Mysteries of the hoarding mind

Whenever I update my ride, instead of trading in the old one, I park it behind the barn. The logic goes something like this: whatever they offer you for a trade-in value, it's worth twice as much, if only you can correct a couple of easy-to-fix-yourself flaws.

I'm winnowing the fleet a little. After twelve years at Falling Downs, it's time to face the fact that those easy fixes you can do yourself aren't going to happen. The Sub, the Torment, and the Escape are going for scrap value. That will leave the F-150, the Ford 4000 diesel tractor, and the Allis-Chalmers back-hoe. In terms of scrap weight, that's the heavy end of my portfolio. Now that I'm retired, I'll hang on to them as a just-in-case emergency fund.

That's how the hoarding mind works. You invent the most convoluted rationalizations for hanging onto stuff!

There's a couple of guys on the next concession who make me look like a rank amateur in the hoarding game. Where I have a modest fleet, they have acres upon acres. I'd like to hear their rationalizations.

That's another safe harbour for the hoarder; comparing yourself to those whose affliction is more advanced. It's the old "it's all relative" gambit. 

The garage is where I really fell down. When we took ownership here, that garage was completely barren. It was going to be my shop. The first piece of shop equipment we moved into it was a workbench with a drill-press affixed to it, that my father brought up in the back of his truck. That was twelve years ago.

That workbench was the last piece of shop equipment that went into "my shop," as it was soon overwhelmed with... oh my God, I could write a Knausgardian epic on the contents of my garage. I started the de-hoarding last summer with a purge of BBQs and a portable generator.

That was easy though. This year I must make tough decisions. The Mustang and the Ninja are in there. They need next to nothing and they're almost in perfect shape.

No way can I possibly part with them...