It's not like I'm a hoarder ... more of a collector

With apologies to Roy Scheider, who uttered perhaps the most quoted line in “Jaws,” I think I’m gonna need a bigger basement.

But unlike his hunt for a killer shark, I’m pretty much on my own.

And that’s as it should be.

After all, it was my procrastination, excuse-making and all-around laziness that caused this rather embarrassing situation in the first place. Instead of diving headlong into the arduous yet necessary task when I should have — two years ago — I fell into chronic inertia.

Allow me to explain what happened.

In January 2024 my wife and I returned to our hometown after what was essentially an extended vacation of 23 years on the Carolina coast. We realized, wary of advancing age and unforeseen health concerns, we had one more move left in us, which meant it was time to pack everything up and head back to Ohio.

Through November and December, we took inventory of our possessions and decided what had to be left behind and what went into the moving van. It was easier for my wife, who, she’ll admit, has a cold-blooded streak in her that eliminates rank sentimentality.

Consequently, she had no trouble disposing of clothing, furniture, electronics, beach gear, kitchen gadgets, housewares, a birdbath, bedding and books, though she did hang onto her complete collection of Nancy Drew mysteries, something I applauded.

Her meticulous preparations and strategic planning ensured that when it was time to unload, she knew what went where, what things required priority attention and what to hang on the walls.

I, on the other hand, was still lamenting leaving my Civic behind.

Sure, it was a 1991 model, and OK, it hadn’t run for eight years, but I always harbored the hope that one day I might run into a Honda maven, someone capable of bringing Benny back to life.

And yes, I gave my faithful car a name. Doesn’t everyone?

As I collected a lifetime’s worth of treasured belongings, boxed them up and labeled everything, I believed I had done an outstanding job of separating the wheat from the chaff, forsaking some vintage audio equipment, a couple of salvageable TV sets, many old T-shirts, my charcoal grill and a rusted-out hibachi.

I parted with lamps and chairs and dozens of high school and college notebooks, not to mention stacks of newspapers and piles of magazines. I pitched cookbooks, souvenir menus, a toaster oven, pizza pans and a cast-iron skillet, though it had split at the seam.

Could I have acted more like my wife and been more ruthless in my cuts? Obviously, but I thought I’d done pretty well, considering.

The first indication I’d sorely overestimated the nostalgic value of what I opted to take home occurred when the Norfolk pine, which I’d nurtured for a decade, tending it from a skinny sapling to a towering 6-foot beauty, died within days of our arrival.

Guess those sub-zero Ohio temperatures weren’t exactly optimal.

Things settled down after that, and I took my time unpacking the rest of the essentials, leaving a lot of boxes unattended in the basement as life went on. I set up an office, hung framed photos, reassembled the cinder-block-and-plank shelving for my albums and hooked up the stereo system, including four vintage JBLs.

But I always knew there would come a time to finish the job.

A few days ago, my wife — whose patience in the face of my prolonged sloth has been nothing short of saintly — got busy and moved about 50 boxes, ranging from plastic to cardboard, from the storage area to the basement floor, where they called my name.

“Hey, you!” I heard them speak in a harsh tone. “We’re waiting!”

My first attempts at unpacking were, as you might expect, pathetic.

Instead of finding a drawer for letters, I sat in a lawn chair and read nearly each one. The same thing happened when I came upon a collection of newspaper clippings, stuff I’d written nearly 40 years ago. I sifted slowly through ticket stubs, postcards, receipts for car repairs, notes from readers, Christmas cards, CDs, not to mention paperback books by the dozen and about a million VCR tapes.

Eventually, I snapped out of that distracting trance and realized that without discipline and a desire to make serious progress, I wouldn’t meet my deadline, set by my ever-understanding wife.

I have until the end of summer, but I wouldn’t dare take that long.

In a single four-hour sprint, I emptied 10 boxes, finding homes for a lot of stuff, important things I hadn’t seen since leaving Carolina.

But for as much as I got done, there’s a mountain yet to climb, and now I’m worried that not everything I packed will fit down here.

Part of the problem is these concrete walls make it difficult to mount photographs and shelves, not to mention finding enough room for the slot car racetrack I’d love to enjoy once again.

For encouragement I’ll quote Roy Scheider once again, this time from “All That Jazz,” in which, at the start of every day, he looks in the mirror, splashes water on his face and says, “It’s showtime!"

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where it’s about the journey, not the destination.