My late uncle, a lunatic packrat, kept his house full, and I do mean full, of mostly all junk.
A few treasures lurked in the shadows:
Here, a dust-drowned set of handcrafted elephants of increasing size from teeny to a few inches tall.
There, cordial glasses in the form of crystal thistles.
Everywhere, undiscarded junk mail, stultifying books, flimsy old tableware, empty hooch bottles.
I do not wish to dispute my uncle's title as Reigning Champion of Junk Retention, so I frequently visit upon my home a flurry of tidying, which usually results in a bag - or several - for the local charities to figure out. I enjoy the process, mostly because I like to rediscover all the stuff that I thought was worth keeping the last time I passed through.
I don't buy much stuff, and neither does the butterfly lady, which leaves me wondering about the ability of my belongings to multiply. I would prefer that when they do procreate, they make something useful that I want, like a table saw or a new motorcycle, instead of five cardboard mailing tubes, 35 pencils and a stack of plastic plates.