My sister and I occasionally watch those TV shows about people who can’t keep on top of the clutter in their lives and have homes filled with moldy/expired food, clothing that’s never been worn, and curios that have never come out of the boxes or bags. It’s a bit of a trip down memory lane, because our grandmother Lily May Schumacher Rigney was a hoarder. A big-time hoarder.
Grandma Rigney had a two-bedroom ranch house on the outskirts of a dusty little community about 160 miles from where we lived. At Grandma’s, you had to use the outhouse. There was a problem with her septic system, but you couldn’t get to the bathroom anyway for all the stuff she had in the kitchen. The table was filled to the brim with unopened, expired cereal boxes. Getting a cup of water involved navigating a labyrinth of dishes in the sink and on the counter. One stove burner was reserved for the coffeepot; the others were stacked with pots and pans.
A sheet covered the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, full of old furniture and boxes, and two bedrooms. In the early 1960s when one of my cousins was the town’s May Queen, my mother, sister, and I slept all together in a bed in one bedroom; the other bedroom was so filled to the gills that no one ventured inside. I didn’t sleep much that night, given the odd assortment of odors and the number of fascinating wall cracks that formed spidery images. Grandma herself typically slept in a leather chair in the kitchen.
In 1979, the family moved her into a nursing home, and we went to the house to fetch a desk Mom had stored in the basement decades earlier. Along with the desk and other furniture, we found neatly stacked newspapers sorted by date. The earliest went back thirty years.
Perhaps it was due to the Grandma Rigney experience that I’ve always prided myself on not being much of a saver. Leaving my husband after more than twenty years of marriage involved two carloads and less than half a small truckload of furniture, clothes, and memorabilia. Me? I’ve got demons, but hoarding isn’t among them. Or so I’ve always thought.
But recently, as I’ve watched a few of these TV shows and heard people’s pitiful stories, I’ve started to think about other kinds of clutter and hoarding–the refusal to clean out a place in the heart held by a past love that won’t come back the way I need. The refusal to let go of a petty injury the other person didn’t even realize she had caused. The refusal to take a current inventory of where I’m spending my time and energy because it’s easier to fall into old, familiar patterns.
And I think, spring cleaning this year is going to need to involve more than my clothes closet.
What an emotional memory. Thanks for sharing. I’m struck by the idea of the papers stacked by dates. That sort of thing tugs at my heart strings. I wonder if she meant to find time to read them in order or if her “system of order” was something the rest of us couldn’t see? I’m thinking I would have liked to sit down and talked to her and find out what was on her mind about her collections. Interesting piece. I will ponder this one for some time.
Great post, Melanie! I read it because I expected a message that would speak to/help me break free of my attachment to all the stuff I’ve got piled up around here. I don’t have stacks of newspapers, but I can’t seem to get rid of anything with emotional memories attached. That means holding on to ALL the photos from my mom’s estate, every horse show trophy that our family of four won in 10 years of showing, the really nice and expensive clothes my mom left me (10 years ago) that I never wear. On an on.
What I’m taking away is an awareness of my inner junk. Spending my time in habitual ways rather than the ones that will create the life I want is one. Lack of faith is a big one for me. Not believing that whatever it is that runs this universe is on my side . . . Thanks for posting.
Thanks to you and Debbie for commenting!