Over the years I have visited many wonderful places—Italy, France, Britain, Hawaii, Georgian Bay, Vancouver, the Canadian War Museum in Ottawa, my hometown, and even my own home. And, therein exists the one place I avoid going to which fills me with crippling fear and dread—my very own basement. That repository for all my life’s follies, flotsam, and jetsam has become an albatross around my neck that threatens to choke off all life if I venture down those forbidden stairs. So, I don’t.

I know that for the sake of our eventual heirs and beneficiaries, cleaning out our basement is a job that must be attended to, sooner rather than later. As the one who sorted out my parents’ home and subsequently my father’s apartment after they passed away, I know how much work is involved. Anyone who has been through this experience understands how emotionally daunting and physically demanding the work is. That’s why I avoid it.

Why am I keeping my old wedding dresses in protective garment bags? Am I planning on adding a third, or opening a vintage museum? Surely not. There are so many “objets d’art”, decorative cushions, office supplies and cleaning materials, winter coats and boots, storage containers and jars that I’m overwhelmed just thinking about it.

What should we do with all the boxes and boxes of photographs? All those pictures lovingly document family histories, holidays, special occasions, and memories. Oh sure, I could digitize them and to be conveniently available whenever I felt melancholy. That is absolutely not going to happen. Nor do I need to keep my childhood scrapbooks, keepsakes, and the single, sad little trophy I won in a tie for first place in our elementary school’s field day. Who cares? Trophies were nowhere near as ubiquitous and freely distributed in the fifties as they are now so I can’t part with those memories.

Seasonal wreaths and pumpkins, framed pictures, Christmas decorations, old rugs, and sewing supplies for a pastime I haven’t pursued for decades are all part of the detritus collecting dust in my basement. Last year I emptied an Ikea Billy bookcase crammed with old toiletries, hair products, and household supplies long past their best-before dates. That purge felt good but then I lost momentum.

The battered old 50,000,000 Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong album I bought new at Garneau Electric in 1962 for the staggering price of $3.98 after saving my entire allowance for four weeks has not seen a turntable in five decades. Never mind that I no longer have a turntable or that Alexa would instantly play any tune I want on demand. Who knows when I might want to play it again, or frame it and hang it on the wall?

There’s even a lovely old duvet from my pre-menopause days, more than a quarter of a century ago that I no longer need—Boomer women understand why.

My personal hoarding sins are mammoth but they represent only half the problem. My husband has an entire section of the basement dedicated to displaying every tool and home handyman gadget ever carried by Home Depot or Canadian Tire. There’s a large, shiny table saw that hasn’t been plugged in for more than twenty years which I cannot get him to part with. Steel shelving bulges with boxes of nuts, bolts, blades, pieces of wood, tools, paint and repair concoctions, belts, cables, and . . . well, you get the picture.

I wish I could call the Fire Department to come in and do a controlled burn in our basement. I am confident I wouldn’t miss a single thing if it all went up in flames. Whenever I go down there (a rare and momentous occurrence) I announce it to my husband in case he wants me to bring something up to make the trip worthwhile. Unfortunately, our overflow tends to make a one-way trip—down and never back up and out.

My ideal home would have no basement. I know a seniors’ condo is the inevitable next step in my future but in the meantime, I have to deal with the here and now. Maybe I’ll call Canada Cement Company (we still have business connections in the construction industry) and have them pull a concrete truck up to the basement window and tell them to fill ‘er up. Then, one day, when future generations are clearing the site of my former home to build an AI robot research centre, they can chip away the layers just like they’re doing in Pompeii and marvel when they discover my long-forgotten treasures.

Yes! I like that solution. Very much. So far I’ve been very successful in putting off the purge. Have you dealt with your “remains” yet or, like me, are you opting for the easy way out—hoping you’ll die before you get to it?