Every one of us should hold a garage sale once a year — a full purging of “stuff.” Now that this year’s sale is behind me and the memories of what a pain it was to hold that sale are faded, I can make this claim. The best part, of course, is the absence of stuff. It’s gratifying to see someone get all excited about something you’ve discarded, but it’s even more satisfying to realize that thing will now be forever gone from your life.

That desire to get rid of stuff drove us to extreme generosity on garage sale day. Mindful that everything we didn’t sell would have to be boxed and hauled to the thrift shop inspired us to consider every offer. You want that frying pan for $2 instead of $5? Sure! You want those sawhorses for half price? You bet! You want that trundle bed for $5 less? It’s yours!

People came in a stream all morning long. It’s a curious feeling to watch strangers paw through your familiar stuff, ignore the good (in your opinion) stuff and grab the not-so-good (in your opinion) stuff. But we had no regrets. We felt good about what went away and who it went to. A young couple practically cried over a 5-foot blind because now they could have privacy in their living room. We just gave it to them. Good grief. Everyone needs privacy in their living room, right?

We kept finding more things to haul out. My neighbor across the street commented later that every time she looked out, it looked like a new sale. That’s because it kind of was. Once we saw how fast stuff was going away, we rummaged around and brought out more. It was one of the most liberating moments I’ve experienced in a long time.

Purging is revelatory. A line in a song by the 1970s rock group Bread laments, “All my possessions start weighing me down.” I understand that. As a young teen, I spent a summer living on a remote ranch in a little cabin. I had a small bed, a little wood burning stove and a tiny bathroom. A small chest of drawers held my clothes. Everything I owned there fit in one suitcase. It was the most glorious, unencumbered summer of my young life.

But life happens, we grow up and get married, have families with all their stuff, kids make things for you, parents bequeath treasures to you, people give you things, you buy things, and before you know it, you own a houseful of stuff.

Actually, it owns you. You become the caretaker, the guardian, the insurance keeper of everything you own — including sentimental things like my mother’s cedar chest and my father’s bow and arrows. These are things they touched and loved and used. I keep them because they’re a connection to my parents; they keep me from missing them more than I already do. But even memory-bound things sometimes feel heavy.

When we’re buried, other than the clothes on our bodies, we’re in much the same condition as when we arrived. There’s something symbolically right about that. Yet I once saw a casket with a little drawer where people could deposit a small memento. I thought how strange it was since the deceased wouldn’t know it was there. Then I realized the memento was for the comfort of the person who put it there, not the person who passed. The truth is, we don’t get to take a single scrap of any of this with us when we go. And that’s a good thing.

The season of giving (and therefore getting) is barreling down on us. I used to think autumn purging was a way to prepare for that, a way to make space for new “stuff.” This year, I think I’ll give my husband the gift of empty, reclaimed space. It’s something he’s never received from me.

He might just consider it one of the finest gifts I’ve ever given him.

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.

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