A word to wise mothers today: Don't throw out your grown children's stuff. Ever.
It is usually mothers who do this. Be honest: Men are slobs. It was always my mother who looked around and said "This place is a mess. All this stuff goes."
Danger lurks, though. The people who pick your nursing home will hold a grudge.
How do I know? Last weekend, Ben collected the stuff his mother and I carefully stored for a decade. We understood that a kid going to college doesn't have a lot of storage space.
Later, we knew that a newlywed living in a tiny apartment with two dogs could feel cramped.
But when that kid bought a house, his mother looked at his big empty basement and said "We want our closets back."
Which, let me repeat, contained everything you left, Ben. We swear.
And Jeremy, all your stuff that survived your own depredations was there, too. Honest. I'm a slob, but even if I ever wanted to toss your stuff, your mom would not let me.
Ben's was the last to go. I helped fill his car with Star Wars ships, Ewok villages, Russian military hats, paper airplanes, solar system mobiles and Lord knows what else.
Then I casually mentioned to my Facebook friends that this reminded me how my own mother, after I moved out, sold my American Flyer electric train at a yard sale.
The sale was 40 years ago, when she and dad moved from Miami to Louisville. Or maybe from Louisville to Salt Lake City. Whichever, I was living in tiny apartments in New York, no space for trains.
After 40 years, apparently, I still haven't forgiven her and I have company. My Facebook post brought forth much wailing, all at mothers.
"That cupboard of comic books! All gone in the trash. Cry. Thanks, Mom," moaned one friend.
"My mother tossed my vast Breyer horse collection (some go for hundreds a pop now)," wailed another. "All my dolls and stuffed animals (including the dolls my grandmother gave me, which had been HERS when she was a girl), and allowed my sister to toss my Washburn guitar out in the aluminum shed, which promptly collapsed under the weight of snow. Thanks, Mom!"
This is about more than making a killing on Antiques Road Show. Childhood toys are childhood. How dare mom toss my childhood!
But the temptation is strong, especially when kids have a lot. Ben has enough action figures to invade Iraq. So I know asking you mothers not to toss your kids' stuff is asking a lot. Your kids will thank you.
I realize, now, I should ease up on my mom. Several friends pointed out that, for mere cash, I can get a fine electric train again. What the heck, a train's a train.
Plus mom wasn't so bad. After she died, I found amid the few things she did save a clay pot that I made at school when I was, perhaps, 6.
It is crudely formed, badly painted, butt-ugly, but somehow it survived 50 years and three cross-country moves.
For whatever reason, mom didn't toss it. Now it's on my desk. Our kids can figure out what to do with it while they're deciding what to do with their mother and me.
Speaking of which: A home with large windows would be nice. Good beds, regular meals, nice attendants.
And -- this will make your mom roll her eyes -- somewhere to set up a train.
Wasatch Rambler is the opinion of Charles Trentelman. You can call him at (801) 625-4232 or e-mail ctrentelman@standard.net. He also blogs at www.standard.net.
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