The Junkyard
How marriage and a house turned a minimalist into a hoarder
I could and have lived perfectly fine out of 1–2 well packed suitcases for almost a year (see: My Year on the Run). I like to think that everything I have a sentimental attachment to would only require one medium-sized box. I HATE junk. I HATE clutter. It probably stems from my childhood, or my love of travel, or the fact that whenever faced with a fight or flight situation, I inevitably skedaddle. Whatever the reason, I like to travel light…or, at least, I used to.
For better or worse, my mother and I lived with my grandparents for my entire childhood, so junk was inescapable. I certainly don’t think I’m the first person to bring friends into their grandmother’s tchotchke filled home and silently cringe. My grandfather was not much better. His workshop (for the kids out there, think “man cave”) was so full of “tools” that you couldn’t turn around. But, hey, it was the 70’s, and nobody really gave it a second thought. I mean we had mustard yellow shag carpet and a wood paneled station wagon for god’s sake. Interior decorating was not at its height.
After fleeing my grandparents’ home, living with junk had not been much of an issue. If my place ever became cluttered, I only had myself to blame, and a quick trip to Goodwill took care of that problem. I secretly prided…
