Excavating the family landfill

The donation door at the local Goodwill store stands open and the attendant waits to help me unload my car, but I'm afraid to open the hatchback lest I trigger a landslide or tsunami or pyrochlastic flow of dusty bags bulging with discarded stuff. Honda claims my HR-V has 24.4 cubic feet of cargo space, and I've crammed every inch of it with a shifting mound of detritus threatening to bury me alive--all of it removed from just one closet.   

Granted, it's a big closet, but it doesn't get much daily use. Years ago that closet turned into the place where we stash things we can't just throw out lest someone needs them someday, and over time the closet turned into a family landfill seasoned with mouse droppings and fluffy bits of insulation that float down whenever the access panel for the attic gets opened.

Until this morning it was almost impossible to set foot inside that closet, which is a problem because of our impending bathroom renovation. Yes, we are finally exiling the purple toilet, sink, and tub, tearing off the shiny plastic wall panels, installing usable storage, and replacing the improperly vented ceiling fan that insists on sprinkling fluffy bits of insulation all over the bathroom every time we turn it on. (Both the hall closet and the purple bathroom are in the older part of the house, where mouse droppings and fluffy bits of insulation are persistent elements of the decorating scheme.) Workers will need to access the attic to install the new ceiling fan, but they can't do that without climbing the Leaning Tower of Fluff-Covered Detritus in the hall closet.

So this morning I got to work excavating every layer of that closet, vacuum at the ready to suck up all the fluff and droppings. I found old clothes I'd bagged up to take to the Goodwill, old clothes I needed to bag up to take to the Goodwill, old clothes that could have a chance at new life for someone committed to regular dry-cleaning bills, and even a few old clothes that sparked enough joy to merit giving them a wash and returning them to my closet.

Also hats--sun hats, cowboy hats, Santa hats. Old paint cans with solid lumps of paint at the bottom. Two nonfunctioning CD players. Adapter cords that don't fit any of my current equipment. A hefty camera tripod and a video camera that hasn't been out of its carrying case for at least 15 years. Wrapping paper, gift bags, red velvet bows. Decorative gifts given by people ignorant of our household aesthetic--always a tricky issue because what if those people shop at the Goodwill? How will they feel if they recognize the items I've regifted?

Things I kept: Three jackets and three nice shirts. The paint cans (because the Goodwill won't take them.) The video camera (because someone who shall remain nameless is convinced that he'll use it someday.) Boxes of framed pictures and certificates I don't want to throw away but don't have room to hang on the walls. A few puzzles and games the grandkids might enjoy. A tangle of kites and a giant bubble wand. Dozens of empty hangers.

Now the hall closet has enough open space to make accessing the attic a breeze. Fluff and droppings are gone (for now) so I won't be embarrassed every time that door gets opened. The vacuum is full of yuck and dust, as is my nose. And my car didn't disgorge the entire mess at my feet when I opened the hatch, so I rewarded its hefty cargo space with a celebratory vacuuming.

The grandkids have always liked the purple potty and will be sad to see it go, even though it frequently fails at the chief task it exists to perform. As for me, I'm delighted at the prospect of a renovated bathroom, and if the price I have to pay to achieve that goal is a hall closet excavation, then let's get to work. 

Need a purple tub? I've got you covered.