Confessions of a Pack-Rat

I spent the entire day yesterday in my attic. That alone is a bad sign. I don't think I should be allowed to have an attic... or a basement, or a garage, or any other large, empty space that encourages me to hold onto accumulated "stuff" simply because I have room for it. Some of it I can argue is legitimate - photo albums, craft materials that I actually use - but most of it is just "stuff." I knew I had a lot of stuff, but I was still rather appalled at some of the things I've held onto. My list of discoveries includes:

~ Crab molts. Yes, crab molts. Plural. Please don't ask me how long I've had these. A chipped sand dollar. Numerous other stones and shells, very few of them whole anymore. I stopped unwrapping them from their protective tissues and deposited the whole bundle in the trash.

~ An inch and a half of old bank statements, from the day I opened my account. Somebody's paper shredder is going to be put through its paces....

~ Every single pay stub from every single pay stub job I've ever held, including temp jobs. Truly unnecessary (but are you really surprised?).

~ Binders full of "Writer's Workshop" projects and other creative writing endeavors from about 6th grade onward. Don't get me wrong - I'm keeping these (somewhere) - but some of them are truly cringe-worthy. Take, for instance, the haiku entitled "Baby Earwig":

Oh, baby earwig,
hiding among the green leaves.
Inside a glass jar.

You get the point.

~ Boxes of correspondence. These are definitely not getting chucked either; they are far too precious. I have almost a pound and a half of letters from Quena alone, stuffed carefully into a burgeoning half-size manila envelope, which by this time (10 years!) is about as solid as a brick.

~ An entire bag of zipperfeet for a Singer sewing machine. I haven't had a Singer for 5 years, and never used the zipperfeet when I did have one.

~ Far more and far larger tablecloths than a person with one small 39" round dining table could possibly use.

~ A massive copy of Webster's New Twentieth Century Dictionary, Unabridged, bearing the inscription: "To Patti Boone from Mother & Dad, Christmas 1969." It has been in the same box through at least my last six moves.

~ A pepper spray keychain that some well-meaning relative gifted me when I reached the age they thought it might be necessary. I don't think I ever even opened the package to inspect it.

~ Jim's old Killer Beez softball jersey, from a team that disintegrated a decade ago - before I ever got the chance to demonstrate that, desperate as I was to prove myself, I couldn't play softball to save my life because I was afraid of the ball.

~ The compact magnifying lens that I bought for my geology class sophomore year and have been looking for almost ever since.

Despite all of these discoveries, there are a few things I have not come across, that I was hoping against hope I had not let go, but realize now it's time to accept that they are gone. My old baseball cap, worth nothing but the memories it held, words written on the brim, washed away in the rain but still remembered. A ring from a dear friend, which I know I lost, but have always hoped would magically turn up. A packet of letters I can't imagine getting rid of but still can't find.

My landing is now strewn with boxes and bags to take to the Goodwill, my 75-liter backpack is once again filled with books to take to Powells (if I can lift it), and the boxes that remain in my attic are now organized by recipient, to be delivered at the end of June. Today I tackle my filing cabinet....