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I race through the foyer to the front door spin around and fling myself against the entranceway dramatically throwing my arms to each side for emphasis.

“NOBODY leaves until this is settled” I pronounce glaring threateningly at my daughters and sons-in-law.

Chaim’s eyes dart from side to side; I already know what he’s thinking.

“Guard the side door!” I bark in my husband’s general direction.

Chaim has a plan: “Rivky — quick!” he whispers to his wife (my daughter!). “Take the kids out the back door!”

“Ari cover the back sliding door!” is my swift and ruthless response. “And don’t even try the family room door” I warn Chaim. “I nailed it shut the minute Yom Tov was over!”

Rivky approaches cautiously inching gingerly toward me and speaking in soothing tones. “Ma?” she begins tentatively. “Maybe we can do this another time? Chaim has to wake up early tomorrow and the kids are…”

“NO MORE EXCUSES! No one is going anywhere until that basket of items is empty. You are all here now and I know that this stuff belongs to you. I expect you guys to look through it all — single socks pieces of toys phone chargers the works — and take your belongings home with you. I can stand here all night if that’s what it takes….”

[Fantasy sequence ends]

Okay. That never happened. But a girl can dream can’t she?

Frankly I’m tired of finding strange undershirts in my laundry mysterious (but essential-looking) electronic components between my couch pillows rain capes in my trunk and books seforim and bottles of hair gel abandoned in random locations. I can’t throw them out I just can’t! I don’t even know if I’m allowed to just toss them. I fear I will have to store them chas v’shalom “ad bi’as goel tzedek bimheirah b’yameinu — amen!”

“Avromie is this your tie?” I shout from the side door. And I’m big enough to admit it — my tone is a little bit accusatory.

“No Mommy I’m pretty sure I saw Daddy wearing it at the Shabbos table earlier today.”

“Oh. Right. Um... just testing. But how about THIS??” I exclaim triumphantly waving a clear plastic disc in his face.

“What is it?” asks his wife Brochie redolent with fake innocence.

“It’s part of Zevi’s game!”

“Uch, just throw it out. We have so much junk in our house already.”

I gasp loudly. “Do you have any idea what this disc might mean to your son, my grandson? There’s no telling how traumatized he might be by its loss!”

They all wave and the car begins its descent down my driveway.

“But wait! There’s more!” I shout. They throw kisses, pretending not to hear me.

Sometimes it’s not about kids leaving stuff at the house. No, it’s far more sinister than that. And for this reason, I try to pay close attention when a married child unloads packages from her trunk, ostensibly things she needs for her visit to our home. If the luggage includes several huge plastic containers, my antennae go up.

“Tova, mamaleh? Why is your husband sneaking those supersized boxes into the house?”

“Boxes? What boxes?”

“Y’know, those ginormous Tupperware containers marked ‘Zero to Three Months’ and ‘Boys 3T’?”

“Huh? Oh, um… Ma, look! A unicorn! Right there in the backyard! Come see! I hear they’re very rare.”

I’ve even had trouble with the older generation…

“Yosef, dear?” I ask my husband, as I peer out the side window. “What are your parents doing?”

“I think they’re taking Ari to the pizza shop,” he answers in a reasonable tone of voice.

“Really? Well, that would entail leaving our property, wouldn’t it? But instead, they seem to be getting closer to it. And I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure they are schlepping something long and heavy toward our door!”

The door opens gently and in tiptoe two octogenarians carrying the longest, skinniest table I have ever seen. They head for the basement steps.

“Isn’t that the table they offered us last week?” I ask Yosef. “The one we turned down?”

“Yep, that’s the one.” He sounds somewhat depressed.

“Can’t we tell them we don’t need it?”

“I think we did. Last week. Three times.”

Nothing is safe; even returned items are suspect:

“Ma? I’m sorry, but I took some of Ari’s socks home with my laundry,” explains Brochie as she hands me a stack of hosiery. It’s quite a large pile of black and blue socks, and I head to the stairs to put them away, when I spy a lavender-toed sock hidden amid the darker ones.

“Brochie… this is not mine.”

“Yes, it is,” she maintains firmly. “You left it at my house two weeks ago when you slept over.”

“No, I did not! When is the last time you saw me in purple-toed socks?”

“Ma, let’s be reasonable. I know you wanted to get rid of it and purposely hid it in a pillowcase in my guest bedroom so I wouldn’t find it until after you left.”

“Brochie? Are you serious?”

Long pause. “Well, even if it’s not yours, it is now! No backsies!”

And the “Lost and Found” collection keeps growing. Once, we found a pair of eyeglasses with a really high prescription in our guest room. I spent years wondering how anyone who is almost legally blind could have so much as found the doorknob and left the house without them.

I spent the next 12 months calling anyone who had ever crossed the threshold of my home, asking if they’d misplaced their eyewear.

Ding-dong!

“Who is it?”

“O&R Utilities. Meter Reader.” (Love that rhyme!)

I fling open the door and begin peppering the unsuspecting youth with questions.

“Juan [read his name off his badge], tell me, how’s your eyesight? Do you wear lenses? Maybe you had that laser thing done to fix your vision?! Wait! Where are you going? You haven’t read the meter yet!! Ohhhh… I get it… you can’t read it without your glasses, right??”

And still, the “Lost and Found” collection grows bigger by the month. I finally decide that something must be done.

With great trepidation, I asked a sh’eilah. And the psak is  — [drumroll]  — I have to hold on to all of these things until the owner comes back demanding them or ad bi’as goel tzedek bimheirah b’yameinu  — amen! Aaarrgghh! Or I can give the items away, but (my ears perk up) I have to be prepared to pay the owner the value of the items when he comes back to claim them.

Yeeeessss!!

Well, it sounds good, but I begin to wonder if I can actually bring myself to throw out perfectly good whatchamacallits. I think not.

I wish I could just magically get rid of it all. Is there a segulah for that? Perhaps if I were to take money out of the Rabi Meir Baal Haneis pushke… I could lose the stuff?

I determine to daven about it. Sixty minutes of personal prayer! And Hashem answers my heartfelt tefillos: Not a week later, I open a local newspaper to find the following ad:

YARD SALE TO BENEFIT

MESIVTA YIRAS HACHEIT.

PLEASE DONATE NEW OR GENTLY USED HOUSEHOLD GOODS, CLOTHING, AND ELECTRONIC WHATCHAMACALLITS.

Hashem has answered my prayers! (Oh, except the one about losing weight on an all-you-can-eat chocolate diet.)

I grab a garbage bag and start running from room to room, tossing in random items: the XL white-collared T-shirt that clearly belongs to my tallest son-in-law, but who is sadly suffering from a malady called “T-shirt Denial,” the black electronic box with weird wires snaking out of each side, and the hoodie abandoned so long ago that whoever lost it must surely have outgrown it by now.

In the playroom, I hesitate in front of the high shelf where I have been hiding The Game with the Steel Ballies. (The box broke years ago and none of us can remember the actual name of the game.) The game makes an awful mess, and the grandkids don’t actually play with it  — just toss the balls around  — so I was waiting to see if anyone asked for it. Finally, with a small wince, I toss the game into the bag. Those ballies are just so annoying, and they seem to travel in some mysterious way to faraway places, like….

True(ish) story: An exchange between myself and a neighbor.

“Perel, I tried to call you last night. I just wanted to suggest that you lock your doors carefully at night.”

“I do,” I reply, “but, unfortunately, my kids cracked the code and keep getting in.”

“No, I’m serious! I don’t want to scare you, but I think an armed robber has been lurking in my backyard.”

“Armed? One arm or two?” I tease.

“No, I mean a robber with a gun!”

I’m skeptical, but she runs into her house and brings out the irrefutable evidence: A ziplock baggie holding a round metal object reminiscent of those bullets displayed in glass cases at the site of Civil War battles. Also similar to the steel ballies from the aforementioned game.

Hiding my grin, I decide to have some fun. I urge her to join hands with me and recite a few kapitlach of Tehillim for the protection of our neighborhood.

When we’re done, she looks so worried, I just have to tell her.

To her credit, she laughed. In fact, she laughs every time she sees me. But that could be anything.

And now back to our regularly scheduled topic:

Declutter, declutter! That’s the name of the game. What else can I get rid of?

Let’s see… there’s the robot Ari won at school (some assembly required  — a lot of assembly required), which is still in the creation stage. It goes into the bag earmarked for the yard sale. Next, I head for the toy chest. In goes the stuffed version of a certain superhero I’m sure I am not allowed to mention in the pages of this magazine. (Don’t look at me that way. I didn’t buy it!)

In goes: the stuffed dog doll with leaky wadding, known to my children as Mr. Frosty; the set of plastic bowling pins that take up way too much room to validate the shelf space they occupy; eight years’ worth of Regents review books (including Modern History  — Our Medieval Times); and a few children’s books featuring creepy characters I suspect are giving the little ones nightmares. (That explains why they wake up screaming at 3 a.m. whenever they sleep at Savti’s.)

A trip to the linen closet yields a once-white tablecloth with a few stains, a lovely green vase decorated with a map of Ancient Greece, and four containers of drink mix boasting a lovely array of food dyes and sweeteners with unpronounceable names.

A lightbulb goes on in my head and I dash to the guest room and dive to the floor, peering beneath the high-riser legs. Sure enough, there are those three elegant-looking boxes. I know what’s inside: A rather ugly, brown ceramic teapot Rivky received at her surprise shower; a glass sugar bowl that Tova won at a Chinese auction (do you suppose they have Jewish auctions in Beijing?); and a huge Pyrex loaf pan for baking dishes that resemble science experiments.

I’m starting to feel giddy, throwing in all kinds of things with abandon: Husband’s shaver? Eh, he looks good in a beard. My daughter’s angora sweaters? The way it sheds, it’s practically a pet. My son’s Shabbos shoes? He usually kicks them off the minute he gets back from shul, anyway.

Four bags and two hours later, I am done. I will bring the stash to the yard sale drop-off point on my way to work tomorrow. I feel so free!

An hour later, daughter Chava shows up, unannounced. She had a vort in the area so she popped in to say hello.

“What’s this?” she inquires, pointing to the bags near the door. I explain that I am donating those things to tzedakah, in an effort to declutter the house. And do mitzvos, of course!

The phone rings and as I run to answer it, I hear a rustling sound, and Chava exclaiming, “Mr. Frosty?! What are you doing here?”

When I return, my daughter bids me farewell. I advise her to stick around a bit, since I’m expecting Tova and her kids to pop in. But she’s in a rush and after a quick hug, departs.

A half hour later, Tova punches in the code on the front door lock (see?) and leads her offspring in, with promises of fresh fruit and yogurt, while they clamor for chocolate lebens and ice cream.

Little Ahuva heads straight for my ear and launches into a 20-minute monologue about day camp, her new princess dress, and the color pink.

The rest of the kids are running amok, chasing each other, and busying themselves with who-knows-what.

Several bowls of pasta and 24 plastic cups later, Tova gathers the kids and waves goodbye.

The next morning I prepare my lunch, pack up my computer, and head for the car. I pop open the trunk, put my work stuff inside, and race back into the house to shlep the bags outside. Hmm… they seem a little lighter than before. Must be my imagination.

Within minutes, I pull up at the drop-off point where loads of merchandise are already lined up on a series of long tables.

“Hi! I’m here to drop off some stuff for the yard sale,” I explain to a frazzled-looking woman in an inside-out snood. (Do I tell her?) With a wave of her arm she directs me to drop the bags under a tree.

“Feel free to browse,” she offers magnanimously. “We already have things on display. Ten percent off for those who have donated!”

Ten percent?? Whoo-eee!!

Perel, don’t do it. You just got rid of a bunch of stuff. Your aim is to be clutter-free. Don’t mess this up. Besides, you’re late for work.

I hush that annoying Voice of Sense and decide to take a quick look around. Y’know, in case I happen to find just the right thing to, maybe, dress up the very blah guest room in my basement. (My son-in-law wisely counseled me to stop fighting it and embrace the bungalow-ness of my botched guest room redecorating effort. He suggested I hang a kayak from the wall for decoration. I’m not sure if he’s kidding.)

Maybe I’ll even find the other purple-toed sock at the sale! (Okay, so it is mine. Let’s keep it hush-hush.) And I could really use a clock in my guest room. One that works, I mean. I have the other kind already.

I stroll between the tables, picking up gargoyle-like figurines (blech!) and other unidentifiable tchotchkes. A collection of decorative pillows catches my eye; one of them certainly evokes the bungalow feel — must be that indefinable musty scent. I know it’s getting late and I should really leave, but those beautiful china dolls are calling my name. They are so delicate, dressed in old-fashioned finery with ribbons adorning their frizzy hair. One of them is missing a limb; the other has a patch over one eye. But I just know my granddaughters will love them. I also buy an oar to hang on my basement bedroom wall (just in case Chaim is not kidding), and a package of potting soil in case I ever get to transplant the orchid in my kitchen that is threatening to take over the world.

I load up my new valuables and head to work with a smile on my face. I just LOVE yard sales!

After work, I come home and find Tova and the kids hanging out in the wreck (er, I mean rec) room. They appear to be playing with some small metal objects. Well, not actually playing, but tossing them into the air and laughing gleefully.

“Ma! You won’t believe it! Yiras HaCheit is having a yard sale and I found this great game there that we used to have. You know, the one with the steel ballies that the kids love!”

Ahem.

I excuse myself to go change into slippers, but take a moment to peek into the adjacent bedroom, just to enjoy the new, uncluttered look.

And who is there to greet me but… Mr. Frosty?!

Huh?!

I head back to the rec room to spend a few minutes with the grands.

“Oh, Ma. I forgot to tell you,” begins Tova, “Chava called. She asked me to tell you that, in case you’re looking for that ridiculous stuffed animal that she is so sentimental about [she didn’t use those exact words, of course], she rescued Mr. Frosty from a garbage bag! She said he must have fallen in by accident. And she also found Tzviki’s Super-Person doll in there and took it out as well. She just wanted you to know.”

Great.

To cheer myself up, I go unload the car and show my new treasures to my daughter. The grandkids are already trying to smack each other on the head with the oar, and a crash and subsequent tinkling sound indicate that the little girls have found the new dolls.

Tova scrutinizes me as I finish carrying in the various finds I have scored at the yard sale.

“Wow, Ma, that’s a lot of stuff you’ve got. Y’know, maybe you should think of donating some of it next year to the tag sale?”

Great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?

But there are more serious things on my mind since I heard this police bulletin:

Unshaven armed bandit on the loose. He was last seen wearing a sweatshirt two sizes too small, feeling his way through the forest with a seeing-eye dog leading the way.

If you spot the suspect, do not approach, as he is suspected to be carrying a dangerous antique rifle. No need to panic. Just lock your doors and let the police, ably assisted by Super-Doll and Mr. Frosty, bring him in.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 502)