No one wanted the broken flower pot or the crusty cardboard boxes and, lying dejected and sad, was David’s old brown bike. “I remember riding that bike to school,” he sighed. That was when I felt just a tiny bit sad, until I remembered it had sat out in the elements for years. Obviously someone had forgotten the bikes and lost interest in riding here and there on the bike trails and around the streets.

“ Let’s go buy you a new bike!” I declared! He just shook his head, “I don’t know if I’m ready for a new one or not.” (Not to mention being busier than a one armed wall paper hanger.)

“Plus,” I said, with a flourish, “right there where the rust is still showing in the pavement is where the bicycle shed will stand once we’ve picked out our new wheels.”

I think, maybe, David rolled his eyes.

Author’s note: To date, no bike has been purchased, no mention has been made of any of the bikes and no shed has appeared. I suspect, just like the go-peds and skates and skate boards, those days are gone. David finally agreed his bike was beyond repair and he is actually helping in the scaling down of clutter. Yeah!

Trash

I love trash. I should say, I love to find unusable, unwanted clutter and throw it in the trash. There's a certain pleasure in cleaning off a counter enough to actually get out the Windex and polish the counter. Or clean up all that junk mail and recycle it, of course, enough to polish the piano or the coffee table. That's when you discover the color of the counter (grey) or that the wood on that coffee table is really pretty.

I also love to push the wheelie trash cans out to the curb, full to the brim. (Or ask my very strong son to do the pushing.) I've been known to go looking for more clutter if that trash can is not full . . . there's always more. The kitchen, for instance, always has a soda can or box or even the Sunday paper spread out all over the counters. Does it breed or are there little trash fairies that leave all that stuff everywhere?

Today is post trash day, the wheelie cans happily empty, all the contents on the way to the recycle center or the dump. They sit awaiting my chore of finding more clutter, recyclables, or just plan junk to fill them up again. I noticed this morning over flowing trash cans in the bathrooms, the kitchen, and my bedroom trash and I'm sure my Stamp Studio has an over flowing recyclable receptacle as well. Oh the joy, the satisfaction!

It's not joy when your husband discovers you've thrown something of his away. It's enough to make him breath funny and maybe even swear with words like, "darn you, woman!" And that's a lot since not much can make the husband even a teeny bit mad. So I try and avoid throwing things of his away.

One day I noticed his dresser over flowing with receipts, tools from the garage, batteries, change, and Boy Scout papers. So I spent an hour, returning the tools, bundling the receipts with a rubber band, and filing the Boy Scout things in the box purchased just for this purpose. Then I retrieved the Pledge and gave his dresser a good dusting. I returned a few knickknacks my husband loves, like his little Buddha and his change container.

When he returned home, after a hard day at work, he trudged up the stairs and started to change into his shorts and a tshirt. I found him staring at the top of his dresser, mouth open. I asked him what was wrong, I just dusted his dresser . . . he looked at me and said, "what did you throw away??" I replied, with a very straight face, "you tell me."

You know, he couldn't tell me. I could have left him wondering for days, but I did tell him where all his things were and that only a plastic bag was thrown away. I was worried he would start guarding his treasures or putting more things in his car. His trunk is stuffed with treasures he's afraid I will throw away. I know this because I went grocery shopping in his car once and I had to put the groceries on the front seat since there was no room in the trunk.

Just to be clear, I rarely actually throw anyone else's things away. Basically I have enough of my own to go through. However, if it's an eyesore, or in a public area . . . beware, my wheelie cans are empty.