I love springtime, its only flaw being that it drops us off into summer in Southeastern North Carolina. Growing up, triple-digit-degree days and 80 percent humidity did not cause me pause, and I actually preferred those dog days of summer that had the added appeal of no school over the chap of winter.

Plenty of golf, tennis, swimming, pool and foosball. Yes, I was privileged, which I realize more now than I did then.

But as I have aged, leaving the comfort of a 71-degree climate-controlled home and stepping outside and into a sauna has lost any appeal – assuming the house is not on fire. Plus, we no longer have real winters like we did when I was a child, just declawed imitations for the most part; it seems now that long pants, long-sleeved shirts and a vest provide the warmth needed for 18 holes.

Springtime is a time of freshening up, renewal, rejuvenation, and plenty of that is needed around my place, which is showing the signs of living and neglect.

I have started the process of installing my garden, a task that used to take perhaps a day and a half but now will stretch over a couple or three weeks, assembled in two-hour energy bursts as an accommodation to my burning joints.

This way, at least, the fruits of that labor will be staggered.

The lawn is fertilized and manicured, bushes trimmed, and an effort has begun to reclaim some of my property that has been slowly consumed by Boots’ haunt, The Jungle, which has been creeping up on my home for the last 12 years.

My home’s exterior is about to get power-washed, but the real job is found inside.

I do not consider myself a hoarder, but the result is similar when you keep getting older and become reluctant to toss anything away, convinced that it still has a value that will reveal itself later. So, this week I went on a mission, and that was to unclutter the house by identifying what was no longer of use and finding it a new home, either at the landfill or even better in the home of a person with a need.

Old magazines were placed in the trash bin, books boxed to be donated to the library, but the ripest area was found in the closets where despite the occasional thinning I found some garments that were in style when I was not only a younger man, but a young man. So, decades old.

In the least surprising tidbit you will find in this column, they no longer fit. Even the shoes, as somewhere along the way my feet actually went from size 12 to 13, which I found out the hard way, when I ordered a pair of size 12 golf shoes from Amazon.

I can only surmise that as I have settled, my feet have spread.

So, into boxes went old clothes, shoes, jackets, coats, linens, anything that I knew I would never need again, but imagined that someone, somewhere might.

Done, I decided to drop the boxes off at the Robeson County Church and Community Center on West Fifth Street, which I know from my time as editor of this newspaper does tremendous work making better the lives of people in this county who must settle for less.

There are plenty of similar nonprofits doing similar good deeds.

Here is the best part: It is not that my house has been uncluttered and has a freshness about it. No, it is knowing that someone, somewhere who is in need will treasure what had essentially become trash in my home.

I highly recommend it.