Memories, light the corners of my … basement

It seems that as of late, talk shows and news segments are chin-wagging about the subject of hoarding.

Undoubtedly, there are some people that have a difficult time letting go of semi-precious items and mementos, and there are others that take a sensible approach in clearing away the old to make room for the new.

I fall somewhere between seasonal sporting goods and lava lamps.

Granted, I’ve held onto things that mean a lot to me, but my tiny corner of the basement has sprouted like a patch of overgrown ivy, seeping further toward the center of the room.

Still, I find enjoyment in going through old boxes, treasure-hunting like I’m the first person to crash a neighborhood yard sale.

Each time I come across a cherished keepsake, it’s like I’m holding it for the first time. Then, of course, certain contents of unmarked crates beg the question, “Why the devil am I still holding onto this?”

Then, there is the Freudian game that we play in our collective mind, as we break down boxes and resort to re-sorting things. The crap is still crap; it’s just being labeled differently in a vain attempt to fool ourselves.

Recently, I unearthed several boxes of collectible wannabes, which stemmed from various celebrity interviews and stories that I’ve done over the years.

Microcassettes of interviews that range from Paul McCartney to Bruce Springsteen were tussled about in the same plastic bin, right next to ones with Joey Lawrence and Tori Spelling. I smell a celebrity smackdown.

In another box, I found a cluster of Beach Boys and Beatles collectibles, with everything from bobblehead dolls to an autographed LP featuring the Beach Boys’ Wilson brothers Carl, Dennis and Brian.

The latter brought back a wave of nostalgia, having just caught Brian Wilson perform in concert at the Lowell Memorial Auditorium. And unlike the mishmash contents of the box, Brian’s performance was worth keeping in mind.

Backed by a tight 10-piece band, Brian appeared happy and enthused to be back on stage, directing his fellow musicians, though at times with awkward gestures. Wilson earned every degree of applause that he received. And so, the autograph LP re-emerged from my box and is back on display.

The other end of the storage spectrum is the one that earns some hearty head-scratching and permanent removal.

Kenny Rogers western boots? Baryshnikov leggings? Jerry Garcia ties? Samples from the Beastie Boys clothing line? No, I’m not having a fashion meltdown; these were all items I utilized as part of a story I was writing on celebrity wares more than a decade ago. This box needs to go.

And then, there is the category of items that you think you need to keep when you simply do not.

Dozens of empty DVD boxes, sitting in a box, sitting in another box. It’s like some twisted game of Russian nesting dolls, which, to my chagrin, I find in another box. Gone!

The DVDs that were housed in these plastic doohickeys now have a permanent home in leather magazine binders. As for the Russian besting dolls, I can’t even tell you whose face is wrapped around them. They, too, shall perish.

I found undeveloped rolls of film. Part of me is curious, as in do they still develop film? Another part of me is fearful in discovering pictures of me donning a mullet.

Hotel room keys from Vegas to Paris? Yeah, those will come in handy.

Boxes of awards and trophies from high school? Who am I, Dorian Gray?

A notebook containing the handwritten rules and instructions to beer pong? Thankfully, scrawled in someone else’s script.

Lone left-footed socks? (I can’t find the righties.)

Autographed pictures of all four Golden Girls? (OK, I’m keeping these.)

Unlike some articles that would make even the landfill hiccup, many other items are worth passing along, such as books and clothing. The Nashua Public Library is always happy to accept my unwanted books and CDs and recently, several organizations, from Harbor Homes to the Boys & Girls Club of Nashua, have either picked up or taken drop-offs of bedding and clothing.

Then, there are what I call the boxes of purgatory. It’s stupid to keep them, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. I mean, c’mon. My Steve Austin Six-Million Dollar Man action figure? My authentic miniature Radio Flyer wagon? Ten pairs of drum sticks? Piano sheet music? Antique putters? A ceramic bust of Elvis? My CD copy of “Leonard Nimoy Sings?” A martini glass with wheels on it? A martini glass lamp without wheels on it? They’ll always have a home.

Maybe my stash of goodies will see the light of day once again soon. I just need to trim back the ivy.

The Last Retort appears every other week. George Pelletier can be reached at geptripp11@comcast.net.