A couple of days ago I looked into that last kitchen drawer, the final frontier of unclaimed territory in the kitchen I inherited from my predecessor.
With a now-practiced hand I quickly tossed into the trash a layer of napkins, condiment packets, chop sticks and take out menus — all relics of far-away, long-closed restaurants, and the bottom layer of desiccated rubber bands, tiny screws and used carpet tacks, fragments of plastic bits, sticky twist ties, and bits of string.
I sorted the broken bits of the family silver (valuable, perhaps, enough to merit a closer look later) from the miscellaneous napkin rings, dozen bag clips, unpaired corn holders, barbecue skewers, and some whole implements that look useful even though I can’t identify them.
Finally, in the drawer’s deepest recesses I found three candle stubs. When I finished reassembling the contents to be kept — and by now it was no longer a mind-boggling mess threatening to escape the drawer — I set those candle stubs into crystal holders and, with a prayer to honor the memory of my predecessor, I offered thanks for having finished claiming the spaces in my kitchen as my own.
In fact, that last kitchen drawer was the last space in the whole house — barring my husband’s work areas — that I opened up and declogged of obvious trash.
There is still the garage and two deep-under-house difficult-to-access storage areas to tackle. But I’ll take a break from physical decluttering because over the next month workers will be coming to tackle needed maintenance.
I’ll have time to tell more stories here. That’s a happy thought.