I promise, this isn’t going to become one of those columns about organization techniques. We talked about that last week, huh? Granted, if you want titillating content about how not to organize or how to take that fine line between collector and hoarder and use it as a jump rope, you are in the right place, my friend. That reminds me of an acquaintance I made during Antiques Week in Warrenton, Texas back when it was feral and untamed. There was a Warrenton, after all, back before sororities started showing up in luxury SUVs to compete with Pottery Barn for lodging at a Rusty-chic Airbnb for a bajillion dollars a night. A triedand-true junker knows that the realest of the real dealers sleep in crusty old RVs or the back seats of their ’89 Ford trucks. The junk was divine. My acquaintance’s name was even better, Dead People’s Stuff. That’s what my guestroom closet should be called, mainly because that’s what it’s made from. Welcome to the museum. I’m Dina, your curator. Take your shoes off. Sit a spell.
Since you’re here, I may as well put you to work. This closet isn’t gonna clean itself. Don’t worry about that step stool. It’s broken, anyway. Just stand on that rickety folding chair. There, now, get on your tippy toes and lean forward but hold on tight to the corner of that old chest-of-drawers in the back. Extend your left leg behind you. See that box, the one that says “figurines” with a line through the word and “important papers” scribbled underneath that? Yep, that's the one. Grab that box and meet me in the floor.
The first rule in helping a collector organize a closet is this. We aren’t actually going to throw anything away. We shall reappropriate! Your job as my assistant is to find joy in my items. Fake it until you make it, if necessary. Surely, if we just group the items in a tidier fashion, boat loads of extra space will suddenly appear. Let’s open the box. Oh, look! See those crocheted afghans? My grandmother made those for my kids back in the 80s! No, not Annie Mae. Lucille made those. She was the crochet queen. Look underneath them. There’re my varnished turtle shells! I’ve been looking for those. My Pawpaw dug tanks for the Hunt Brothers on several of their farms after he retired from the old Ford Plant in Dallas. When you dig tanks, you dig up the long-forgotten shells of turtles that migrated to that pond in the sky. I was the only grandchild that shared his morbid excitement for animal bones, shells, teeth, even skins. He delicately washed, detailed, and varnished those turtle shells for me. Look inside!!! Yes! That’s a turtle vertebra! Who knows what else is in this box.
Where did you find that folder? It was in the box, too? I don’t recognize it. Hand it to me, please. Oh, wow. What a find. These are the gift tags that were on the gifts given to my mother at her baby shower FOR ME! Look at this one from my Aunt Floye and Uncle W.R. They used to own the gas station across the street from the old post office. Uncle W.R. and I shared the same birthday. He gave me a silver dollar every year until he died. I wonder if the silver dollars are in that box? What’s this? Whoa! It’s my mother’s baby book. You won’t believe this. Here’s her hair! See, it says “Baby’s First Haircut” right above the scotch tape that turned burnt orange. Why are you looking at me like that? Hair isn’t gross. See, it’s strawberry blonde. You thought my mother wasn’t a real redhead. I wouldn’t lie to you.
Piles are key at this point. You can put that 6-foot snakeskin shed next to the turtle shells and that cow jawbone. Yes, you’re right, those 27 antler sheds should go with them. Good thinking. Let’s get a bigger folder for all the paper items. What? Oh, absolutely not. Those aren’t trash. Those are my Gramp’s razor straps from his barbershop in Wilmer. It was called J.B. Stilwell and Son, Barbers. The son was my dad! Daddy was able to stay out of WWII combat by being the Army barber, but I’m sure he used the razor straps to sharpen many a straight razor back in the day. Wait, see that little brown square in the corner of the box? Will you pass that over to me?
Sorry, yes, please do. I could really use a Kleenex. Thank you. I forgot about this. See, it’s my daughter’s wallet. Yeah, it belonged to Chynna. Do you remember this brand? These were so popular back in the early 2000s, these XOXO wallets. I think we bought this one at Kohl’s. She wanted it because of the charms on the front, the heart and the lock. They had a pink one, too, but she chose brown because it was more sophisticated and she was, after all, almost 16. No, you don’t need to leave. I’d be happy for you to sit here with me. Don’t pay any mind to my tears. Let’s see what we find. Ok, wow. Her money is still in here. Count it for me, ok? Oh, Mylanta! Look at her driver license picture! How adorable! She absolutely HATED this picture because she was smiling so hard she closed her eyes. What? $2.67? That makes me happy. The cards? Oh, that’s her boyfriend’s football picture and Carter’s school photo from first grade. Wait until I tell him. That other card, oh, that’s her brother’s school ID. He kept losing it, so he asked her to carry it in her wallet. Am I ok? Yeah, I’m good. Sometimes the memories fill up my heart and leak from eyes. Let’s give this wallet a box of its own. That’s enough cleaning for today.
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