A cartoon came through my social media feed recently that stirred some stuff: some guy bragging to his son about the treasures in his garage he’d inherit. It wasn’t really a joke to me. You see, in addition to all the wonderful memories, the stepchildren and grand-children, and anecdotes to fill blogs until I die, I inherited from Jack a jam-packed garage. (If you want to know more about my legacy, you can read Last Will and Testament of me, Andrzej Jacek Sikorski)

In the year before he died, Jack had - with a bit of encouragement from me - sold his 1800 sq ft shop filled with a 30 year accumulation of stuff from his life as an appliance service guy. Things like tools, gauges, scrapped equipment, ACs with coolant to be harvested, and fridges literally stacked one atop the other. It was disorganized in a way I’d never imagined possible and posed a serious safety risk to anyone squeezing through it. The sorting process - keep, sell for scrap, garbage - was agonizing to watch: Jack distracted by reminiscence with every item. Indeed, I left the country for a week because I couldn’t bear watching a process that seemed like it should have been so much more streamlined.

The “keep” pile was deposited into our newly built 400 sq ft garage. He died 11 months later, unable to do more than affixing the shop benches to the wall and installing overhead shelving up. He just wasn’t up to organizing it the way he’d envisaged.

In the days between his death and the celebration of his life, the owners of the steam sauna supplier for whom Jack was the Ontario contact, happened to be in town. They combed through the assorted parts in the garage and shipped them back to their headquarters in BC, providing a much appreciated credit to his account. But that was the tip of the detritus iceberg. The items taking up most real estate in the garage were eight fridge-sized wine coolers (non-functioning). I’d made a deal with myself that I would do enough clean-up to get my car in the garage before I headed to the UK for distraction three weeks after the funeral. Although I knew those coolers had life left in them in the hands of another appliance wizard like Jack, I also knew all the other service techs had their own supply - the market for refurbished wine coolers is limited. As guilty as it made me feel, I called a scrap guy and he took them away for free. The culling had begun in earnest.

My Canadian stepchildren came and relieved me of other items they thought they might need - tool boxes, equipment, and basic tools. I’m indeed lucky they inherited their father’s hoarding tendencies since they certainly took much more than they would ever use. And I didn’t discourage them!

I also worked Jack’s network like crazy to find other appliance guys who might want stuff. One wintery evening, I found myself alone in the garage with two rough-looking dudes who were interested in Jack’s collection. No-one knew they were there and I felt a bit vulnerable at first. They were very pleasant though, and I watched and laughed with them as they tossed parts, tools, and gadgets around: ‘Hey Bill, don’t you have one of these - it’s about 40 years old!’ And so on. They piled up items they wanted and as they did, I considered what they might pay for them. If you know me at all, you know I barely know a screwdriver from a ratchet set from a stove motherboard. I certainly couldn’t put a price on the specialized doodads and equipment they’d selected. The moment came:

“Cecilia [it’s my curse to be misnamed], how much do you want for this?”

Off the top of my head, I said the only thing I could think of: “You know and I know that I haven’t a clue what that is worth. But I want you to consider how you want your widows to be treated when they have to purge your stuff.”

They both nodded. I had them there. They added up the value of what they had, arguing a little sometimes about what something is worth new and then the depreciation for it being used. One started to count $50s from a roll of bills. The other contributed a few $20s to the pile. They handed me $480 for the estate.

“I owe you a bit more but this is all the cash I brought. I’ll leave it in your mailbox tomorrow.”

And he did. I know they didn’t rook me. The widow card mustn’t be overused. But this was a legitimate time to play it.

I continued to whittle away at the garage contents. In 2021, I amped up the downsizing through Facebook Marketplace as part of my preparation to turn the garage into my new home, Chandlerville. You can read that experience here. It was a mammoth task and, at the end, some of the contents went to the dump.

Every piece of Jack’s garage legacy had meaning to him, but most meant nothing to anyone else. Friends who’ve had the thankless task of getting rid of their parents’ things have experienced the same thing and have been shocked by the absence of a market for old things. My mother has spent the last 20 years culling the collection, and we kids are all very grateful. Let’s face it - most of us are like Jack: the items we have are just physical evidence of memories. You can keep those memories in your head or a photo - you don’t need the tangible item.

So do your future widow(er), child, or executor a favour and start purging now!

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