On our way to becoming empty-nesters this fall, my wife and I had accumulated a mountain of material goods. I mean, so. Much. Crap. We faced down closets full of kid stuff (toys, bikes, sports, instruments, costumes, books), superfluous house junk (furniture, rugs, bedclothes, garage crud), and, of course, all our own crap: the amassed clothing, equipment, and stacked attic relics of our time on earth so far.

I’m not a hoarder; I’m really not. I’ve just been a little busy for the past 20 years.