Self-storage: A perfect "temporary" solution
Keep or toss: Decluttering becomes harder when you're holding on to stuff across generations. And harder when each thing brings old memories that stay for days.
Were you born in the 1970s or earlier? Or in the 1980s or later? In my circles, that seems to be a common indicator of how much stuff you had as a kid, even for siblings within the same family.
In the seventies, synthetic as it was, there wasn’t that much stuff. The stuff most families had was still in an easily countable range.
My brothers and I had a small closetful of toys. A mish-mash of whatever few Christmas presents we accumulated over the years, organized in Quaker Oats containers and shoe boxes. Lots with broken parts or missing pieces—but we kept it all because that’s all we had.
“You have all that stuff. Why should you complain?”
A material world on sale
Midway through the eighties, when decked-out Madonna was singing, “You know that we are living in a material world,” everyone already knew—no matter the materials they had.
Toys went from seasonal items in Wish Books to year-round wishes by Toys “R” Us kids. Specialty stores and mail order catalogs branched out into sub-sub categories—who knew this thing could fix this problem I didn’t even know I had? And brand names became bigger as certain stuff signaled status in a newly stratified way thanks to a growing upper, and yuppified “middle” class.
Still, most people couldn’t afford much in the material decade.
But then, the nineties rolled in, and almost everything went on sale. Forget “random” bluelight specials. How about nonstop ones? Forget twofers, why not threefers? Shopping carts upsized as sales grew steeper and stores became warehouse-sized. When you’ve got a lot of stuff, you need some place to store it. Organizers and stackable bins of all sizes and purposes became everyday household items.
The changes seemed to span across income levels too. So, to avoid any confusion over who truly holds status, monied people started moving to minimalism, quietly signaling with brands that never went on sale. Brands only people with a trained eye would even notice.
Maybe you couldn’t buy a more secure life in the nineties, but you could afford small “luxuries,” the latest new tech and extra nice-to-haves as consolation. And that was somehow supposed to make up for a growing feeling of never getting ahead and always being behind.
Alongside cultural messages encouraging consumption were financial gurus advising on how an average person living paycheck-to-paycheck could easily save their way into wealth by cutting out “extravagances”—and buying whatever it is they were selling.
Meanwhile, politicians were selling tax incentives touted to help “working families” save more. However, they seemed better designed to help people already ahead get further ahead rather than to help people without a safety net build one of their own.
Trapped remnants of living
Self-storage properties started popping up all over in the supersized build-out ‘90s. McMansion in size but built with a utilitarian construction that was technically unfit for human habitation, storage facilities felt creepily cold no matter how temperature-controlled they were.
I couldn’t drive past one without feeling an unease. Their very existence was a sign of abundance, that’s true. But they were just as much a sign of the growing insecurity for having a steady place to live and keep your belongings.
I’d imagine the unique remnants of living sadly sitting piled-up behind each identical steel roll-up door, quiescent and quiet, held hostage by incessant billing statements warning their owners, “Pay up, or it’ll be mine.”
There’s an understandable sense of desperation in holding onto stuff worth less than the price to store it, especially when there’s a threat of losing it and especially in the midst of mourning a loss—a life, a relationship, a job or perhaps multiple transitions at once. It seems to set off the involuntary response we’re all born with to grab and hold on—regardless of whatever “it” is we’re holding.
The Self Storage Association estimates there are 60K storage units worldwide. And they say most of them are in the U.S. The sheer amount of stuff in the States seems to stand out to newcomers I’ve met over the years, so that’s not surprising.
It’s also not surprising that survey data shows American Gen Xers are the most likely age group to rent storage space, with almost one in four renting a unit. By default, we’re the keepers of stuff between generations at a time when there’s often more stuff to keep.
Self-storage sabotage
Two years ago, my husband and I joined the self-storage club. It seemed like the perfect temporary (“two months tops”) solution for storing my brother’s belongings after he unexpectedly died. Self-sabotage may be a more accurate descriptor. Since then, we’ve resigned ourselves to paying the $148 each month for the foreseeable future, plus inflation.
It’s not just my brother’s stuff anymore. Mixed in are things from my husband’s grandma, Elzora, who passed away late last year—keepsakes for the kids they one day might want to keep to remember their beloved great grandma. A few months later, we had to figure out what to do with the roomful of things our daughter left behind after she moved out (and my gut told me it’s unlikely she’ll be moving back). That meant more shuffling stuff around.
It’s easy to forget how recently the stuff saturation point has been reached. As a kid, I knew grownups who had a small rented locker in a public space or a safe deposit box at a bank, but that was it. Maybe they’d store a few boxes of overflow or relics from their youth in their parents’ attic or cellar—if their folks were around and had the space. But boomers seemed to separate soon and separate fast, leaving little behind.
Getting rid of whatever you didn’t have room for wasn’t really a decision. What else would you do with it? Plus, far fewer things became possessions in the first place. It was common to see people move cross-country with a car full and nothing to follow. And no, it’s not just my TV brain remembering the opening scene of One Day at a Time. I saw families move into my neighborhood with few belongings.
Not a lotta stuff, but full of life
I grew up in neighborhood of late mid-century built townhomes in northwestern suburban Chicago. Kitty corner from Lutheran General Hospital, minutes from O'Hare, and steps to a bus line that went into the city, people moved in from all over the States and world. That made my home feel really special.
Colonial Ridge was a rental community in the early 1970s when my parents first moved in. The townhomes were converted to individually owned units a handful of years later.
My parents with four kids decided to buy our two-bedroom unit and stay. With double-digit interest rates and a housing shortage, there wasn’t anywhere nearby with more space they could afford. Still, they knew they were lucky to be able to scrimp and save enough to get a loan and then pay it. But were they? Was it really worth my mom working nights, barely sleeping year after year?
After the conversion, many units were still rented out, so there was always a good amount of turnover—families moving in and out. I felt lucky to be there and was always curious whenever a new family moved in. First question: Did they have any kids my age? Next one: What stuff did they bring with them?
As newcomers carried their stuff from the alleyway through the narrow courtyard to their red brick sliver of home, a gaggle of kids gathered around, watching, in a way that grownups could never do. Some came with only a folding table and chair set, maybe a mattress and sheets for curtains, but not much more. People got by and borrowed a can-opener, baking pan, or whatever they needed until they could buy ones for themselves.
Unique sanctuaries
Our home had an “Early American” (meaning generic American) look of the time, mostly furnished with JCPenney markdown deals Dad got at work—Bassett pieces in chunky oak and beigy-brown tweeds, though we did have a cool laminate space-age looking round kitchen table set with spinning chairs. The teal blue vinyl seat pads outlined by deep ridges were impossible to keep clean—though my mom tried.
Whatever we had, though, seemed boring. Other people’s things seemed more interesting. I loved seeing all the ways families from all over turned their cookie-cutter spaces into unique sanctuaries. And I loved learning how “normal” meant different things in different homes—like taking shoes off before entering.
Taking shoes off at the door was one practice I decided early on I’d do when I had a place of my own. My mom’s seasonal ritual of lugging a massive steel steam cleaner rented from the supermarket didn’t seem like fun. After working all week, she’d spend a whole weekend sucking up scummy water from piles of shag, moving the clunky furniture from one side to the other and then back into place, waiting for the carpet to dry between each step.
The worst part was that in no time at all, the carpet looked the same dirty again. As unfair as it may’ve been for one person to clean all the floors everyone walked on, taking shoes off seemed to be a simple way of showing them respect. Or at least, let them decide what they’d like you to do. And better still, help keep the floors clean too.
I like being around my kids’ messiness of creating and collecting, and think I’ll keep some form of it even after they’re grown. I already keep far too much of their art work. Some too much is OK, right?
Holding space indefinitely
Most likely, we’ll be holding space for our kids for years to come. There’s a good feeling about being a home base your kids can count on even after they move out. Just knowing that you have someone as backup can really make a difference for young people starting out. Some things, though, I’m probably keeping more myself because I can’t let go.
I couldn’t part with my daughter’s old bedroom furniture. If Nora’s bedroom wasn’t needed so our thirteen-year-old son could have a room of his own, I definitely would’ve kept it as “Nora’s room.” Then, I’d have a place other than my closet to go when I’m feeling sad and want to be left alone.
Maybe I’d dig out Nora’s fancifully made sign that hung on her door during her teen years. Ornately and craftily made, with an artist’s touch she got from her dad, her swirly scripted words would warn others to enter at their own risk—in the most poised and proper way possible.
I have been getting rid of some things though. My usual nature has been just as much purge as binge. But I’ve lost the decisive feeling I used to have when it came to deciding: keep or toss? Deciding to donate things we no longer need but someone else could use is easier. But what do I do with the stuff no one wants? Dumping old pictures is especially hard for me because I know how special they once were still feel.
Working moms and fun dads
Most men I knew growing up had full-on support for “working women.” They were happy to let them do double duty. Having fun was for dads.
My mom did most of the drudgeries—not only cooking, cleaning and laundry, but also bills, yardwork, painting and fixing stuff. And she worked nights. Mom always made me feel loved, but I couldn’t not feel sad (and mad!) by seeing how tired she was from having to do far too much.
Dad, on the other hand, mostly did two things outside of work. He took me and my brothers on outings anywhere new and free of charge, stopping at stores along the way to buy only the loss-leader sale items. And Dad took the family pictures and kept them organized.
What I saw in my home, seemed common in others too. Sometimes, the subservience was subtle. Other times not, like the dad who harshly scolded and belittled the mom while I was over to play. The reason? She didn’t have his golfing shirt ironed in time. As uncomfortable as that was, it was impossible not to worry how much worse it might’ve been when no guest was in the home. (Thankfully, she later left him.)
Dad’s inventoried life
Photos were a part of Dad’s inventoried life. His inventory never stopped growing because his catalog view of life never grew satiated by small-ticket things or experiences. Every outing or purchase was a big, big deal. Well, because it was. A surplus of superfluous—when was that ever possible? When was year-round access to fresh fruits and vegetables ever available? How heavenly is that?
For Dad, inventorying was for work and for fun. At Penneys he helped with the painstaking task of manually hand-counting inventory in the multi-level store. He had a similar process at home, keeping everything counted and accounted for. Unfortunately, he often did the same in his relationships, only seeing things along his ledger line.
Documenting life was an everyday habit Dad did without thought. Go to a movie, save your stub, cut out a newspaper review, and paste it alongside a dated note in your scrapbook. Documenting life gave Dad a sense of control, viewing life frame by frame, and owning each one forever. Dad taught me early on to do the same and it became a part of me too.
“If you didn’t document it, you didn’t do it,” wasn’t something I had to learn when I worked as a research or nurse assistant in college. Or as a pharmacist or medical writer now. In those contexts, documentation is essential. But what about my own life? Has documenting it hurt or helped? Am I missing out on something bigger by owning tiny pieces?
Check out this thought-provoking piece by
—”Stop living though your lens. The compulsion to document and share everything.” How many pictures are on your phone? I counted mine, and it’s got me rethinking.
An abrupt end
Being photographed by Dad was sometimes annoying, especially when I was around friends. And seeing my face frozen in frames at moments I'd like to forget was also annoying. I’m so grateful, though, that the only social sharing Dad could do was scattered on shelves or walls in his home or office.
My photographed life abruptly ended when Dad moved out when I was ten. Pictures became Polaroids on holidays in living rooms with lamp lighting and dark shadows. The everydayness of taking pictures was gone.
My stepdad tried to play the photographer role when he married my mom a year later. A nightclub owner turned traveling salesman and then recruiter like Mom, Gene was more the type of person who belonged in front of the camera.
Gene came to my dance recitals wearing colorful V-neck sweaters. He loved being a dad, but it wasn’t easy being a first-time over-50 parent to three stepkids after living alone almost his entire adult life. As hard as that may have been, everything was harder because he was also trying to stop drinking.
“Alcoholism is a disease,” I heard described as the “new” thinking in the eighties. That seemed obvious—or as Gene always said in cliche, “obvious to the most casual observer.” Who would “choose” to go through that?
I’ve grown to accept my dad did his best too. He didn’t have an alcohol use disorder, but he had something that made life harder for him and his loved ones.
I’m not a psychologist, nor an armchair one, but I’m pretty sure Dad had stuff that made his brain work differently in a way that wasn’t understood then. Something that could explain his intense attachment to things. And something that explained why he sometimes treated the people he loved the worst. I might not know the details to explain exactly why, but just knowing it’s something can be enough to understand.
After Dad moved out, there were gaps when few photos were taken. Some gaps I created myself, ripping and tossing out memories I didn’t want to remember. Still, I didn’t feel any gaps. Memories still flowed continuously, surfacing at unpredictable times.
Aimlessly falling leaves, the flushed feeling of fall afternoon as the temperature climbs, the sound of kids running crazily through a corn maze, each kid almost falling into the one ahead—any sensory feeling can bring up an old memory. Photos are obvious memory triggers, especially when you see old ones you’ve never seen or ones you haven’t seen in years.
I recently found a collage frame that used to hang in the hallway of our Dad’s house. Dad’s hidden in the top middle picture, sitting in the opposite corner from the protruding bent knee and lower leg with tube socks. That’s the problem when you’re the only one who takes the photos. No one else is able to take a decent picture of you.
At the top right, I see Patrick’s warm smile, his arm lovingly around our grandpa Mike. Even before Grandpa was sick with cancer, he often had that same sobering expression of someone who knew hardship and loss.
Most of the other pictures are of “manly” activities Dad loved sharing with close friends and family. Patrick loved cars. Ted and his best friend Ron loved fishing. Next to Ted, at the bottom right, is Dad’s best bud cousin who was another walking encyclopedia. Dean knew music. Dad knew sports. And they both loved exchanging trivia over meals.
Off center to the right is Grandma Marie, dressed in her Sunday best. Following her stunned look, I can hear her scolding Dad for taking her picture. Then, Dad would laugh and reply with a teasing taunt. Secretly, though, I think Grandma really wanted to be photographed. I think she liked how she looked, something she would’ve considered too shameful to ever admit.
Like Grandma, I’m in an oval slot. Feeling awkward at fourteen with my half grown-out mullet and perm, I’m wearing a Randy Rhoades T-shirt and black jean cutoffs, Seeing my kid self then is unsettling, knowing what followed.
I was in my Metallica moody headbanger phase, midway between a Debbie Gibson preppy-plaid look and a glam metal one, just as I was about to enter a groupie world that oddly felt no less safe than the regular one. Did you ever have a feeling of having no safe place to go? When everywhere feels unsafe, at some point, nothing feels unsafe any more.
Each little item is filled with so many memories. That’s a big reason why it’s taking me forever to sort through stuff in storage. I can’t do it all at once and keep up with life.
What’s next?
I’ll continue this story in an upcoming post. But for my next post (my 50th one), I want to pull fifty sentences out from my past posts and see if I learn anything new or have any second thoughts once I see them combined. I don’t like rereading things I write—and rarely do—but I’m curious, so I’ll do it.
I hoped to get out all my early life stories that I plan to tell by my fiftieth birthday. I missed that deadline, but I’m getting closer. The problem is I’m a word monster and go on too many tangents. But I like Substack as a space where I don’t need to arrange words tightly according to SEO guidance or any way other than what I feel like or have time for.
Looking ahead to next year, I want to try writing other formats, like maybe a short fictional story. I like the idea of blending totally made-up shit with experiences I’ve had or heard about but would never write about in a factual way. I’d also like to cover current topics, gathering input from multiple interviews—but nothing that would (or should) be fact-checked. The softer, grayer sides of issues often get less attention.
I LOVE and subscribe to this trio of Substacks by photography artists/writers who share their stunning work with short essays and stories. Each newsletter is a calming break from life that I know I need more of. Check them out!
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I really enjoyed reading this and was surprised to get to the end and see my Substack! Thank you so much for linking to it!
There’s so much great description of 70s lifestyle here and I too am a documentary like my father! I would love to circle back to the idea of having too many things. I think you have a couple of sub themes here, but that is one of them. I don’t know about you, but after my brother died, I finished… Well, almost finished my purging stage. It was so intense! When my mom died first, I started going through everything in my basement and just giving away things in droves. I still have way too much stuff and I know that That is something I grew up thinking was OK.
Thank you for your enjoyable writing and keep on going! Look forward to watching your newsletter grow.
I suppose there's something to be said about living in a NYC apartment where regular purging is a necessary thing. Although lots of people rent storage units here too, of course. In fact I have one within 2 blocks of where I live. I see it as a challenge, to keep all my possessions in my apartment. It got harder when my mom sold the house (that was our version of storage - their basement) but it helps me keep in check the objects I want to keep. Maybe I did inherit some of that from my mother. She has no attachment to objects.