I have a shocking confession to make. Prepare yourself. Here it is. I am not sentimental. Even though my favorite Jim Croce song was “Photographs and Memories,” I realize I am not sentimental about boxes of knick-knacks. About clutter.

I’m not sure what caused this lack of sentimentality. But it was clearly on display as I recently helped clean out my father-in-law’s house after his death.

First, you must understand that I married into a family of packrats. Somehow, this fact remained a secret until the wedding. Only then, did I unearth the depth of this generational sin problem.

The packrat gene probably infected umpteen generations, but I can only attest to the last 3 generations.

First, there were my husband’s grandparents. I still remember a call from the nursing home where they lived. The manager declared their room a firetrap and demanded we clear it out. When we checked their room, we found stacks of newspapers everywhere. Even the unreachable storage places where normal people store Christmas decorations overflowed with newspapers. How in the world these two frail senior citizens managed to stuff those cupboards full of newspapers still confounds me. But I loved them for who they were, and realized as children of the Great Depression, they saved everything that might possibly be useful.

The packrat gene passed down from the grandparents to my father-in-law. I still remember my first foray into the “shed.” So many things in so little space. The outstanding piece in his collection was the non-functioning refrigerator with the door removed and turned into a storage unit.

Now with each generation, the pack-rat gene slightly diminished. My husband has packrat tendencies, but he is an organized packrat. I like to believe I’ve helped him overcome his packrat obsession, but then I spy him digging through the trash bag to see if I’ve discarded anything that he feels compelled to keep. He then squirrels it away in the pile of useless stuff that our children will have to clean out when we croak. Fortunately, he travels a lot, so when he is out-of-town, I toss a few things from the pile and he never misses them.

A couple of years ago I stumbled across an article about Swedish Death Cleaning. The main idea is to begin getting rid of stuff, so your poor kids don’t have to deal with it when you die.

Because face it, your kids don’t want your junk.

In the book, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning, the author recommends asking yourself as you sort stuff, “Will anyone be happier if I save this?” It might be surprising to realize how often the answer is no.

For instance, while cleaning out my father-in-law’s house, we discovered a box of baby shoes. One pair from each of the siblings. I laughingly showed my husband his baby shoes, then chucked the shoes in the trash. These shoes journeyed from Alaska to Texas, not seeing the light of day for 50 years, and certainly not bringing happiness to anyone.

Long ago, I realized that I didn’t need sentimental objects to trigger my memories of good times. I carry my memories in my heart, ready to pull up in my mind at a moment’s notice. I’ve learned that relationships and experiences matter so much more than the stuff contained in my home.

So, people may think I’m weird because I rarely stop to take photographs or selfies. I prefer to focus on and invest my time in the people surrounding me. Cherishing those relationships is much more important to me than memorabilia packed up in a box and stored in the attic.

So, I make this pledge to my two kids. My areas of the house will be cleaned from the clutter of things. You won’t find boxes of embarrassing letters from old boyfriends (oops – there weren’t any!), birthday cards, newspapers, or even my high school yearbook. There will be some photos, hopefully bringing joy and laughter as you remember days gone by.

I can’t guarantee the same for your Dad’s garage and closet.

He might have rescued and brought home the baby shoes.