From the attic I brought down file-upon-file upon-file box of income tax statements for my husband to sort out and hopefully let go of. He earned a Grade A. We don’t need tax returns from 1997. Or do we? He asks. You never know. But, gratefully he sorted, bagged, and put them in the garage, ready for the shredder or the dump.
Once they are in the garage, I figure they are beyond my responsibility. The plastic file boxes, left over from my teaching days, are also out of my jurisdiction.
One big file box remains and up to the attic it will go.