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For nearly 35 years, I have dodged an inevitable bullet—Mom cleaning out my childhood bedroom.
Being somewhat of a transient most of my adult life, I was able to avoid the painstaking task of opening and sorting the boxes—that is until Labor Day weekend.
I was pretty good at avoiding the problem until this year. I was pretty sure when I moved to Colorado with only what fit in my car that mom and dad weren’t going to be paying to fly 14 boxes of stuffed animals and books to my address.
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