Mom’s sporadic cleaning sprees were to be feared. She abhorred collections, clutter and bulging bureaus. Of course, Dad and I understood and sympathized.
Grandma was a big-time antiques collector. Mom grew up in fear of those towering, overloaded cabinets full of carnival glass, lusterware and Haviland china that trembled on the verge of collapse as she tiptoed into the den.
We couldn’t be that bad!
Before garbage day, either Dad or I rifled through the trash cans to save and hide what we could in the garage until all was “safe.” I once heard Mom mutter, “Didn’t I pitch this last year?”
Although it was big fun putting one over on Mom, we subconsciously learned to save just the “cream of the crap” and thereby save room for still more stuff.
Enter the “garbage in, garbage out” philosophy of seasoned packrats. Today, my house is a Realtor’s nightmare, with tchotchkes and tripping hazards everywhere. À la Charles Foster Kane, I try to recapture my “Rosebuds.”
Mom would be proud – no clutter, eye-catching displays and always room for one more thing!
Oooh, Lusterwear! Carnival glass! Yes! Along with Hall and Hull.