Every time I start to trace my stuff gathering, I want to start when I became an adult. But really, it begins so much earlier. Actually, I joke about it, but it really does start with my parents.
This is not another story about how my parents ruined my life and now I have to learn how to live with myself. It's a story about how I was raised, and how the tendencies of my parents went out of control with me.
My parents, mom, dad, step dad, are collectors. They keep things.
My mom has picture frames and crafting supplies that she has been keeping since I was little. Art frames being expensive, she doesn't want to get rid of them so that when she completes a painting, she will have it available. She has held onto things just in case. But its all put away or in the garage or in the spare room... Most of her home is uncluttered and spotless. I dream of this for myself.
My Step Dad collects cool stuff. I don't know what all he had because there tended to be things like rotten eggs and such, but between just collecting cool stuff and working in the movie/TV/commercial business, Dadi has some cool stuff. But, once again, he keeps it in its place. I'm sure his wife GJ would like it if he kept less of it, (in face I KNOW she would like it..) but he has his stuff and that's that. Their house is neat and tidy and pretty.
My father loves the swap meet and garage sales. He's also travelled the world. Cool stuff, junk, it all abounds. Between his stuff and the stuff that my great grandparents left behind, (some of which I have) I suspect he still has a storage unit. I also suspect that his girlfriend makes sure that their home is neat and tidy. I haven't been there. But they are living in a mobile home. Not a lot of room for clutter.
We keep things, my family. For posterity. For the cool of it, in case we need it some day, we keep things. Which explains a few things about my childhood.
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