Some things are in my DNA; some things are not

Last Sunday, The Brides came for what Lindsey called “old people’s dinner”; that is, we ate earlier than usual since it was a school night. Unfortunately, Debby couldn’t join, but a fun time was had by the five of us. I was looking through my photos earlier and thinking about all the things at the Hall that were changed just before or after that dinner.

Side note: I told Lindsey I kept expecting her to say, “My eyes are up HERE, Becky,” because I couldn’t stop staring at Eddie on her old Van Halen t-shirt. I’m never going to stop missing Edward Van Halen.

We were talking about housekeeping and the time Lindsey and my mother came to clean at The Compound after our remodeling was done (December 2007). My mother was a fierce housekeeper and had a systematic approach to cleaning. Every month, she tackled one BIG job: things like washing windows, defrosting the freezer or refrigerator, polishing the silver, cleaning the oven, or laundering, ironing, and rehanging all the curtains. Shit that I do…every few years (thank goodness for frost-free appliances, self-cleaning ovens, and windows without curtains, meaning three jobs are automatically eliminated, and do NOT look closely at the blinds, please!).

Mother’s weekly housekeeping was also rigorous. She vacuumed the entire house at least once a week, but also any day on an as-needed basis. Dusting, vacuuming, cleaning bathrooms, mopping–every week. There were never dirty dishes in the sink, and if a house had a dishwasher, it was used only for full loads when the whole family was there, and it was emptied as soon as the load was finished. Cleaning house usually happened on Saturdays when Debby and I both lived at home, because I always got stuck with dusting, and I don’t remember what Debby did–maybe she handled changing the bed linens. She wasn’t allowed near the vacuum cleaner just like I wasn’t allowed near the sewing machine. I can neither confirm nor deny there was a method to our ability to break those two things.

The day that Lindsey and Mother both came to help clean my house before we moved everything back in, Mother saw Lindsey heading for the living room windows with cleaner and Q-Tips.

“Are you going to use the Q-Tips to clean all around and under the latches and locks?” Mother asked.

“Of course!” Lindsey said.

With a nod, my mother said, “It’s official. I hereby hand over my crown. You are the Queen of Cleaning.”

I like a clean house, but other than bathrooms (toilet bowls, at least, are cleaned daily), I’m pretty relaxed about things. Which is why every visit from anyone involves night-before or day-of flashes of Tom and me sprinting through the house with the Dyson, mops, dust cloths, and various other brushes and cleaners. But as I commented at dinner last Sunday, I always wanted a welcoming home. I wanted people not to be afraid to spill, to make messes, to put their feet up and be comfortable. I didn’t fret over people’s kids in the house, because I put things I’d never want broken out of their reach. I don’t sweat scratches or scuffs, and handprints can be removed.

So whatever that strand of DNA that Mother and Lindsey both got, I guess I didn’t. But there’s another gene that is definitely part of my makeup. I can only endure clutter for a limited time. Everything has a place. If it’s dirty, put it in the sink or the laundry basket. If it comes off your feet, put it in the closet or a set place (e.g., yard flip-flops by the back door are allowed). Dogs get a little leeway with their toys, but sooner or later, I’m going to sweep through and put them all in their toy baskets. Books go on shelves, as do records and DVDs. I have CD cases inside the stereo cabinet.

There are shelves for sewing, coloring, and painting supplies for crafts or projects. I have containers for everything. I may not finish an organizing project for a long time, but if you come in my house, it will almost certainly be out of sight. I can’t write, read, work, or relax if there’s clutter. If I leave a project out overnight or for a few days, I’m always aware of it, and have to breathe through my self-reassurance that it’s okay to stay where it is until I’m finished working on it.

While most of my recent projects are ongoing, here’s how things look right now.

The purged and reorganized trunk with many of my parents’ things. This trunk stays in our living room as an end table for the sofa. I was delighted to find my father’s college diploma inside; I didn’t remember I had it. I remain aware that there’s a bin (shelved in the home office) and a footlocker (in the storage room on the Hall grounds) with the rest of their things, but this amount of organizing got rid of one box and a sizable bin of paper and other stuff. Progress.

Tom and I had this cabinet custom-built either just before or just after we moved into The Compound. It moved between several rooms there, but here, at least since the Harvey flood, it’s been in our bedroom. This is where my many diaries and journals were stuffed in so tightly they were barely accessible, and it had some other memorabilia in it, too. On the wall:  The art was painted and given by Timmy; the photograph is one Lindsey took when she, Rhonda, Tom, and I went to Galveston on the spur of the moment in August 2009.

Now: Easy to access journals and datebooks on the top shelf. The bottom shelf contains separately organized boxes with 1) copies of Riley’s poems, songs, some artwork, and letters, and 2) copies of my poetry and short stories mostly written in the 1980s, along with a folder of Timmy’s poetry, some of it with hand-written notations by me.

The box on top of the cabinet was a gift to me from Debby. It now holds the remainder of my diaries, day planner pages, and other little books of one type or another.

One reason I wanted all of that organized and more accessible is because it can be used either for future blog posts about writing, or I can use work by either Riley or myself in my fiction (fully credited to Riley in his case, of course).

You’ve already seen a photo of my recently reorganized coloring pens and pencils. For now, they’re on these two tavern tables just inside our front door. The two baskets on the far left contain the cloth masks that Tom and I use when we go out or when workers come here (e.g., the exterminator, plumber, etc.), plus a box of N95 masks for our use in public places like retailers, grocers, medical buildings, etc.

To the right of the coloring supplies, I’ve put the combination coloring book/journal that Lynne gave me on the table. When I color or write in that journal, I’m looking out at Aaron’s Garden. It’s a peaceful place and that journal is a peaceful activity for me.

The last big project involved the Barbie Doll Closet in Lynne’s Room. There are a few bins on the right side of the closet, but space remains for a guest (mostly Lynne!) to hang clothes or store shoes or other items inside the closet. Absolutely no space remains on the long closet shelf, which is full of boxed dolls. (Loose dolls are mostly individually wrapped in tissue and all are stored in plastic bins. I have a record of the contents of each bin. To be able to put my hand on a specific doll with a minimum of effort saves time and makes me happy. It’s like being the Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe and knowing exactly where all my children are all the time.

I had a little over two years worth of dolls to catalog, photograph, and either unbox or shelve boxed. I refuse to justify or apologize for my doll collection. It has brought me joy and fun since the summer I was nine years old, and I’m a shit ton older than that now. So many of my dolls are gifts, including other people’s collections, and as long as I’m alive, donors like Lynne, Susan W., Nancy J., Cari, Rhonda, and Marika will know how cherished their dolls remain, as are the dolls given to me by the late Linda Raven Moore.

I had all the doll clothes separated in plastic storage or freezer bags depending on their function (Barbie skirts, Ken swim wear, etc.) and piled into a bin. The lack of organization and the amount of space they took up was a time waste and offended my sense of organization. Enter this lovely storage solution hanging from the closet rod.

The clothes remain in their labeled plastic bags, but the clothes inside each have been better placed and the air removed so that they take up a lot less space. Plus maybe some of the wrinkles will go away now that they’re lying flatter. If not, does anyone out there like to iron as much as my mother did? (Every week!)

A better look at the floor, the available space for guest use, and that full top shelf (which goes much higher than the door frame allows you to see).

To the left, more boxed dolls on shelves, plus vintage doll cases labeled with their contents, and in any of these photos, any bin you see, whether orange, green, blue, or clear, holds dolls (and in one case, Monster High doll accessories; in another, fun Barbie accessories like a boat and car–Lisa!–bed and closet–Chris and John!–horses, and motorcycles).

Here is an offering of my experience-based wisdom. I believe Lindsey, who organizes people’s home and work spaces as her career, will likely agree with me. I’m not an organizer of other people’s places, but I have done energy space-clearing in their homes. I freely admit to appropriating some of the methods and customs used by Balinese, indigenous North American, and Chinese feng shui practitioners in my own version of energy work. Without fail, every client who ever asked for my help listed one or more of the following reasons:

I don’t enjoy spending time at home.
I feel overwhelmed by all the things I can’t get done.
I’m not comfortable in my house/apartment/dorm room.
There’s a bad energy inside my place.
I feel like the former occupant (or an ex-spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend/friend/roommate) left all their problems here.
I mean to exercise or cook a good meal or do something creative, but I feel drained once I’m at home.

I’d never give suggestions or answers until I actually worked in their space, and you would be amazed by all the trapped, negative, or sad energy I could feel within their walls. I worked alone, without them present, and I made notes of all my impressions. Every single time I noted a specific place that felt off or wrong, the resident later could tell me a story of that space, what was there or had been there, or of some item placed there that made them feel a sense of shame, remorse, guilt, fear, or loss. Also present in places where a person lacked energy or contentment, or they felt a sense of helplessness about their time, productivity, or appearance, their space was full of stuff that served them in no way. It didn’t give them happiness. It didn’t give them good memories because of sentimental value. It didn’t even matter if the stuff was valuable. They felt weighed down, overwhelmed, and trapped.

I helped them identify things they could purge. I’m a good helper, because I KNOW how hard it is to let go of things. I had a mother who moved more times than I could count, and she owned SO MUCH STUFF, as do I, because of its connection to someone else. On her last day in her last apartment, before she moved into a care home (and later, hospice), I asked her if there was anything special she wanted to look at, hold, or even take with her. She looked around from her wheelchair, waved an arm, and said, “It’s all…just stuff.”

That can be a point we get to, but until it is, I’m getting rid of, and advise anyone to do likewise, as much of the stuff I can that doesn’t serve me or my family. My categories: If it’s trash, throw it away. If it can be donated or recycled, do that. If it would mean more to someone else (a friend, family member, collector, colleague, a person in need, or an ex), GIVE IT TO THEM. (Except one time, when I recommended an item be given to the police instead of the ex, and I know I was right.)

You can clean. You can declutter. If you think or have been advised that hoarding has become an emotional or psychological problem for you, and you accept the validity of this, get counseling, if you’re able. Or research online the workable steps others have used to make good changes. You’ll be amazed at the sense of control you’ll regain over your life.

Decluttering often coincides with many people losing weight, better managing their mental health, making more positive social connections, and feeling more like the people they want to be.

I may never be the housekeeper my mother was. The organizer Lindsey is. The purger Lynne can be. The minimalist that other friends are. But I keep letting go of things (especially when I began the “if something comes in, something goes out” habit). The things I hold on to will change when they no longer make me or Tom (and our dogs, too!) feel happy, nostalgic, comfortable, or creative. I’ll know when I’m ready to let them go, and I’ve proven I can do it.

So can you, when you know it’s time or you’re ready to take that first step.