Matthew Keenan

In two weeks, the National Association of Professional Organizers (NAPO) will hold their annual meeting in New Orleans. I am not invited. Neither will I be participating in their ninth annual Get Organized Month, which is designed to “focus national attention on how getting organized empowers people to take back control over their time, inboxes, paperwork and possessions.”

I’m not interested in getting organizationally empowered. That’s not me. Neither am I a clean freak, germaphobe or anything else that burdens my daily routine, which includes looking for my wallet and car keys. I’ve never been to the Organized Living Store or Containers and More. Lori, on the other hand, could be an officer of NAPO. When it comes to managing clutter, we make Felix Unger and Oscar Madison look compatible.

My habits are the product of a minimalist youth, when your possessions could fit on three hangers. No one needed California closets to organize a couple T-shirts, jean shorts, a pair of Chuck Taylor’s and Boys Life magazines. And with the computer age, if I consider it important, it’s scanned and on my laptop.

So Lori and I have managed our contrasting styles over the years. But every once in a while something happens that serves as a flash point. Like what happened last month.

The trouble started when we rented a storage unit. These things are the rage these days, popping up all over the city, but especially along Interstate 435, U.S. 69 and on the western edge of Shawnee and Olathe.

The upscale residents go for the PODS — where someone takes your worthless possessions and moves it far away. Everyone else goes for the storage units, as we did. Our unit is in Martin City, which raises the prospect that our unit once was used to produce an illegal substance worthy of a grand jury subpoena. Storage units have risen in the pop culture index thanks to “Storage Wars” and reality TV episodes that aren’t real. But our unit would never make prime time unless someone wanted to do a special on tents with missing stakes and fishing lines tangled beyond hope.

Our storage complex requires a code to open the gate and is encircled by an 8-foot wall, which is comical because nothing on the property has value. This is the land of broken man-toys — rejects from E-bay, Craig’s List and garage sales. There is an open area where renters park/abandon items that remind me my life could be worse: things homes associations/spouses/girlfriends won’t tolerate, including bass boats well past their prime, snow removing trucks, tailgating grills, RV’s, portable campers.

And so when our junk needed a home, it was my job to fill the unit. NAPO would have created a spreadsheet with categories of things in certain places in the 30×10 storage area. Me, on the other hand, started stacking and pushing, stacking, balancing — everything but organizing. This could be a case study during a break-out session from the NAPOconvention. The door shut and everything was great, provided no one else ever laid eyes on the looming nightmare.

And then two months later Lori uttered the words that threatened our holiday spirit: “We need something from the storage unit. The ski gear.”

At that moment, marital harmony jumped on a Mega Bus. A cold breeze rattled the windows, the thermostat dipped and things got really quiet. “I will go with you to help find it,” she offered.

And on Saturday, Dec. 15, we rolled up the door to Unit 134. Lori stared at the stack of plastic tubs, cardboard boxes, tents, sleeping bags, those folding chairs you take to soccer games, patio furniture, fishing poles, shovels, picture frames, computer monitors, extension cords, holiday lighting wrapped in a knot, and stacks of other things escaping identification. All the way to the ceiling, hanging in a precarious balance that would make Cirque de Soleil envious, there was a narrow passage way down the middle. “This is a real life Jenga board. Move those fishing poles and everything will collapse. They’d find us after Christmas.”

Forty-five minutes later, we hit jackpot. A gray tub, naturally found at the bottom of a large pile, brimming with gloves, hats, pants, socks. The Jenga game was on.

Things always seem to happen to me. Bad things. Like what happened a week ago Sunday while I was doing something very important in the garage of our rental house. A rental that has a few mechanical issues, like a door to the garage that doesn’t shut properly. A solution squarely within the wheelhouse of some husbands. “Door latch problem! Let me get my door jam tools!” That dad has things I don’t have, like, well, everything. Including a wife who looks at him adoringly with his tool belt and thinks she is married to that guy named Ty on Extreme Makeover.

But my Titanic-worthy moment had commendable beginnings. Five hours earlier I was in Great Bend with my dad, brother and KU senior Tommy, plus five of his buddies. When your 22-year-old, who otherwise forgot you existed, calls you up and says “I want to go hunting next weekend with grandpa. And take five fraternity buddies with me.” You pause, exhale, gulp down three Tylenols and say ‘Sure. Let’s do this.’ And we did.

The hunting weekend was a success for one reason — no one pulled a Dick Cheney. There was an additional bonus — exposing dudes to the storytellers from the greatest generation, as we did over the dinner table Friday night, tasting various reds and whites with KC strips that Ruth Chris can’t touch. Texting took a holiday.

Still, this was a logistical challenge. Managing shotguns, shells, gear, multiple licenses, permits, hunter safety authorizations, and then figuring who was hunting where. On Sunday when I pulled up at home, the cargo included residuals from a successful hunt — plus two geese that fell out of the Suburban. And so at 3 p.m. I found myself in our garage trying to clean the game. Throw in Bernie who was in freak-out mode about these odd looking birds invading her space, and things were getting complicated.

But if the was the end of the story, I would be enjoying marital harmony and you would be reading the sports section. It’s what happened next that made this a Keenan moment. You see, that Sunday was a windy, blustery day. And cleaning large birds involves separating the feathers and keeping them bagged. When I started, Lori ducked her head outside and with a furrowed brow said, “You are going to clean those birds? The house is spotless, we have Thanksgiving coming up. Please don’t let any of those feathers get in here.”

And if you know where this story is going, add perceptive to your skill set.

My plan was to dissect the birds in a manner that would make Harold Ensley proud. Everything was going according to plan for maybe five, 10 seconds. That’s when Harold morphed into Clark Griswold. Bernie started barking, the wind started blowing and the knife I was using had apparently been used to cut concrete. There were other complicating factors. Fatigue of driving 250 miles while my passengers snored and some NFL games I was trying to follow on my phone.

To say things weren’t going as expected is like saying Custer’s last day was a good one. One thing was going terrific, however. The breast feathers were coming off easily. The pile was growing fast. They were also quickly taking flight, circling around, some moving outside the garage and likely heading to your subdivision. Others were accumulating on the floor, on my hands, face, shirt, plus Bernie’s nose. The pile was growing, and moving.

And then it happened. An event that would rival any disaster you can imagine — more horrific than the Chiefs’ season, the Royals’ last trade and the Jayhawks’ football coaching combined. The door to the house blew open. Ever seen goose feathers move through a wind tunnel? Few have. In a nano-second, those lighter-than-air pests began invading our kitchen, dining room, family room. Not everywhere, mind you. Just everywhere there was air.

This was a disaster of biblical proportions to be sure, but something elevated it beyond this dimension. At that second, my wife and daughter were watching a movie together in the room just inside the door. Their choice? The Notebook. Just when their tear ducts were under siege they came face to face with a white swirling cloud, Bernie yelping and a husband looking for the car keys to find the nearest Holiday Inn Express.

Anybody have a couch I can borrow?

Last month we joined many other parents in our demographic by moving to a smaller home. This was our fourth move in 25 years. It was different from the others, however. You see, there are moves in the early years, when your kids are toddlers and all your possessions can fit in a pickup. Where the furniture is particle board and weighs 30 pounds. It’s not really moving; it’s a fun adventure when people pitch in and everyone grabs something like a Big Wheel. Laughter and joy are plentiful.

Then your kids grow up, leave, and take with them a pair of jeans, a concert T-shirt and five phone chargers. What’s left behind is your problem. And that, let me tell you, is moving. Miserable, painful, never ending, torturous. I could elaborate further but it’s difficult to type while in traction.

Moving when your nest is near empty has four components. The storage unit comes first, but no one would ever consider bidding up this junk on A&E. Not even Barry who wears $400 shirts yet curiously spends days overpaying for trash. Next is the garage sale. This was a home run thanks to our neighbor Brandi Dickerson, previously chronicled in this space as the garage sale lady (GSL). She took charge. Employing fliers, yard signs, Craigslist, Star ads, dressing up the venue with framed artwork (for sale, of course) on the walls, playing Beethoven, and printing out decorative price tags, she elevated our garage to Barneys.

Memo to Clark Hunt — hire GSL stat. Day one is a bonanza of buyers with Benjamins exchanging hands. Day two things changed. The creepers arrive in conversion vans with intentions of trolling inside the house. People who make Honey Boo Boo look like a charter member of Hallbrook Country Club. “But the ads said this was an estate sale!” Sorry, bud.

Goodwill and Catholic Charities followed.

Which left moving day. Basements used to be fun hang outs for your high school kids. Now it’s the world’s largest compost bin, a smorgasbord of computer and game accessories, crutches, VHS tapes, guitar amps, baseball helmets, sleeping bags, Beanie Babies, American Girl dolls and a teddy bear whose button nose is missing thanks to Bernie. In basement storage room No. 2 we found a large box jammed with Natty Light cans and empty Vodka bottles presumably from that ‘no drinking’ party in 2008. We found enough nail clippers to give a manicure to Edward Scissorhands. More TV remotes than found at Best Buy. A Netflix DVD that went missing in 2009.

Moods quickly sour. Questions come to mind, like these: Who thought we needed 40 different couch pillows? Wicker baskets, sure, but 15? What’s up with multiple gift cards for businesses long since closed? Someone explain why we have enough protective cups to outfit the Royals? Why isn’t Apple’s stock price higher, given all the accessories we own? Is this stuff reproducing at night? Is Blockbuster still charging me a past due fee Shrek 2? Where is the Advil?

There were some keepsakes. We found a box of letters from my mother that forced an emotional pause. There was an envelope of savings bonds gifted for our first son that were 23 years in the waiting. (Depositing them at CapFed required 30 minutes as the youthful teller stared at them like she was holding a Rubrics Cube.) There were other things — paystubs, grade cards and Yearbooks from the time when polyester leisure suits were cool. My wife’s nametag from her days working at Macy’s as a 16-year-old was worthy of the safety deposit box. We rediscovered huge plastic tubs of grainy, sometimes out of focus photographs, reflective of a chaotic time when the parental zone defense fell apart. An accumulation of moments — road trips, baseball teams, birthdays, campouts, holidays.

Along the way you pause, sit on the carpet, reminisce and blink away tears.

When the time finally arrived and nothing remained, with the sun setting, Lori and I walked through the house and paused in each bedroom. We said goodbye to the home that was at the centerpiece of the best eight years of our lives.