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My mother moved yesterday. She and her husband, Jeff, and my 8 year old sister, Paige, and my Grandma, and my 20 year old brother, Paul, all moved out of their condo and into a massive and beautiful house. My brother will finally have his own bathroom, my Grandma will finally have her own mini apartment complete with her own kitchen space, and Paige will have more room for her extensive Barbie collection. I think she actually has a “Barbie Room” now. The move is a good thing for everyone living in that household.
So at 9 am yesterday morning, I reported—like the good, dutiful, eldest child should—to my mom’s condo to help pack and make 80 trips back and forth between the condo and the new house. Now, this story needs some set-up. Some MAJOR set-up: My mother has issues with separation anxiety with every piece of crap she has ever come in contact with. And I am only being mildly exaggeratory. My mother is one of the biggest packrats ever. Ever. We’re talking, like, could-be-on-Oprah-and-millions-would-gasp-and-laugh levels of packrat-ed-ness. She will not throw anything away because at some point, in the next century, she or someone she knows could possibly need it. We are talking everything from extra roofing shingles to broken, rusty bicycles, to plastic baked potato containers from Wendy’s. Her double car garage? Filled to the ceiling with stuff. Her basement storage room? Filled. Her pull-behind trailer? Filled. Every corner and space of her condo was filled with stuff.
–In my mother’s defense, I believe that it is hereditary. I have a packrat gene that, if not kept in tight check, threatens to overwhelm me. I have the urge to keep every issue of Reader’s Digest because what if 8 months from now I want to refer back to that one article about how Angelina Jolie is saving the world one child at a time? And for the longest time I had some shirts from junior high school that followed me from one move to another, eventually coming to Utah all the way from Maryland… so how could I part with those? But eventually I get to a point where I feel overwhelmed by the stuff and I must purge. I get a freakin trash bag and I throw out everything, including stuff that maybe I really shouldn’t throw out, like the current power bill. But after I get rid of all of the stuff that I thought there was no way I could live without, guess what… I’m still living. And I’m feeling pretty good. I can breathe. My mom has never actually gotten to the purge part… ever.—
To make the move even more challenging, my mom had Lasik eye surgery the day before. So she was walking around with an eye patch and those goofy roll-up sunglasses they give you when your eyes are dilated, plus another pair of regular sun glasses. Because she was actually supposed to keep her eyes dilated for the next several days. Since her eyes were dilated, she couldn’t have any lights on. So there we were, sitting in the condo, trying to pack with the lights turned out and the curtains drawn. It was dark, people. I’m pretty sure I packed some crystal stemware with some shoes. But whatever.
Being that my mom couldn’t see anything, and I could barely see anything, I decided it would be a great time to casually toss some stuff. And don’t you know it, when I threw out a cabinet full of Wendy’s and Fazoli’s take out boxes, suddenly her eyes went 20/20. That isn’t trash! I claimed I couldn’t see anything in the dark…
At one point during the day, my mom’s husband, Jeff, and Jeff’s dad were sitting in the kitchen with me. I was packing the junk drawer (which, actually, was a “trash drawer”) and they were taking a break from the heat outside. I said to Jeff, “You know, it occurred to me—and I hope this isn’t a morbid thought—but when you and mom die, I get to go through all of this crap since I’m the oldest.” Jeff chuckled, because he knows he is married to a packrat, and it irritates him but he just kind of lets mom be mom. And Jeff said, “Yeah, you are actually the executor of our estate.” And I looked at the broken nightlight and the Better Crocker points from 1955 that I was holding and I laughed out loud at the word “estate”. And then Jeff’s dad piped in and said gruffly, “Yeah, and you have to act grateful about it.”
But I’m thinking that unless my mom actually ever goes through a “purge” period, or else sorts through her tons of treasures and tells me which lucky kid she wants her drawer of plastic McDonald’s bibs bequeathed to… I’m taking a backhoe through her house and dragging it all to the dump. Because that’s one “Estate Sale” that I’d end up taking a loss on.
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My Grandma has barns and sheds full of um, stuff. And so do my parents. (This is what happens when you are sentimental, packrat-driven and never move.)
It pains me to think of the eventual nightmare. The only upside is it motivates me to do it differently…
Hope your family is settling in nicely.
Comment by Mama Milton — July 22, 2007 @ 5:47 pm
Me and Tony just laughed so hard we cried! You are a good daughter. I would have thrown it all out when she wasn’t looking. I get pretty good at that with the kids cereal and milk when we’re visiting. I feel kinda like an anorexic when I visit because I am sly with the food in the napkin!
Comment by Sam — July 22, 2007 @ 7:17 pm
Moving a lot exorcised my inner-packrat. Although, I never saved fast food containers. Your mom is hardcore.
Comment by Leslie — July 23, 2007 @ 12:24 pm
Joan’s mom is ridiculous. We helped her clean out her garage several years ago, or at least we ATTEMPTED to help her clean out her garage. Among the many…many…many things we found at the “covered landfill,” were eight plastic Wal-Mart bags full of ……………Wal-Mart bags! She had a huge addition put on her house, I simply consider it a bigger storage container. Have you ever seen a fireplace full of computer CDs?
Anyway, Joan had a lot of fun reading your blog. She laughed so hard, she about wet her pants.
Comment by Uncle Sam — July 26, 2007 @ 4:34 pm
Our condo was a giant storage container. I know now that we moved to a bigger house not so that we could have more elbow room for the people, we just ran out of spaces to put the junk. Suz is really not exaggerating much in this post. We have a storage unit - the largest we could rent - that was filled completely floor to ceiling BEFORE the move actually started. We moved none of that stuff over the weekend. We had to rent the largest truck the local rental company could offer and still filled it completely four times during the weekend move. At least we got the condo emptied.
After moving the 10th bag filled with 40 aluminum foil “baking dishes” - which I was told we needed in case a major neighborhood party required us to suddenly bake 400 whole chickens - mom and I came to an understanding. She had been talking about putting in a pool and we agreed that we wouldn’t even discuss it until all the junk is sorted through and thrown out. I can only dream.
We’ll see. Great post Suz!
Comment by Jeff — July 27, 2007 @ 9:37 am
Oh, too hilarious about her vision becoming crystal-clear when you starting tossing things. (Only because I’m right there with you, just moved my mom this month from one hoarded place to another, so not laughing AT you, rather *with*)
The family heirlooms in the piles—the “estate”. ay yi yi, I hear you. At least you know who the executor is…that is a big mystery to the 6 kids in my family-(is there even a will?)–well, just hope it’s not hoarder brother!
Thanks for sharing your story!
Donna
Comment by Donna — July 30, 2007 @ 8:51 am
We lived in an area that flooded and while going around with friends to help people save what they could you can’t believe what we saw people saving. Shopping bag collections people?
Comment by Michelle — August 3, 2007 @ 10:34 pm