A Look On The Lighter Side: A real dilemma: death versus cleaning

Judy Epstein

I had just pulled the last box of photos out from under the bookcase when the doorbell rang. It was my friend Marlo from down the street.

“I’m stopping by for that cup of tea you promised me.” Then she looked around at my patch of chaos: boxes all over the living room, photo albums piled high, furniture disarranged.

“What on earth is going on here? Did you lose your wedding ring?”

“No, just my mind. I have a family reunion coming up, and my cousins asked if I could send a picture of us as kids. And I know I have one, somewhere. But now I can’t find it!”

“Can you remember where you saw it last?” This was my husband, the engineer.

“Yes. Somewhere inside the house.”

“Good thing you’ve narrowed that down.”

“It’s driving me crazy; I can’t locate anything, what with all this junk!”

“I have the answer for you,” said Marlo. “Three words: Swedish Death Cleaning.”

“What the heck is that?” I asked her. “And can I pick Death over Cleaning?”

Turns out, it’s the name of a book: “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning: How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter,” by Margareta Magnusson.

“Her point,” said my friend, “is that you should clean all the unnecessary junk out of your home before you die, so that your children don’t have to do it. For example,” she said, looking around the room, “must you keep every one of your children’s art projects? Couldn’t you pitch at least a few of these?”

“Oh, no,” I say. “That’s definitely reserved for my kids. They brought it all into this world, they’re going to have to take it out. Any other ideas?”

“Well, she says to get rid of anything you wouldn’t want your children to find. Got anything like that?”

“Of course! But I’m counting on you to come over and throw it out for me, when my time comes.”

“I’d be happy to,” said Marlo. “If I outlive you.”

“You’re a vegetarian, and you walk everywhere. I think you’re a safe bet,” I reply. “In fact, here’s a set of keys — if you hear of my sudden demise, just come on in and purge my sock drawer. You can keep the chocolates.”

“What about me?” says my husband.

“You need to find your own sock-drawer person.”

“No, I mean — don’t I get chocolates?” He pouted.

“You get a kiss. Now off you go, to your client meeting, before I make you move boxes.”

“There’s something else you can do,” said Marlo once he was out the door. “You can give stuff away, as gifts, to friends and relatives. To remember you by.”

“They’ll remember I was a menace,” I said. I eyed the chip-and-dip bowl she’d given me last Thanksgiving. “So, that works for you?”

“It did, for a while,” she said. “Until people started giving things back. Or pretended they weren’t home when I came by.”

I can’t say I blame them.

“Thanks for the suggestions,” I said, “but I don’t think they’ll help me find my photo. I’ll just have to spend all weekend, looking through all of these boxes.”

Suddenly a stack of books fell over, and I spotted a dusty framed picture behind them. “Bingo!” I said. “Here it is!”

“Maybe now you could give away those books?” suggested Marlo.

“No one wants books or furniture,” I told her. “Not even charities. I tried to give away my old sofa one time and they left it right at the curb.”

I sat and thought a bit. “Say… just how authentic is this ‘death cleaning,’ anyway? Because the only Scandinavian death thing I’ve ever heard of is the Viking funeral pyre!”

“Vikings were Norwegian, not Swedish.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean — they’d put the dead Viking on a boat, push it out into the water and send a flaming arrow to set it on fire.”

“It sounds dreadful,” said Marlo, primly.

“Au contraire,” I insisted. “I think it’s glorious! Plus, I can see it now — All my friends and family would come running up, with all my junk, tossing boxes and clothing — and art projects — onto the boat with me, before setting it ablaze!”

That would be fine with me — all of the glory, and none of the work. Best of all, it turns out, I can take it with me!

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