My husband, the self-proclaimed minimalist, is a pro at finding things in the shed or the basement or the garage or even my home’s mud room closet to toss out. Problem is, those things usually belong to me or our kids — but rarely to him.

When I suggested earlier this spring that we should have a garage sale, he was highly supportive. After all, it was like his dream opportunity to de-clutter — and maybe even make a few bucks in the process!

After months of discussion, I finally took a week off work. It wasn’t to visit the Caribbean or go on an Alaskan cruise or even take a road trip to Geneva-on-the-Lake. Rather, this vacation was to provide much-needed time to clear the large volume of boxes from my basement and piles of accumulation from the garage. (It’s truly mind-boggling at the pace in which Americans acquire “stuff.” That’s especially considering that we’ve lived at our current residence for only about nine years.)

In my exploration I uncovered wall-hangings like pictures and wooden shelves, knick-knacks, household items, old dishes, books, VHS and cassette tapes, toys (many that have gone untouched since my boys were toddlers), tiny baseball bats and baseball cleats and, well, many, many other outdated sundries.

I spent days opening boxes and sorting through forgotten treasures, many that had been sealed away since we packed them up before relocating from our last house. I suspect it’s a pretty good rule of thumb that if you haven’t missed your junk in nearly a decade, it’s likely you don’t really need it anymore.

Soon our garage was filled with mounds of stuff piled on tables and on upside-down boxes. It was stacked on the floor and even hung from the metal garage door track.

The big day arrived and the cars began pouring in — undoubtedly prompted by the effective classified ad I’d published in this newspaper. As the saying goes, one person’s trash is another person’s treasure!

The day was rolling along smashingly, and my husband, who is quite the social butterfly, seemed to be having a lovely time chatting up the customers as if they were house guests that had stopped by for a visit. That’s when one older gentleman asked if we had any tools for sale.

My husband popped up and began rooting through his garage tool bench. He flipped through one of his many, many tool boxes and offered the man some old wrenches, sockets and screwdrivers.

After the shopper wrapped up his purchase and left, my husband closed up the toolbox and lugged it back to the corner.

And that’s when it hit me.

I’d contributed quite a few items to this sale, but very few had originated from his stash of “treasures.”

When I suggested he check the shed for sale items, he agreed and soon returned with my son’s very old 18-inch bicycle.

I rolled my eyes. Really? That’s it?

Later, I overheard my husband attempting to encourage our reluctant son to part with some of his treasures. He suggested perhaps some duplicate or unused athletic gear?

“Really, Dad?” he said. “Where’s all your stuff?”

I rolled my eyes again.

Just one day earlier my son — who, by the way, turns 20 next month — had feigned disappointment at the sight of some of his childhood toys lining the sale table. “You’re selling my memories!” he insisted. He smiled as if joking, but I wondered if, somehow, there was truth in his sentimental words.

That is, until he went on to argue strenuously that I most certainly should not sell his “super soaker” water guns.

OK, I admit it’s true that I, too, reminisced as I sorted through boxes, setting aside to keep useless, but memorable, trinkets from my past. For instance, I probably never will part with the crib my boys each slept in as babies. It is dismantled and wrapped in plastic in the corner of my basement where I suspect it will remain until I’m gone.

No, we aren’t hoarders. But it sure is hard to sell memories.

blinert@tribtoday.com