Three Years Later: What Seven Acres of Clean Space Teaches You About Life

Three years since my father passed. Three years of slow, relentless cleanup. I am still at it. Still hauling, sorting, deciding what stays and what goes. Still finding pieces of steel buried under inches of leaves, a pine grown around a doorknob that was set down once and never moved.

But it is heads and tails better now.

The three abandoned tractors that sat idle for decades? Gone. Four pickups that had not moved in years, slowly sinking into the ground, becoming part of the landscape? Gone. The 2500-gallon water tank he planned on using someday, sitting above ground, collecting rust and regret? Gone.

On and on. Item after item. Year after year.

I wrote about this a couple of years ago. About finding the bee smoker and the Leatherman. About trying to understand why my father held onto so much. Why he let things pile up instead of letting them go. I was still deep in the mess back then, still overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stuff that filled every corner of the property.

I am still here. Still cleaning. But something has shifted.

Seven acres cleaned up will do wonders for your spirit. You do not realize how much weight clutter carries until you start removing it. How much mental space it occupies. How much it quietly drains you every time you look at it and know it needs to be dealt with but cannot figure out where to start.

My mom told me the other day she was so appreciative of how I have improved her life the last couple of years. That hit me harder than I expected. Because it has been a two-way street. Cleaning up this place has given me something I did not know I needed. Purpose. Connection. A way to honor my father while also reckoning with the choices he made.

But more than that, it has given me the chance to really know my mother as an adult. To appreciate what she put up with for decades. The clutter was not just his. It was hers too. She lived with it. Worked around it. Made peace with it in ways I am only beginning to understand. Getting to know her now, in this stage of life, watching her breathe easier as the property opens up, has been one of the most rewarding parts of this whole process. She deserved better than living surrounded by all that weight. And I am grateful I get to be part of giving her that.

And that is the part that stings. The part I keep coming back to.

It is a shame my dad did not set his tools down and clean this place up himself. He and my mom spent decades building this property. Decades. They worked hard for it. Sacrificed for it. Dreamed about what it could be.

He could have enjoyed it. He should have enjoyed it. Instead, he kept working. Kept collecting. Kept planning for projects that never quite materialized. He held onto things because he thought he might need them someday. He let the clutter build because there was always something more urgent, something more pressing, something he told himself he would get to later.

Later never came.

I think about that a lot as I haul another load to the dump. As I watch the property slowly transform into something clean and open and breathable again. He had this. He built this. But he never stopped long enough to see it clearly. To enjoy what he and my mom had created together.

It is not lost on me that I am doing for him what he could have done for himself. That I am the one who gets to stand back and appreciate the difference a cleared field makes. The way sunlight hits an open space. The satisfaction of seeing things in order, functional, purposeful.

He deserved that. He earned it. But he never gave himself permission to experience it. There is a lesson in that. One I am still learning. One I do not want to repeat.

Life is not just about building and collecting and planning for someday. It is also about stopping long enough to appreciate what you have already built. To clear away what no longer serves you. To create space for the things that matter instead of drowning in the things that do not.

My father was a man who loved to fix things. Cars. Tractors. Tools. He had a solution for everything except the clutter that slowly consumed his workshop and his property. He kept things because they had value. Because they represented possibility. Because letting go felt like giving up on something that might still be useful.

But holding on cost him something too. It cost him the chance to enjoy his own creation. To sit on his own land without being reminded of all the unfinished projects. To walk through his workshop without tripping over decades of accumulated intentions.

I am still cleaning. Still sorting. Still hauling things away.

But the difference now is that I can see the progress. I can feel it. My mom can feel it.

Seven acres of clean space does something to your soul. It lightens the load. It gives you room to breathe. It reminds you that letting go is not the same as losing something. Sometimes it is the only way to truly appreciate what you have.

My father built something beautiful here. He and my mom worked their whole lives for it.

I wonder what he would think if he saw it now. I think he'd ask me where the tractors and the pickups went and what did I do with the 2500 gallon tank. I am not sure he'd be able to appreciate it the way my mom can now.

Clean. Open. Full of possibility.

But maybe that is the gift he left me. The chance to finish what he started. To honor his work by making it visible again. To understand that building something is only half the job. The other half is knowing when to stop, step back, and let yourself enjoy it.

Three years in, I am still learning that lesson.

But I am getting there.

Thanks for reading.