Cleaning Out the Old with the Old

Is there anything more satisfying than an afternoon spent helping your parents clean out their garage? Helping Mom and Dad to live a less cluttered life is a way to give back to the two people who love you more than life itself. It’s a way to show your gratitude and appreciation for all those nights they babysit your kids and make delicious home-cooked meals.

It’s a way to make room for your own shit until you find a place of your own.

Dad got started yesterday and requested Mom’s help in disposing of a few items. (And when I say “few” I mean “970.” At least.) After a few minutes Mom walked back in the house holding a decorative basket. She looked around with furrowed brow.

“Whatcha got there?” I asked.

“I thought this would look nice somewhere.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe put some candles in it.”

“Yes,” I nodded, thinking about all the baskets hanging around with old lottery tickets and AARP magazines in them. “You could take all the half-used scented candles in this house, put them in the same central location, and light ‘em up all at once. Can’t imagine the combination of Pumpkin Spice, Sandlewood, Strawberry Kisses, and Pine Tree. If one of the kids drops dead, maybe we can sell it to the Pentagon as a weapon of mass destruction.”

I gently took the basket from her and made my way to the garage.

“Repeat after me, Mom,” I said. “‘I am no Martha Stewart.”

I opened the door and almost cried.

“I can walk in here without holding my breath and turning sideways.” I looked at Dad. “I’m so proud of you! What brought this on?”

I thought maybe I’d provided a positive example earlier by showing them how the vacuum worked.

Dad grunted. “I needed a beer and couldn’t find the fridge.”

Whatever works!

I could sense they needed guidance and immediately created two piles: The “Give Shit Away” Pile and The “Throw Shit Away” Pile.

I know. Both piles look strikingly similar.

I won’t pretend that a few hours of organizing and cleaning was easy on my parents. They don’t like bending unless it’s into the BarcaLounger for a Boston Legal marathon and they don’t like lifting unless it’s a beer glass to toast that “noon” has finally arrived. They also don’t like to clean, organize, or part with their treasures. When I loaded up my Jeep with about four tons worth of old Christmas ornaments, beach chairs, something called a “Gut Be Gone” and two closets full of ski clothes, all sized to fit two trim forty year-olds, my mother looked like she was watching a hearse drive away with a loved one inside.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t get them to toss everything.

“Don’t throw that away,” Dad said.

“Is this a torture device left over from the Spanish inquisition?” I asked.

“It’s a corkscrew -”

“You’ve got a million corkscrews.”

“This ain’t just any corkscrew. It’s for when I start making my own wine.”

My eyes drifted over toward the pasta machine, bread maker, juicer, and beer kit.

All used once. All collecting dust.

But I held my tongue.

“Don’t throw this away,” my mom said.

“The man or the machine?” I asked.

“Both,” Mom said.

Again, I held my tongue.

Because, in the end, Dad can get a beer, Mom can park her car, and I have a blog post.

Whatever works!

Tags: barcalounger, clean out the garage, gut be gone