Since leaving the nest, our young adult children have accumulated many mattresses, bicycles, books, TVs, desks, kitchen supplies and sundry other stuff. Now, truck load by truck load, it’s coming home.

We are about to find out how much crapola a garage can handle and still park two cars. So far the crapola is winning.

We stuffed the garage last summer with Julia’s gear as she prepared to move to New York City. It all fit, but my parking spot got squeezed. Every time I opened my car door I bumped a bike tire.

In November we hauled back to Napa the contents of Josh’s San Francisco apartment in a 14-foot U-Haul. Most possessions went into the garage attic, but the parking got scrunched as well. I had to angle past not only a bike, but two TVs to get to my car.

We’re now awaiting Dennis’ deluge. Much like Julia and Josh, he intends to use our garage as a repository until he has another more permanent base of operation.

One garage stuffing was noteworthy. Two stuffings were positively heroic. A third stuffing may exceed the laws of physics.

Dennis’ furniture hasn’t yet arrived, but already my car has been forced onto the street as we attempt to rearrange things to make room.

Cheryl tore apart the garage last Sunday. She wanted to refamiliarize herself with what we were already storing and whether we could get rid of any of it.

Most of what clogs the space between our car bays is mine, she informed me. Two crates of kitchen items from my first marriage. A large futon acquired during a two-year rental after the divorce. An upholstered chair big enough to sit Abe Lincoln, the statue.

This junk is mine? This was news to me. So impenetrable is this heap, these items had fallen from my consciousness.

My proposed solution was to make my stuff the foundation for the couch, bookcases, queen-size bed, etc., etc. that Dennis would be delivering. We’re not piling nearly high enough, I said. There’s room at ceiling level.

And by the way, my stuffed chair wasn’t the only space waster, I noted. Next to it sat a shrouded object covered in cat hair. Specifically, another upholstered chair, this one from Cheryl’s past.

Her big chair was not in as good condition as my big chair. In theory, that made it a candidate for the dump.

Her chair isn’t going anywhere, Cheryl said. She rocked her babies in that chair.

If my chair, futon and kitchen supplies were non-negotiable and her chair wasn’t going anywhere, that meant we had to find a sacrificial object lacking sentimental attachment to get rid of.

We both eyed the behemoth shop vac. I’d never used it. Had she?

The shop vac went back to her first marriage, Cheryl said. Something her ex had bought.

This shop vac no longer exists, dear reader. It’s gone to that great appliance graveyard in the sky.

I wanted to get rid of more, but when I proposed hauling the surplus TVs to the electronics recycling center at the airport I ran into static. That maybe the TVs would work, could work, do work, but we need a universal remote that works, I was told.

Someone’s to-do list now includes finding a working universal remote. In the meantime, the TVs continue to occupy valuable garage real estate.

To be fair, the shop vac isn’t the only item that’s been culled from dead storage. Josh has been jettisoning hundreds of pounds of you-name-it. Cheryl also contributed. She decided she could part with a bag of tiny hangers suitable for children’s clothing.

Given how much Dennis will be dumping on us this weekend, I’m not sure this is enough throwaway. We have to do more.

When I say “we,” I don’t mean “me.” Don’t even think about it. I got lean and mean five years ago. If there is anyone sleeping under our roof who has less personal stuff than I do, I’d like to hear about it. If necessary, I’m willing to submit to a weigh-off.

Having reread the previous paragraph, I regret the tone of it. It suggests inflexibility, an unwillingness to do my part.

If pressed, I could probably come up with some items for recycling or the dump. A stack of cassette tapes from the 70s. My collection of Consumer Reports. A small lamp with strawberries on the base, bought in a New Brunswick, N.J. thrift shop in 1971.

These things could possibly go. I would basically be left with just the clothes on my back, but that’s OK. Dennis’ stuff is coming. Someone has to set an example.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com