The High Price Of Procrastination

A month ago, I spent a morning planning finances for 2025. Social Security hasn’t told us if we’re getting a raise, and I was already creating my spending plan for the new year? I was definitely looking for an area to save some bucks.

The expenditures were chugging along as anticipated, until I got to the category “Storage Unit.” I looked at that figure – $175 quarterly – and decided NYET! NO MORE! I was paying $700 a year to avoid tackling the last of my mother’s stored items? Mom died eight years ago. Somehow, I have racked up $5600 in storage fees. How is that possible? That’s very expensive laziness.

This particular rental space was the third I had leased for her STUFF.

Ten years ago, we moved her into her new Assisted Living digs. we crammed what she couldn’t part with into a large unit halfway between her apartment and me. I was thinking she might enjoy an outing visiting some of her possessions. She never did, and yet she couldn’t let go. I understood.

After Mom passed, I needed to move it closer to me and reduce it substantially. Of course, it now included everything she had in her spacious apartment. I should have tackled it all. I gave away a lot, donated a lot, and moved a lot into my house to “go through.” It was overwhelming.

Some families break up these types of chores. But we only children have no one else to rely on. Overwhelming describes it best. Eight years ago, I spent nights going through greeting cards, letters, and photo albums. I had mixed emotions throwing them away, writing about it at that time. It felt like I was throwing Mom away with every Mother’s Day card, every valentine, every letter from summer camp.

After my financial planning revelation, I drove to the nearby unit. I needed another strong back in addition to Dear Richard’s just to dig through the many phantom boxes. With no idea what was in most of them. I told our helper friend, David, “If you find anything you want, please speak up – it’s yours.” Thank God for David.

Richard and David unloaded boxes off the 6-foot shelving unit into the common hall area. We created piles for charities, donations, our house, and yes, trash. Then they broke down the shelving so we could access the rear. I went through a tremendous amount of CDs, DVDs, and VHS tapes. Big, heavy boxes of them. Storage tubs of clothes. Blankets and bedding. Books and magazines. Everyday dishes – emblazoned with lighthouses, her passion.

And then there was the big box labeled “costume jewelry.” Eight years ago, I donated 350 pairs of Mom’s earrings and 40 or 50 of her necklaces to a local church bazaar. And here was more? OMG.

So, there I was again. Donating, giving things away, and moving a lot into my house. To “go through.” It was like Groundhog Day. I have to do the “go through,” because, as neat as Mom was, she had a habit of tucking things away. I found our WW II ration books slipped into a stack of Halloween cards – tied with an orange ribbon.

And finally, way back in the corner, unreachable until we had worked a few hours, were the beds. A bright yellow crib that had served our children and grandchildren, and a pretty cherry four poster bed – both going to Spartansburg, PA. A good friend, an Amish contractor I have worked with, now has nine children. It took a week to contact him, but he was there, with a driver, to remove those last two items and all the bedS parts that went with them. That really made me happy,

As I write this, it is the last day of September, the day I would have written the quarterly check for the next three months. Not happening. We got it done.

Now I am at home. With the boxes. I’ve been through one. It took two nights. The box contained every “extra postage” sized card I’d ever sent her. The hundred or more were all in their pink, yellow, and aqua envelopes labeled, “Mom.” Resealed. Mother’s Day. Valentine’s Day. Christmas. Birthday. Easter. Thanksgiving. Those stacks were just the right side of the carton. You get the idea.

These were the cards she kept at her apartment. She read and reread them during her long winter evenings, feeding her memories. The “I love you’s” in their many permutations nourishing her soul. I know how much she treasured them.

My car is still full, but I’m going to chip away at it one box at a time. And not write any more checks for $175.

My car should be empty by Easter – it’s late next year.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.