THERE IS A TIME TO REAP AND A TIME to sow. A time to save and a time – biblically speaking – to throw into a dumpster.

For me, that time is now.

I have spent much of my life amassing goods, and now I am into the discarding. Sneaking around late at night and throwing my waist size 36 trousers into used clothing bins at the local mall. But I am working on much more than clothes.

For example, in going through my stuff, I came up with a box of photographic negatives of what may be ancient and long gone relatives. I squinted at them in a strong light, but who can tell with negatives? What I need are prints – actual photographs. And in order to tell what to save and what to throw, I need to find a shop that still prints from negatives, if one still exists. Then, when I can see who is in these photos, I can make a decision. Frankly, I don’t think I’m up to it, so goodbye Great-uncle Ambrose.

Not everything that I must decide about goes back that far. I have to hand over a fat file of recipes that I tore from magazines and actually cooked from time to time. Such as lentil stew (never a family favourite), pumpkin cheesecake and Easter bread, to name a few. And here is a dandy that is only about 20 years old: mushrooms, onions, cheese, bread and sausages. Baked for a couple of hours and eaten by someone with a stronger stomach than mine. Out those recipes all go.

Older, but equally useless, is an expense account form from a job I can barely recall when I spent a night or two in a town I can’t remember. I do know that it was in Saskatchewan, and the form plainly states that I spent $6.50 on a room for the night. The same form says supper cost 65¢ – with no tip. And what sticks in my memory is that supper. I had fried meatloaf. (Yes, not a good choice).

As I study that expense form, I think I can narrow down the locations to one of two towns, Melfort or Humboldt. And, I know for sure that the town was the one where the water came out of the tap bright yellow.

Other items passing into the dumpster or the used clothing bin or the Nearly New Shoppe are souvenir T-shirts that I may have worn only once or not at all. Some are promotional, from magazines that may have died when I was in the saddle. These shirts all go back many years and the oldest celebrates an athletic feat, when I was entered in the Toronto Star dog derby. (I lost.)

Sometimes, when you are on a throw-out binge, you find gold. Or something that could be gold. In my case, this is a sheaf of papers that have come down from my great-grandfather. They have been sitting around for at least 100 years and I have stored them in an old envelope since high school. They are a record of my family’s days as slum landlords and these papers are title deeds to properties in central Toronto. Is it even remotely possible that they are valid?

Perhaps I could pull one at random and then knock on the door of a splendidly renovated Toronto house. And, flourishing my deed, tell whomever comes to the door that I am there to take over.

Can it be that simple? Can I be that simple? Is it worth a shot?

So, here is a spoiler alert. If you live in central Toronto, just west of the university, keep an eye out for unexpected visitors. And if you see a rumpled old coot at your door with a raggedy piece of paper in his hand, you just might want to call your lawyer. (Although, frankly, I could be bought off quite cheaply.)

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