Cutting through Clutter

"Woman save everything, it's a fact!" barked Sarge, "you never let go of anything Sony!"

Call it reverse psychology but faced with a hard-nosed challenge like that I went to work proving 'ol Sarge wrong. I tore through 10 boxes of memorabilia from my youngest days, tossing out every textbook, report card and love note saved from gradeschool. Christmas and Easter cards lovingly sent from names I can't put a face to anymore got chucked. Dozens of letters that a penpal wrote when her balloon drifted into my yard 25 years ago - gone. Postcards and movie stubs and playbills from some of the first outings I've ever been on - history. It was as if a match was lit inside my brain burning up every shred of paper product in the house. This was a truly liberating process, a defining moment in my "letting go" so I can forge ahead and start anew. And that doesn't mean repeating the collection process either.

Old Amiga's, the earliest Apples, a few PC's and half a dozen broken printers are now tagged and ready for my Spring garage sale. If they don't sell, some retired GE guys in Schenectady like to tinker things back to life and will donate the lot to a local school. I found my very first cell phone, a heavy black brick with a long antenna. How did I ever squeeze that into my pants pocket? Electronic gagets and gizmos, components and consoles, gone, gone, gone. This is not landfill rubbish, these antiques will make their way to a collection bin sponsored by NYSERDA (NY State Energy, Research and Development Authority) Environmental solutions for "woman who save everything" as Sarge likes to put it.

But wait...what is this? I unwrap the tender tissue paper and hundreds of stands of blond locks go falling to the floor. It's my very first baby haircut when I was 4! Mom must have saved it and stuffed it into this tattered baby book. Hmmm, should I, should I - it sure would put a smile on 'ol Sarge's mug if I could disconnect this much. Purely out of spite, my youngest memory gets tossed in with the junk pile.

But in the wee hours of the night I can't sleep. I toss and turn and have nightmares I'm falling. At 3am, back downstairs I go, pry open the last garbage bag and ressurect the last tiny palmful of baby hair. After all, how much room does hair take up anyway?