My Mom is the exact opposite of a hoarder. She has the purging skills of a surgeon. Anything that has no immediate practical use gets tossed to the curb. Even really good stuff like plastic butter containers and extra pages of her offspring's snaggle-toothed grade school pictures.
At any given time you can open her closet door and find an uncluttered floor with a sparse row of perfectly matched shoes arranged with military precision. Same with her dresser drawers - immaculate.
Clearly, Mom is in possession of an OCD gene that she did not pass along to her favorite daughter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Five years ago my brothers and I packed up all Mom's carefully organized belongings and moved her from Borger to Amarillo.
We knew it would be an emotional day; not only because we had grown up in Borger, but also because Mama's house was the last place our Daddy had lived and laughed and loved. His toothbrush and aftershave still sat in the bathroom cabinet. His favorite hats still lined the closet shelf.
Never again would we be able to visit her house with irrational hopes of seeing Daddy come home after a day of golfing, wearing his purple hat and beautiful smile.
It was the last time I would stand at the back door and look out into the yard, hearing echoes of noisy giggles...remembering the sheer joy of seven little boys running wild in a fierce hunt for Easter eggs.
There would be no more Christmas Eve memories to be made at Gran-MiMi's house, as she was relocating to a small apartment with no room for piles and piles of holiday stuff.
The toughest moment of the day came when Mom sadly asked my brothers not to load Dad's recliner into the moving truck. She explained that while she hated to leave his chair behind, it was old and worn and much too big for her new place. We all grew silent with shared memories of Paul Cooper kicked back in his favorite chair...darkly tanned hands folded across his big belly...contented snores coming out of his wide-open mouth.
My brothers loaded the last of Mom's stuff into the truck and drove away. She and I made one last trip through the house. With Daddy's purple hat sitting on my head, we stepped out onto the porch and locked the front door behind us.
As I put the car in reverse I remember thinking, “This is gonna hurt”. Then I glanced over at Mom, my oh-so-resilient Mom, and realized the only real treasure inside that house was sitting beside me in the car.
I drove my treasured passenger away from the house - and my Daddy's leftover stuff - without ever looking back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am not a hoarder. But neither am I a Nazi Purger with ridiculous organizational skills.
My dresser drawers are confused, not immaculate. If you asked me the color of carpet in my closet, I could only offer a guess.
Rather than inheriting Mom's OCD gene, I was gifted with my Dad's ADD. Suffice it to say, organization and cleaning are not my Spiritual Gifts.
People (and by people I mean me) who are Right-Brained and have ADD should never be left in charge of organizing anything, except parties. I'm great at organizing parties. Need a pinata or a balloon bouquet? I'm your girl. Need your closets organized or your checkbook balanced? Go fish.
So while there is much about Spring that I appreciate...the warmth of the sun, the chirping of the birds, the Texas Rangers running around in their cute little baseball pants...I mostly suck at Spring.
At this very moment, my living room looks like one gigantic inbox. My bedroom looks like a yard sale. Every available inch of flat surface is covered with piles of paper and/or ill-fitting clothes. Piles and piles of stuff...mocking me, taunting me, begging me for action.
Most Texans spend the season cursing ragweed and pollen. Not me. I spend it thanking Baby Jesus that the Dickman did not marry me for my cleaning and checkbook-balancing skills.
I do, however, have other skills. I have mad skills as a Pilot. Uh, I mean...a Pile-It. I am a world class Pile-It, and can while away the hours moving my stuff from one pile to another before slowly drifting off into a catatonic state of overwhelmed helplessness.
Still, I try. Because it's important. If I can't find a place for my Old Stuff, there will not be enough room for my New Stuff. And everybody needs more stuff, right?
If only somebody would come up with a way to make sorting through piles of stuff a happy event. There must be a way to make a party out of Spring Cleaning.
Wait...did somebody say party??
There should be balloons!! And a pinata!! Because if shuffling important stuff around doesn't call for a pinata, I don't know what does.
This Spring Cleaning Party will require a great deal of creative planning.
Maybe I'll just put on my Dad's purple hat and think about it awhile...
At any given time you can open her closet door and find an uncluttered floor with a sparse row of perfectly matched shoes arranged with military precision. Same with her dresser drawers - immaculate.
Clearly, Mom is in possession of an OCD gene that she did not pass along to her favorite daughter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Five years ago my brothers and I packed up all Mom's carefully organized belongings and moved her from Borger to Amarillo.
We knew it would be an emotional day; not only because we had grown up in Borger, but also because Mama's house was the last place our Daddy had lived and laughed and loved. His toothbrush and aftershave still sat in the bathroom cabinet. His favorite hats still lined the closet shelf.
Never again would we be able to visit her house with irrational hopes of seeing Daddy come home after a day of golfing, wearing his purple hat and beautiful smile.
It was the last time I would stand at the back door and look out into the yard, hearing echoes of noisy giggles...remembering the sheer joy of seven little boys running wild in a fierce hunt for Easter eggs.
There would be no more Christmas Eve memories to be made at Gran-MiMi's house, as she was relocating to a small apartment with no room for piles and piles of holiday stuff.
The toughest moment of the day came when Mom sadly asked my brothers not to load Dad's recliner into the moving truck. She explained that while she hated to leave his chair behind, it was old and worn and much too big for her new place. We all grew silent with shared memories of Paul Cooper kicked back in his favorite chair...darkly tanned hands folded across his big belly...contented snores coming out of his wide-open mouth.
My brothers loaded the last of Mom's stuff into the truck and drove away. She and I made one last trip through the house. With Daddy's purple hat sitting on my head, we stepped out onto the porch and locked the front door behind us.
As I put the car in reverse I remember thinking, “This is gonna hurt”. Then I glanced over at Mom, my oh-so-resilient Mom, and realized the only real treasure inside that house was sitting beside me in the car.
I drove my treasured passenger away from the house - and my Daddy's leftover stuff - without ever looking back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am not a hoarder. But neither am I a Nazi Purger with ridiculous organizational skills.
My dresser drawers are confused, not immaculate. If you asked me the color of carpet in my closet, I could only offer a guess.
Rather than inheriting Mom's OCD gene, I was gifted with my Dad's ADD. Suffice it to say, organization and cleaning are not my Spiritual Gifts.
People (and by people I mean me) who are Right-Brained and have ADD should never be left in charge of organizing anything, except parties. I'm great at organizing parties. Need a pinata or a balloon bouquet? I'm your girl. Need your closets organized or your checkbook balanced? Go fish.
So while there is much about Spring that I appreciate...the warmth of the sun, the chirping of the birds, the Texas Rangers running around in their cute little baseball pants...I mostly suck at Spring.
At this very moment, my living room looks like one gigantic inbox. My bedroom looks like a yard sale. Every available inch of flat surface is covered with piles of paper and/or ill-fitting clothes. Piles and piles of stuff...mocking me, taunting me, begging me for action.
Most Texans spend the season cursing ragweed and pollen. Not me. I spend it thanking Baby Jesus that the Dickman did not marry me for my cleaning and checkbook-balancing skills.
I do, however, have other skills. I have mad skills as a Pilot. Uh, I mean...a Pile-It. I am a world class Pile-It, and can while away the hours moving my stuff from one pile to another before slowly drifting off into a catatonic state of overwhelmed helplessness.
Still, I try. Because it's important. If I can't find a place for my Old Stuff, there will not be enough room for my New Stuff. And everybody needs more stuff, right?
If only somebody would come up with a way to make sorting through piles of stuff a happy event. There must be a way to make a party out of Spring Cleaning.
Wait...did somebody say party??
There should be balloons!! And a pinata!! Because if shuffling important stuff around doesn't call for a pinata, I don't know what does.
This Spring Cleaning Party will require a great deal of creative planning.
Maybe I'll just put on my Dad's purple hat and think about it awhile...
