Other people's stuff

I fear my in-laws' shed. More so than our attic (never been up there), more so than the crawlspace under our house (whoever thought a damp, earthy hole underneath a building was a good idea?) and more so than our own shed, which is filled with hundreds of relics from Hubss past — everything from every press pass he's ever worn to antique tools that will never work again.

I can handle clutter, which, by my definition, is that which can be sorted, put away or trashed. What I cannot handle is .. stuff -- things that stack up in closets or attics or sheds. Things to which people -- such as my husband -- have attached some strange sort of emotional claim.

Back issues of Life magazine, for example. Or ancient Rolling Stones. Why hold onto these? Why? Why? Has anyone ever sat down re-read all those back issues? Is it really that important to know how much a washer and dryer cost the year that you were born?

I've never been inside my father-in-law's shed. But it houses my worst nightmare. Stuff. Lots of stuff, stuff that will eventually take over my house and my life.

In the nearly six years we've been married, Hubs and I have never left his parents' house empty-handed. And I can't tell you how many times they've arrived at our house with a truckload of ... stuff.

Old furniture from recently departed family members? Check.

Dozens upon dozens of old, musty-smelling Life magazines from each year of little Hubs' childhood? Check.

Old, rusted tools from the basement of Grandma Liz's house? Check.

Random coins stored in old hair tonic cans by Hubs' grandpa? Check.

My in-laws are good people with good intentions. But oh my God, we cannot continue to accumulate the things they cannot bear to throw away.

Each time we prepare to leave their home, as I buckle squirming children into their carseats, I hear the dreaded order:

"Let's go out to shed before y'all leave."

And then I start squirming. (Breathe deeply, count, breathe deeply, count, try not to watch as father-in-law and husband emerge from the shed carrying something that resembles a coffin.)

The in-laws can't bear to throw away anything that came from another family member. Nor, however, can they possibly find enough space for all these hand-me-downs. The only acceptable solution (to them) is to pass it on to other relatives who also possess the collector-clutter gene.

My husband is one of those relatives.

Round and round the collected items go, from one person's basement to someone else's shed or attic. (Until an unfortunate item finally falls into my evil hands and I dispose of it.)

I knew when I first moved into Hubs' house there might be a problem. The tarnished, broken, disattached doorknob sitting on the living room bookshelves was the primary indicator.

"What's that for?" I finally asked.

It seemed so ... out-of-place ... perched up there with our books and pictures.

"Oh, I found it on an abandoned house on my grandparents' property," he replied.

Oh, yes, of course. I, too, pick up old doorknobs. All the time. Because my doors don't already have perfectly good doorknobs. Gah!

"Yes, but why is it there, on the bookshelves, instead of on a door?"

"Well, I figure I'll use it one day," hubby said. "I just haven't found the right door yet."

This reasoning applies to numerous other stashed items I've found over the years — such as the train set, never opened, from the 1980s, given to Hubs by an old girlfriend who was overcome with pity after hearing his woeful tale of the Christmas Day his new train set flew out of his parents' car trunk.

And the linens. Oh, mercy, mercy me — the linens. My husband has never (willingly) gotten rid of a single sheet or bedspread, including the plaid horror from his bachelor days. (The era of the train-set girlfriend.)

Just like his folks, Hubs can't bear to pass on his things to a stranger.

Usually, his intended victim is Stepson, who, thankfully possesses enough discernment to thwart his father's generosity.

"Oh, sure, I'll take it," Stepson always says diplomatically. Then he flees to his mom's house and leaves the item in question at ours.

Which is why, last weekend, a few hours after Stepson's departure, I walked into our bedroom to find six — SIX! — large boxes filled with Hubs' old record albums sitting on the floor.

I immediately had a nervous breakdown, which is why the albums have been moved to the shed. (I seem to recall shrieking something about how I got rid of my Crystal Gayle 8-tracks years ago, but I can't be sure. Hysteria tends to wipe my memory clean.)

Lest you think I'm cruel and overreacting, how would you feel if you came home one Sunday night from a business trip and discovered that your then-3-year-old daughter's bedroom — with its lavendar walls, white folding shutters and butterfly/flower theme — had been completely redone to accomodate Grandpa Winstead's hulking bedroom suite?

Would you be more sypmathetic if I told you that each piece of furniture boasted a small carving of a log cabin?

I began hyperventilating as soon as I saw it.

It's not that I don't appreciate the in-laws' desire to pass valued objects down — I love Grandpa Winstead's grandfather clock, which moved to our house last year. I just don't understand holding onto things that no one really wants. It strikes me as some sort of misplaced sense of obligation.

Perhaps my stuff-phobia is the residual effect of watching my parents' house fill with the many boxes shipped to them by my grandmother, who, while small in stature, also was a mighty collector. Just one of those boxes on our doorstep could send my mother into a panic attack.

One day, if we ever move from our 1955 three-bedroom home into something more spacious, maybe I'll be more tolerant. But right now, we don't have room for this degree of sentimentalism.

I love my husband. I just don't love his vinyl.

Which is why my biggest fantasy at the moment involves a garage sale and a trip to the Salvation Army.