My childhood home was a one-story, white-shingled farmhouse nestled in the middle of corn and soybean fields. Typical of homes built in the early 1900s, it was long on charm and short on space. My mother was a “collector” — frugality impressed upon her as a child of the Great Depression made her save everything. With time, every tiny closet and cranny overflowed. In my and my sisters’ decidedly unsolicited opinions, our parents needed to downsize as they aged. They needed room to maneuver safely. We took turns helping them re-organize, sorting through what to keep and what to let go. This often resulted in a tug of war between…