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Search and recovery

Published Tuesday, August 31, 2010 5:04 PM

By Julie R. Smith
Summerville Journal Scene ®

Some people run triathlons; some people climb mountains. I conduct search and recovery missions. In my house.

Our 90-year-old home, aka the Love Shack, has much charm and zero storage. It has just four closets plus a dilapidated metal shed in the backyard. Since the yard is Snake Central, and the only barrier between said snakes and the contents of the shed is a ratty old tarp, I don’t go there. Ever.

Thus we’re back to the closets. One doesn’t count because it’s the linen closet and, shockingly, I actually keep linens in there. (My one nod to Martha Stewart.)

The others are crammed with shoes, coats, belts, luggage, scrapbooks, purses, photo albums, tarnished trophies, news clippings, baskets, platters, Christmas decorations, broken umbrellas, greeting cards, wrinkled wrapping paper, carpet remnants, paint samples, Formica scraps, scarves, vacuum cleaner parts, wedding favors and possibly, my birth certificate.

I haven’t seen the official record of my birth (2:40 a.m., Tuesday, Dec.15, the year known only to me, Mama and God) since I applied for a passport. I got the passport (which has A) the worst ID photo seen by modern man and B) never been used.) But I can’t quite put my finger on the birth certificate. For all I know, the government still has it.

With the stifling heat and humidity here lately, housecleaning has been the last thing on my mind. All I do is lie around and eat fresh cucumbers sprinkled with black pepper and vinegar. Any other exertion is impossible… until yesterday.

It seemed a little cooler when I woke up: The house was merely hot, instead of sweltering. Then I checked the weather and sure enough, a cold snap was forecast. Well, a high of 90 degrees was predicted, which in South Carolina, in August, is a cold snap.

I decided it would be a good day to clean house, pare down, maybe even unearth my birth certificate.

I should have stayed in bed and gargled with a martini.

But no--I dove into the fray, determined to cull every superfluous object that didn’t fit my body or my lifestyle. (Not that I actually have a lifestyle, but isn’t it fun to pretend?)

Into the Goodwill pile went two 80’s power suits, platform shoes and a flannel shirt that smelled like dirt. Out went dusty flower arrangements, stained rugs and a broken toilet brush.

Gone were the frayed Frye boots, buckle-less belts, moldy Easter bunny ears and one stinky Thermos.

Then sentiment slithered in, as sentiment is apt to do. How could I ditch the movie tickets to “Fatal Attraction,” which made my ex-husband scream like a little girl? Or the red cocktail dress worn to the 1983 Christmas ball at the North Carolina Governor’s Mansion?

No way could I toss a black-and-white, autographed headshot of former teen idol Bobby Sherman (“Julie, Julie, Julie, do ya love me….?”) Or the collar worn by a dog I still mourn. Ditto for warped photos, concert programs and a plastic dolphin--they all remind me that I am loved, or at least remembered without malice.

I persevered, however, and at the end of the day I had two big bags filled with charitable donations and a tad more closet space. Never did find my birth certificate, though.

Oh, God. I’ll bet it’s in the attic.

Julie R. Smith, who hoarded before hoarding was cool, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.

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104 East Doty Avenue | Summerville, SC 29483 | 843-873-9424 office | 843-873-9432 fax