I have a recurring fantasy that, should I find myself older and alone, possibly needing to stretch my savings, I could downsize to a small cabin filled with only the things I love: a cheerful quilt, my favorite books, stained glass in the windows, a bit of trailing ivy, and some wind chimes outside. A modern-day embellished Thoreau with scented candles.

When my youngest son left for college, I was eager to get started on this minimizing project for my future home in the woods. I just assumed my husband would be as excited as I was to begin getting rid of things we no longer used or needed, like the mountains of camping gear accumulated over years of leading Boy Scouts.

He was not on board in any way.

He was not. He was not on board in any way.

I was stunned. “But why do we need three tents? What’s in all these plastic bins? No one even goes camping anymore,” I said helpfully.

“It was expensive,” my husband said. “I want to keep it. My camping days aren’t over.” (Spoiler alert: They may in fact be over because I’m not spending any more weekends sleeping on the ground in the elements. I’m 55. Things hurt and I’m hot. Beds and air conditioning are two of my favorite things.)

I moved on. “How about your closet? We could donate all those dress shirts since you just work from home now.” Again, helpful. Again, thwarted. (“I may need them.”)

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Into the Abyss (a.k.a the Garage)

With just the two of us at home, it felt like we’d entered a wonderful new era of life: the de-accumulation phase. Only I think I entered it alone.

I wanted—and needed—to start getting rid of things. We’d spent 20-plus years accumulating, there was no more room for incoming. It was time now for downsizing—if not our house, then at least our possessions.

The garage was a black hole where things went to die.

One day my husband mentioned that he’d seen some steel shelving units at Home Depot that he might like to get for our garage. I jumped on it. The garage was a black hole where things went to die—it was the final frontier. We could clean out the garage, and it was actually his idea.

“Let’s go this weekend,” I said. Everyone was happy. He thought we’d be organizing all his outdoor things, and I thought we’d be getting rid of them.

It started well enough, with me orchestrating a complete overhaul of things I knew nothing about.

These things included, but were not limited to, drills and saws and bits and bots and fishing poles and power washers and butane and ropes, times infinity. It was like asking a caveman to sort lipglosses by matte, shine, solid, semisolid, colored, glitter, and balm. No comprende.

The Great Declutter Debate

My direction consisted mostly of questions. “What is this?” “Why did you buy this?” “Why do we have four of them?” Followed by, “This makes no sense to me. I think we should get rid of it.”

My husband, already sorry he had agreed to this, responded mainly with, “I’ve told you three times what that is.” “Jesus Christ. Please don’t touch that.” “Yes, I need it.”

We probably should have started with something smaller than the great beyond, like a drawer.

We probably should have started with something smaller than the great beyond, like a drawer.

My mountain cabin with elk in the yard seemed farther away. Maybe light years. I had too much stuff. Did Thoreau have a storage unit?

The tool bench was buried under a small dirty fridge and empty boxes. The garden tools were in a heap. Tangled fishing poles had been thrown into a clay pot, and the rafters above were full of empty boxes for large items we no longer had.

A previous owner had installed built-ins made of particle board that were now shoddy, thanks to time, heat, and me accidentally driving my car into them several times. I never knew where to stop. Apparently when I hit the cabinet door, it disemboweled some shelves. The garage was in a lot of pain.

547 Fewer Things! Hooray!

We dragged 547 things to the curb. People driving by were thrilled to stop for broken fishing poles, mystery tools, sad shelving, and scraps of wood. I was happy that someone wanted that stuff before it ended up in a landfill.

At some point, we’d found a fishing rod rack that had never been opened. The poles now had a nice place to live. A place that made sense.

My husband brings a lot to the table—literally, truckloads.

We put up a pegboard on one wall so the yard tools all hung happily together, as God intended. And of course, both cars fit into the garage as they did before, but now they fit better. Now we could actually open our doors.

My husband hung tennis balls from the rafters so I’d know when to stop driving. I put a cheap painting I found of a large dog in a bowler hat and glasses over the recycle bin.

It took several weeks, with us focusing on one wall each weekend. One wall and lots of curse words. We finished late one night after a lot of blood, sweat, regret, and tears. While we may not have gotten rid of a lot, at least now it’s all labeled and organized. I can work with that.

It’s a start.

Of course, I want my husband around as long as possible. He brings a lot to the table—literally, truckloads. If I’m ever alone, I’m ditching everything. My chalet awaits.

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