Hoard to Death

E.L. Doctorow has written a new book, Homer & Langley. It focuses on the curious case of Manhattan's Collyer brothers, who obsessively hoarded all manner of newspapers, books and furniture until 1947, the year their house literally came crashing down around them. Police and fireman were left to search for their decaying bodies among their legacy - a staggering 100 tons of rubbish they had collected over the many years.

Tonight, I was sitting by the Hudson reading Joyce Carol Oates' review (she pretty much liked it) of the book in The New Yorker, which had me reminiscing about my own family, as the sun began setting somewhere behind Edgewater, NJ.

Years ago, my mother, sister and I drove to my late great-aunt's place in Philadelphia to assist other family members with the cleaning out of her apartment. The first time I met this aunt had been at my grandmother's funeral, which had taken place six years earlier. Although we never got to know each other very well, I felt an immediate kinship during our introduction, she had flashed me the sweetest smile and her eerie resemblance to my grandmother, made her seem that much more familiar.

It turns out that my beloved aunt was also a compulsive hoarder. She had obviously frequented the many thrift shops along the Main Line on a regular basis. The rooms in her small apartment were crammed with all manner of second-hand things, most of them in great condition, some of them designer vintage and all of them with the tell-tale blue, green and pink Salvation Army tags still attached.

Eight of us spent the entire day sifting through her mounds of stuff and I managed to walk away with an impressive collection of jewelry, gloves, bags and vintage scarves. However, by the time the three of us said goodbye, the place didn't look any different and there was still lots to be done.

I never learned how long it took the rest of the family to complete the job, but what struck me most was how sad and lonely her life had seemed to us as we tossed it away. There was only a small space on her bed that wasn't covered with debris, and that's where the rescue workers had discovered her body.

While I have never been what anyone would call neat,over the years, the state of my great-aunt's apartment has haunted me and I sometimes find myself wondering if that form of OCD is hereditary at all.

Five years of house-sitting, subletting and sofa-surfing has taught me to pare down my belongings, and I am nowhere near as cluttered as I used to be, but I still find myself using that image as my own personal cautionary visual.

Over the years, I've heard similar stories, and seen the beginnings of it first hand, but none of them could give the Collyer brothers a run for their money.