My house has been sold; as a consequence, evidence of my excesses have been exposed, out of drawers, closets and storage, into the light! Vergel and I vacated in 2000. It is a six-room affair that became the repository of a cumulative style of life lived way before Vergel; now, I’m forever parting with it lock, stock and barrel, along with the memories.

What to do with the 36 white porcelain plates from a set complete with serving platters, soup bowls, smaller plates for breakfast and desserts, coffee cups and saucers from the era of catered home entertaining, long before people very wisely celebrated milestones in restaurants. It was in the kitchen where I was closest to qualifying as a hoarder.

I had two cedar trunks filled with fine table cloth of madras, round, square and rectangular, embroidered white, dark-green and blue from Hong Kong and Europe, not to mention the quantity of linens. Well, I sold them all, for a song, along with Iranian carpets bought on installment when they yet cost a fortune; I have kept only one in our little condo.

Everything was normal in my past life with its own unique lifestyle. My hoard just kept moving along with me, until my last removal, to the condo. Much of those things, by sheer quantity alone, were seldom used. Fewer and fewer of them were brought along at all as home and life got simpler, until, in the end, nearly everything was left behind, in practical storage.

I am myself shocked to remember how life used to be. It belonged in another time and, yes, to another person, one I’ve long ceased to be.

Heartbreak and liberation

Well, if I wanted to, I could justify some of the excess of kitchen wares—pans, sheets, food-packing boxes, a Kitchen Aid complement with double the number of mixing bowls and all its attachments. Both my daughter and I liked to bake and for a time went into the business of selling cakes, cookies and pies.

Before our cholesterol count reached Lipitor levels, I also liked to cook pote Gallego, the special Spanish soup dish that required a massive pot—huge enough to fit a small child—to match massive endeavor.

What survived breakages, maybe only eight, of a dozen brown garden jars from Borneo with four-season and dragon designs had to go, as did the 20 pieces of those heavy slabs of imported piedra china.

As the last piece of the past went off in a garage sale or to charities, I had a mixed feeling of heartbreak and liberation. I brought home to our condo my blue and whites and assorted diggings. The other decorative and valuable things my daughter took to her own condo. In the final hauling and cleaning before the house goes to the buyers, what is left goes to the junkman.

Special things

There are still things I did not want to part with yet. For that I rented a climate-controlled space along C-5. It offers perfect service for simplifying excessive lives. The process is, after all, too sentimental to be resolute; one needs time to decide over particularly special things.

The service is affordable, safe and clean. It’s open 24/7 for storing and pulling out things. Every time my storage is opened, an electronic message alerts me on my cellphone in case it is happening without my authorization and so, I can notify them immediately. All stored items are insured. Loading and unloading can proceed even in the pouring rain; the place is vast and roofed.

It’s a business perfect for these times—when many are transitioning from house to condos. One lady customer has herself found it suitable while remodeling her house.

My own space, second to the smallest and air-conditioned, costs me P2,400 a month, with insurance, three sets of special keys and an electronic card that is tapped on the code panel for gaining entry, not unlike in a hotel or an exclusive elevator.

I don’t know yet how long I will keep my space. I guess I will, until I’m ready to decide what of the remainder of my old life to keep and what to chuck. There’s actually little left, and the sense of attachment erodes by the day.