Starting with my mother's things (she died young when I was in my teens, so even scrawled post-it notes in her handwriting seemed precious) to my mother-in-law's things (as she creeps up on 90 and has lost her ability to make decisions about not-so-precious items like junk mail and three-year-old grocery receipts) I seem to have been chosen by fate to be the designated cleaner-upper. I sometimes feel like one of those strange insects featured in Bernd Heinrich's "Life Everlasting: The Animal Way of Death"; a bug whose evolutionary niche is to break down the parts of death that mammals don't have the ability to digest, endlessly rolling away little balls of muck, piece by little piece, until it is all rolled up and a spot is ready for the next deer to fall.
Unfortunately, even if death-cleaning is "the blight I was born for," I have no gift for it. In cleaning out my grandmother's things, I spent hours daydreaming about how much more efficient it would be if I could just find a four-foot-nine woman with a penchant for petite twin sets in need of a new living situation. I fantasized about just handing her the keys to the apartment and waltzing away. Working a second job so I could pay a complete stranger's rent seemed easier than the clean-up job I had ahead of me at the time.
With less pressing decluttering, I'm given to overthinking. Perfectionist overthinking is one flavor of the dysfunctions that this book and others flag as a failing in executive control. This leads to cognitive overwhelm, delayed decision making, and ultimately -- when the right economic and cultural factors are in play -- in a perfect storm of clutter. I take no offense, and offer no defense, on this assessment. For instance, before donating a stack of 5K T-shirts I read "The Travels of A T-Shirt in the Global Economy" by Pietra Rivoli (excellent and fascinating) as well as multiple books on how to make T-shirt quilts (daunting at first but doable), crochet with T-shirt yarn or "tarn" (easy), and tips on upcycling T-shirts into any number of other items that I, ultimately, had to admit that I and my family needed even less than a pile of old 5K T-shirts.
Which is why I read so many decluttering books - as a kind of cognitive counterweight to allow me to find a "good enough" solution to my mother-in-law's 1964 BBQ tong set (new in box) without having to check ten books out of the library first. And this book was particularly satisfying as not just a counterweight but a little bit of a absolution.
Unlike the organization and declutter how-to books, Jennifer Howard's history has a decidedly non-chirpy take on the layers of commerce and culture behind our grandparents, parents, and our own layers of clutter. Seeing our consumption as part of larger forces doesn't absolve us of personal responsibility, but it does help us gain perspective. Bonus points for working in William Morris, John Ruskin, and Oscar Wilde's American tour (pp. 98-99), though with more space I'm sure the author could have gone into the irony of a handcrafted simplicity movement that, in America at least, resulted in a flurry of redecorating and the innovation of flat-packing Stickley style furniture on trains.
Extra bonus: As someone who mentally collects books on this topic, the bibliography alone was worth putting this book on my already-overstuffed "holds" list at my local library.
This book seems self-aware that -- like most all household organization books from Mrs. Beeton to Marie Kondo -- it has a middle- to upper-middle-class female take on the problem. I'd love to see an organization book that tackles the specific cognitive overwhelm that afflicts the (relatively) less wealthy. In rich countries, like the United States, one can become trapped by somehow having both too much *and* too little at the same time. When I toured the Soviet Union, I saw the same thing happen in less flush environments; hoarding resources in one area to make up for artificial scarcity in others. You can both over-buy and be under-resourced.
Again, there are larger forces than personal cognitive styles at work. I have to admit in my own experience, it sure is easier to decide to toss an accidental overstock of canned goods that fell past past their "best-by" dates when you haven't, in recent memory, been grateful for that vintage 2019 can of green beans still sitting in your pantry during a pandemic. ("Best" is a relative term, surely?)