A few years ago the prediction that “By 2030 you will own nothing and be happy about it” was flung rudely at Western Civilization, which greeted it with a howl of indignation.

As I sit here now on a large pile of My Stuff, owning a little less of it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. I don’t know where to put it all.

We were made acutely aware of just how much stuff we have in our house when we had a new floor put in and had to move everything to accommodate the project. It was like moving house, with everything thrown into boxes and shuttled here and there to stay one step ahead of the flooring installer, our friend The Precrastinator.

Soon my wife Honey was complaining, “I don’t know where anything is.”

I have been even more lost, because I didn’t remember where a lot of things were before we began moving them around. On the other hand, I am blessed by not caring as much as she does.

So that some good might come out of this upheaval, Honey issued an edict, to wit: “We have to get rid of stuff.”

Leading by example, she began going through her clothes closet. “I’ll never wear this again, or this, or this.” In the kitchen she got rid of a surplus wooden knife block, and winnowed her countertop collections of spatulas, strainers and soup ladles. When I moved the kitchen stove so flooring could be installed thereunder, I found a drift of oven mitts which had fallen behind over the years. She kept a few. The rest were washed and put into boxes to be given to the thrift store, along with superfluous flower vases, bowls and those utensils, all useful things which hopefully will find new homes among the property disadvantaged amongst us.

Inspired by my wife’s example, and, I admit, pushed a bit, I began to get into the spirit of shedding excess stuff. It is really quite liberating.

The idea of parting with several pairs of perfectly good blue jeans was hard until I decided that at my age I will never grow into those 42 waists. I had picked them up at yard sales on spec.

Getting rid of some of my boots, all scored at yard sales, was harder. (I don’t need to keep repeating “bought at yard sales.” Everything I own that’s larger than a refrigerator was bought at yard sales.)

Steeling myself to the task, I de-selected 10 pairs of boots. They have not left the premises, however. I’m waiting for Seed and the grandsons to take what they want before they go to the thrift store. Genetics being what they are, five familial males share my shoe size: 10 and a half. Grandson Bob, already a working man, has first dibs on boots with steel toes.

But those are the useful things. What about my collection of political campaign buttons? I own those and I would not be happy giving them up, especially not a recently acquired Goldwater/Miller button. Barry lost badly but he inspired Reagan.

I’ve already slashed my extensive collection of neckties. I will never wear all my polo shirts. At my age I attend funerals more often, but a couple of dark suit coats and four pairs of dress shoes should suffice. Bye-bye to those handsome Florsheims.

The idea that “By 2030 you will own nothing and be happy about it” has been attributed to a 2020 meeting of the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. The WEF is a meeting of private and governmental nabobs who believe they will shape global agendas. Yeah, I know they were talking about renting instead of owning property like your house, car and furnishings, but when the Bolsheviks took over Russia in 1918 they claimed everything for the State down to the baby’s diaper pins. Mamdani has started along the same road in New York City.

In our family, son Worshrag and his bride Busy Bee would be least affected by the abolishment of private property. Although they are on their third round of home ownership, they avoid collecting more possessions than would fit in a U-Haul trailer. We can’t even get them to take the boxes of personal things they left in our garage apartment after they got married and moved south five years ago.

Just for the record, I have 10 chainsaws. I’m not giving up a single one. Honey knows better than to suggest that, though she might if they were kept in the house instead of the garage.

(Fred Miller’s two books of stories are only $10, available locally at Calcutta Giant Eagle, Pottery City Antique Mall, Museum of Ceramics, Frank’s Pastries, Davis Bros. pharmacies, and the Old Ft. Steuben gift shop.)