No, that’s not a picture of my new luxury condo. I did check it several times to make sure no families had moved in, just in case.
That sucker was as big as a large RV. Several neighbors and family members quipped that ther was no possible way that I could fill a dumpster that large. They scoffed at me for my foolish spending, saying that I could have spent far less for a smaller container, more appropriate to my needs. Perhaps the sparse accumulation of snow that fell the day the dumpster was delivered was an indication of the corresponding accumulation of junk over the years we have occupied our property. 23 years of accumulation, in a house occupied by my hoarding missionary’s daughter of a spouse — she throws away nothing, including empty boxes just in case something needs to be returned to the store. In her defense, much of what she had growing up came out of donation boxes, outdated and patched. She is accustomed to recycling and reusing, so it is difficult for her family to throw anything away, if simply because some day someone else might have a use for it.
The container was delivered on Monday afternoon. I started tossing and tossing and tossing the next day. By Wednesday evening, I had finished eliminating the junk from the backyard shed and the floor level of the garage. That meant there was only one area left — the rafters of the garage. I dreaded that task. Not only was it dirty and dusty, but it was crammed with heavy boxes of books, old baby furniture, as well as a complete dirty remnant of carpet that had been stored there for the whole 23 years we occupied the house.
My wife finally decided to help me with that job, about halfway through the rafters. I welcomed the assistance, tired of carting stuff down the ladder. Thursday night, the task was finished, a few odds and ends tossed over the side of the full container.
That’s right. FULL. To the brim. Full of junk. Full of quite a few memories. All delivered to the landfill.
March 31 comes next, the day we say good bye to the house.