Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2016.

Finally I’ve stopped lying awake nights worrying about all the clutter in my house.

I’d been haunted by the thought of my kids having to sort everything out after I’m gone.

I’ve lived here more than 50 years, and boy, have I accumulated a lot of stuff in that time. How could my kids possibly wade through everything and decide what’s keepable and what’s not?

I thought I’d simplify things and begin tossing out junk on my own.

Yeah, but I never got around to it. Where were the trash bags big enough to accommodate it all?

I would probably have stalled forever, except that my niece Debbie decided to move from her home in Mill Valley and hired a “declutterer” to help her. The result was so satisfying, she said, that I decided to hire the declutterer myself.

Wow. You wouldn’t believe the difference it has made in my clothes closet — or how many old blouses I’ve given away.

Now we are moving through the cabinets and jam-packed drawers in other parts of my bedroom.Tax returns from 16 years ago have gone into the trash pile along with old newspapers I had saved — headlines about Richard Nixon’s departure, Winston Churchill’s death and the Bay Area earthquake of 1989. Information about all those happenings, I reminded myself, is available online.

We have not yet delved into the jewelry drawers. I have dozens of necklaces I never wear and earrings I’ve never clipped on. I guess I’m just not a jewelry person, despite all the doodads I’ve bought through the years. They still look appealing — for somebody else.

I do have one favorite pendant, an outline of Mount Tamalpais framed in tiny diamonds, that Rowland designed for me; the diamonds were left over from jewelry he had bought for his first wife.

He gave most of her jewelry to his daughter and nieces, knowing I’d never wear it. He has a love of beautiful things and despairs at how little I know about fine china, crystal and the like. I’m frustrated, too, but we are who we are, and I’ve never spent time learning to appreciate finery.

My declutter lady is scrupulous about what happens to things I am throwing away. There’s a pile for Goodwill, boxes for each of my kids and several cartons for the yard sale we will have months from now.

Meanwhile, you’ve no idea how much fun I’m having. I’m watching my whole life pass in review — adolescence to old age — souvenirs, yes, but none of the pain.

And even better, I have dozens of empty spaces all over the bedroom, places I can fill with new clutter.