Where there is smoke…

British Columbia is experiencing an extreme fire season.  Vancouver has been socked in with smoke for over a week. People have been complaining about the air quality, the haze in the sky and the smell of smoke for days. We can’t even see the mountains across the river for the blanket of smoke that has settled over them. But we aren’t experiencing the flames – thank goodness.

My heart goes out to the people directly affected by the fires; the families evacuated and waiting for word on the condition of all they left behind. Thier lifetime collection of memories sitting on the brink of ashes; there’s a lot more than structures on the line when a fire creeps up the street.

There isn’t room in my car to hold all the things I would want to save from a fire, but thankfully there are enough seat belts for the ‘who’ I’d need to save. There is room for the dogs and, if I had enough time to bag him, there’s room for my giant goldfish. I’m afraid the rest of my stuff might be left to fend for itself – it is, after all, just stuff.

We know people who lost their entire home during the summer firestorm a few years ago. They have rebuilt and carried on but what they discovered after the fire was the loss of things not listed on their insurance claim.

This made me think about my own stuff; handmade Christmas decorations crafted by children now grown, my old family recipes, the rolling pin from gramma’s house – the things of no monetary value.  These are the things that are impossible to replace. They are also the things you wouldn’t think to throw in the car during a mad dash for safety.

I have stashes of treasure like this hidden around my house. Should they ever go up in smoke I wonder if anyone would miss them, other than me. Which makes me think about sentiment and what it’s really worth.

I’m pretty sure the kids are never going to want their cardboard boxes full of trophies – little league memorabilia, skating badges, hockey pucks, carnival costumes– all the assorted sundry hidden in the attic. There is stuff in that dark cavern that hasn’t seen the light of day for decades.

These are the treasures that would never make it to the car in the event of a fire – and they would hardly be missed. It makes me wonder where my compulsion to save this stuff comes from. It’s not like I cherish a wander down memory lane when I climb the ladder to retrieve a suitcase. I almost close my eyes when I duck into the dusty space. It’s scary up there!

On one of my recent ventures into the attic I discovered some critter had eaten the ornate macaroni house one of the kids made in grade three. I was horrified, not heartbroken. Yes, the house had been beautiful. Yes, it was an amazing accomplishment for an eight year old. But shit! we had critters in the attic and we were apparently feeding them! Turns out that beautiful macaroni house had been a liability, not a treasure.

I seldom look at any of the crap teetering on the shelves in the attic. I don’t need all this sentimental stuff and I’m willing to bet nobody is ever going to want it. I certainly would never run back into my house to save it.

I think perhaps the smoke in the air has inspired me to think about clearing out some of this sentimental sundry. It has also made me grateful that I will have the choice of what goes and what stays whenever I get around to doing the clearing out — other people have not been so fortunate.

I plan to start a to-do list in the near (or distant) future — I will put cleaning out forgotten treasures somewhere on it. I’m certain there will be a blog post or two of inspiration in the doing (or not doing) of it. Stay tuned – but don’t hold your breath.

We actually cleaned that attic in 2002, fifteen years ago. The experience still haunts me. Here is a short piece I wrote for BC Parent back then…

The Attic

It was never a job I intended to tackle, the attic was something I had planned to leave my children; a hidden treasure, an unexpected inheritance, a nightmare. Let’s face it, they have never cleaned up after themselves – why would I?

The problem was that our favorite stashing spot was filled to the brim.

When we purchased our first home, our realtor told us that the average family will move once every five years – we stayed there eight. We were literally bursting out of the place before we took the plunge and moved. That was twelve years ago.

It’s been a prosperous twelve years. We have replaced the kitchen dishes twice, the kids have outgrown countless wardrobes. We have participated in everything from fishing to finger-painting, hockey to handicrafts, the evidence of our adventures carefully stashed in the musty confines of the darkest corner of the house. Between rafters, bedded in insulation lays the dusty remnants of our combined experiences.

I believe it is primal instinct that inspires us to stash things away and it is the dominant gene as we procreate. My mother produced four pack rats; I have generated three. The logistics of this phenomena are overwhelming.

As we set to the task of unloading the attic the reality of the project began to sink in. Boxes of toys, bird cages and Halloween costumes began to emerge from the darkness and litter the floor of the playroom below. We had created a monster.

The further into the attic we ventured the more cherished the memories we uncovered. Christmas decorations gave way to collections of schoolwork. The carefully crafted, lava spewing, papier-mâché volcano made its appearance, followed by the giant foam fish one of the kids wore in the skating carnival.

The memory-laden maze, now several layers deep, prompted us to set a date for the unavoidable garage sale.

An area had to be cleared in the garage to host the sale, and the garage stuff moved. Suddenly the yard looked like a war zone. The monster was out of the house.

The recycling bin began to fill with old notebooks, the garbage cans became home to broken toys and forgotten mementos. The garage was transformed into a curio shop with the aid of some ramshackle shelving, and we began to wonder why we had ever started this project.

Neighbors sat by their windows and eyed the increasing clutter. A few ventured over for a closer look and to ask if we were moving. “No, thank goodness,” we replied. “Just making room in the attic for a few things we want to save — stuff for the garage sale we intend to hold twelve years from now.”