Hoarderville, U.S.A.

I live in a small city, but I choose not to name it. Instead, from here on in, I will simply refer my locality as Hoarderville.

In a way, the name is apt: people around here hang onto everything and tend to be somewhat provincial. Thrift stores in Hoarderville tend to be less full than in other cities I have lived or visited, the opportunity to find a true treasure at a bargain price more unlikely. Hoardervillens feel strongly about their possessions:

They'll have to peel this broken corkscrew out of my cold, dead hands.

Don't get me wrong; I like where I live, but I'm not native to Hoarderville, and my views tend to be, well, less provincial, and I do let go of obvious junk.

If you have read through some of my lists (brave you!), you will see that, from time to time, I slip out of Hoarderville, bringing home foreign and domestic souvenirs. Why do hoarders feel that they have to bring home a piece of everywhere else?

I honestly don't know. But I'm getting better. On my last trip away from Hoarderville, I brought back only small items--a big improvement over the 10-pound rock I dragged across the ocean eight years ago. (We do have rocks around here, but they're not as pretty or interesting.)

Hoarderville can be anywhere; it's not just my city but any city in the world where crass consumerism is the way of life.