This story, about a woman whose body was found buried under debris in her own house, caught my attention last week.
Actually the headline D.C. Woman Missing for Year Found In Basement made me say "What the hell?" out loud on the Metro. (My seatmate glanced down at my paper and did not edge away from me or anything, but then again lots of people talk to themselves on public transportation.)
So apparently last summer this 62-year-old went missing. Police and fire personnel checked her house, which "was stacked from floor to ceiling with magazines, clothes and assorted trash," and didn't find her. Last week a contractor who was cleaning the house out at the request of relatives found the body.
Probably the woman had some kind of medical condition that incapactited or killed her when she was down in the basement, and junk fell on top of her, and by the time the authorities showed up, she wasn't visable under the pile of magazines or something. (This is my analysis.) Poor woman. This may sound awful, but I hope that it was a heart attack or something quick, and that she wasn't just trapped under an avalanche of stuff.
My pain reading this story was partly for the woman, and partly fear for my future.
I come from a family of pack rats, I'm afraid. It isn't as bad as people who truly suffer from hoarding, but man we have too much stuff.
My grandparent's house, when I was a kid, was a treasure trove. My mom always suggested that the reason they kept everything was that they'd lived through the Depression, so they couldn't bring themselves to get rid of anything they might need again someday. Whatever the reason was, I spent hours reading old magazines, playing with my father's old toys, and turning old clothes into costumes.
After my grandfather died and my grandmother's health declined the state of the house deteriorated. She no long dusted and vaccumed, and instead of neatly putting things away, things just accumulated into clutter. When my grandmother died it took us nearly a year to actually get the house emptied. Much went into dumpsters, much went to Goodwill and the Salvation Army. I got some things that were of great sentimental value (the candy dish I raided every visit) and things I just found cool, like an aluminium Christmas tree with a color wheel.
Way too much of the stuff ended up in my parents' basement. And my parents, who didn't live through the Depression and can't use that excuse, were already well on their way toward filling the basement with their own stuff before they added the contents of my grandmother's house. When they die I'll be cramming it all into my basement, I know it.
My sister has really learned from this. She has three kids and a small house, and is actively trying to discourage more stuff. The kids get savings bonds for presents. She's declared war on knick-knacks.
I agree with her in principle, but I am weak. I keep books because maybe I'll want to read them again. I keep magazines because, hey, a couple of those articles were really useful and that recipe looked good. I keep things that are useless but "cool," like the talking Taco Bell dog. And worst of all, I am pathologically sentimental, so I can't get rid of presents or anything else that has a connection to someone I love.
I used to justify keeping so much that I loved as a kid by saying someday my kids would love it too. But there will be no little Nics and grand Nics, so I need to repent before the day I'm old and frail and crushed to death under three generations of treasures.
Posted by Nic at October 28, 2003 08:40 PM | TrackBack