The Sticky Totes of Memory

A Florida garage, a father’s treasures, and the art of holding on (and letting go).

Plastic Monuments in a Blast Furnace

Three light-blue Rubbermaid totes sit stacked against the wall of my Florida garage like a sad, plastic monument. Dark navy lids glint in the afternoon sun, turning the plastic warmer than it should be. Florida summers have made the garage a blast furnace; anything made of rubber or plastic has softened, stuck, and started to meld together. My hands stick to the lids. Greasy smell. Nauseous.

Inside these totes are his finds—treasures pulled from garage sales and flea markets, chosen with the precision and flair only my dad could muster. Tools, gadgets, kits, random odds and ends—some useful, some aspirational, some probably never meant to be touched. But each item carries a little piece of him: his pride, his excitement, his voice saying, “Lenny, you’re going to love this.” They’ve traveled with me from Cleveland to Columbus and now here in Florida, making the journey as much a part of the story as the items themselves.

Dad was an expert in the art of the hunt. First one at the gate, eyes scanning, hands ready, picking things of interest with lightning speed. Then, at checkout, a careful decision: keep it or pass. Sometimes he’d buy things just for the thrill, just to see if I’d like them, or maybe to tell the story later. That sense of strategy, of expertise, is what makes these totes more than just sticky clutter—they’re little trophies of his life, and his thinking about mine.

I start with the top tote. Easy. The ones below? Forget it. Lifting each lid is an engineering feat—unless you want to lift the tote above it too, which I don’t. Inside the top tote: a mini table vise, a set of T-handled Allen wrenches, and a baggie of utility knives with spare blades. Everything else? Aspirational clutter. Junk I’ll never need—or maybe will, someday. Maybe.

Archaeology of Irritation

Opening a tote is a ritual of irritation. Pieces scatter to the bottom. Time wasted. The 20/20 rule drifts through my head: if it can be replaced in 20 minutes for $20 or less, let it go. Most of this? Replaceable in five. But there’s more at stake.

Unlike me, who fumbles through plastic like a drunk archaeologist, Dad had an almost supernatural sense for what was worth grabbing. He could spot a hidden gem in a jumble of junk, and somehow, even when it seemed useless, it was never really wasted. That’s why letting go of these totes feels like more than decluttering—it feels like saying goodbye to his cleverness, his sense of adventure, his way of seeing opportunity in chaos.

It’s not just tools—it’s the expert, my dad, in his prime, sizing up some rusty, probably useless thing and insisting it’s brilliant. I nodded, half bullshitting, half believing.

Sometimes, a single roll of twine or a tiny wrench feels heavier than a full tote—because it carries not just plastic, but decades of flea markets, garage sales, and my dad’s pride.

I close the tote. Kick the stack back against the wall. Nothing found, mostly. Occasionally, an “aha” moment: a tool I actually recognize, or a memory that hits like a warm flash. Then disappointment seeps back in.

Heavy With Dad

I miss him. I miss the way he’d chatter about each find, the way he thought something small could make life better. Maybe it did. Maybe not. But that excitement—his voice, his pride, the way he wanted to gift me these random things—it’s sticky in my memory the same way the totes are sticky in my garage.

Sometimes I think he’d laugh at my frustration. Shake his head. “Lenny, quit whining and find what you need.” I’d nod, maybe roll my eyes, maybe bullshit back something clever.

Half Cranky, Half Sentimental

And yet, I can’t just throw these things away. Not yet. Not the way he picked them. Aspirational clutter? Sure. But sentimental clutter too. Objects carrying invisible cargo: my dad’s voice, his joy in finding the perfect thing, his belief that he was helping me—even if I mostly rolled my eyes.

The garage doesn’t care about rules. Not 20/20, not logic, not my irritation. The heat, the stickiness, the scattered pieces—these things demand presence. I lift the lid, stare, close it, kick the stack. Nothing. Occasionally an “aha” moment. Mostly, the cycle continues. And I continue, too—half cranky, half sentimental, fully aware that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A Blob That Carries Him With Me

The totes will sit until I get rid of them—or until they completely meld into one sad, blue blob. Maybe I’ll find a project, a tool, or a memory worth keeping. Maybe not. Either way, they carry him with me, and for now, that’s enough.

I am not an expert. I am a generalist. I notice things.