What do you do when you hoard a hoarder’s hoard? Try saying that three times as fast as you can.

Like any riddle, it puzzles the mind — rendering it confused and muddled. And so, too, is my experience with what could be considered one of the most perplexing of First World problems — hoarding.

I remember as a child helping my mother and other volunteers clean up the home of a man who suffered from a pretty severe case of hoarding.

The local bloke had died and with no known family, the landlord was left in a bit of a messy predicament, so the neighbourhood rallied to help.

As I trawled through another person’s muddled mess — a random collection of items that littered the floor, rendering a casual stroll from the kitchen to the bedroom impossible, I cut a deal with myself never to become a hoarder.

But like all bad habits, there is a gateway — an unsuspecting introduction, if you will. Mine came in the death of three family members in a brief space of time — my great-aunt, grandmother and mother.

Being the only female of two children in the youngest generation, I inherited most of their belongings; retro crockery, costume jewellery and a psychedelic collection of 60s dresses.

However, I also inherited a problem — a teddy bear problem. Until now it’s something I have kept hidden at the back of the closet, under the bed and in the garage.

My dear grandmother turned to hoarding teddy bears when she was in her 60s. Like all problems, it started small and unnoticeable, but within a couple of years the teddies had multiplied, until they formed a wall of fluff, eyes and ears creepily staring at me as I tried to watch Wheel of Fortune from the comfort of her floral lounge.

A keen knitter, she made them scarves, hats, jumpers (usually in West Coast Eagles colours) and engraved little tags with their name and “age”.

My grandmother and I shared a special bond, so she felt it appropriate to leave her beloved bear hoard to me — all 300 and something of them.

Being a chucker, my look of horror was met with words of caution from the relatives: “Be careful when sorting through them.”“There’s bound to be some collectors’ bears in there,” they warned. “They could be worth a bit.”

Losing these important women from my life was heartbreaking but so was the idea of sorting through 300 and something bears. It became too much to bear.

I found myself procrastinating when faced with the mundane task of taking to the wall of teddies. With no instruction from my grandmother on what to do with them, they were put in garbage bags in her house and for several years, shifted from room to room.

When the time came to clear the space, the teddies were stuffed into vacuum bags and shoved into any spare space I could find in my house — their little faces, forming a fluffy assembly of cute and creepy as they squished against the hardening plastic.

Now many years have passed and whenever I encounter this secret stash, I am faced with guilt and sadness — I disobeyed my pact. Not only have I become a hoarder, I have hoarded a hoarder’s hoard. Instead of being cast into the dark corner of my closet, they should be enjoyed for what they are — an object of softness, joy and nurturing.

They deserve to be given to a needy child, a bear collector, or someone who finds real value in them. Some would say I’m ungrateful, others would label me lazy but I feel I have begun to understand what creates a hoard in the first place — a task of removal that is too much to bear.

So this is where I turn to you, dear reader. May you help me find a charity that can do something wonderful with this now not-so-secret-stash? It’ll sure be a way to make the hoard of hoarder’s hoard bearable.





Email Kate Ferguson