Sweden has made some pretty remarkable contributions to the world. A few that come to mind: dynamite, the zipper, IKEA®, (Swedish) meatballs, Swedish fish (I favored green and yellow as a kid, but my dad was red all the way), actress Ingrid Bergman, actor Alexander Skarsgård and tennis legend Björn Borg (that one’s for my mother — she was a huge fan back in the day). But not everything can be a hit. Case in point: the Celsius temperature scale. I am not a fan (I never could remember the conversion rate). And while I’m all for minimizing and downsizing, I draw the line at Swedish death cleaning, too.
Swedish death cleaning is basically a pre-death purge. It is meant to be a thoughtful process of organizing and de-cluttering your belongings as a way of eliminating this burden for your grieving loved ones after you’ve passed. Many use it as an opportunity to share their belongings with family members while they are still alive — supposedly so they can experience the joy together.
A few months ago, I made the mistake of sending an article about Swedish death cleaning to my parents as a sarcastic joke. They are pack rats. They say they are nostalgic; I say they are hoarders. Not in the TV show Hoarders type of way, but they don’t throw anything away. Their attic is filled with forty-five years worth of old suitcases, Halloween costumes, sports uniforms, childhood trophies, artwork, school report cards, college text books and clothing. Their garage is bursting with baby furniture, toys, old sports equipment, a vintage school desk and holiday decorations. And their basement is a shrine to decades of newspaper clippings, vinyl records, VHS tapes, corded telephones, old dish sets, outdated coffee machines and every small kitchen appliance and gadget sold between 1968 and today.
Unfortunately, my attempt at a joke backfired because my parents misinterpreted my intentions. They have been on a cleaning spree ever since and as a result, I am now the proud owner of a milk crate full of cassette tapes, a carton of mostly broken trophies and awards, a collection of mismatched cups, dishes and bowls, an incomplete set of nearly fifty-year-old CorningWare® (my mother swears these are valuable antiques; my sister swears they are filled with cancer-causing lead paint), a pile of old t-shirts and a stack of photographs (some of which I cannot remember having or taking), among other things.
With each visit, my parents deliver another “gift.” They claim they are sharing memories with me; I claim they are sharing crap with me. Tuh-MAY-toh / Tuh-MAH-toh. I guess it’s all about perspective: My parents embrace Swedish death cleaning as a chance to reminisce and relocate, whereas I see it as a chance to remove and dispose. Thankfully, they’re not offended when I toss these treasures in the trash or donate them to charity. After all, they know I am not the sentimental, nostalgic type. I may save things for a little while, but clutter makes me anxious. I like to purge. It’s how I reset and realign myself. So all those “presents” from my parents? The mixed tapes and photos were mailed to my high school and college friends for a few laughs, the broken trophies were shown to my kids then thrown away and those mismatched cups and dishes were donated to Habitat for Humanity ReStore. But I do use those blue mixing bowls as a place to store vegetables and I did wear that yellow Athletic Attic tank top to the gym last week … So I guess I am a little sentimental after all.
– LJDT
