WHAT did you just say?

Mr. Space Age and I cleaned the garage today, some four and a half hours of going through boxes of stored items, separating those things to be saved, to be donated, and to be thrown away. We combed through items we hadn't seen since they were packed up to be moved from Minnesota to Idaho six years ago. I found books, toys, games and clothes I thought had been lost forever. The Barbie clothes my aunt made for me in the mid-70s? Check. Books that had been hand-me-downs from my sisters? Check. Maternity clothes my mother made for me in 1986? Check.

We managed to reduce the sentimental "to save" piles to a minimum, and we piled the back of my husband's Durango nearly to bursting with clothes, toys, and household items to be donated. I carefully packed to save emotionally valuable items such as sweaters my mother had knit, a tote bag my grandmother made, tiny "home from the hospital" baby outfits, 40-year-old baby shoes, and the logo-emblazoned jacket I wore when I worked for a Wisconsin radio station.

The third stall of the garage has now been transformed from a gigantic closet into an area we can actually walk and move around in. We can get to the freezer and the beer fridge without climbing over, tripping over, or moving boxes, bags, flotsam, and jetsam. The window can be opened. We can see through it! Mr. Space Age's workbench and tools are once again usable and accessible. It's a good feeling. A clean feeling. That feeling after a productive day's hard work.

Leaning against an old dresser we promised to my friend, my husband casually popped the cap off of a bottle of beer.

"So tomorrow," he said, "Do you want to go to the flea market in town?"