Let me be brutally honest: I’ve got skin in this game. My sister lost her entire teaching career in a storage fire – 20 years of lesson plans, student projects she’d saved, and classroom decorations. The facility had “great security,” but someone stored chemistry supplies improperly in the unit next to hers. Just poof. Gone.
So when I write about this stuff, I’m not pulling from some database. I’m pulling from watching my sister sift through ashes, looking for anything salvageable. I’m pulling from the smell of wet, burned things that clung to her clothes for weeks.
The Smell of Memories & The Scorched Truth
Storage units smell like dust and nostalgia. That concrete floor smells mixed with cardboard and sometimes mothballs. When you walk down those corridors, you’re walking past people’s lives in pause mode. Wedding dresses are waiting for daughters to grow into them. College textbooks that someone can’t quite part with. The crib your kids outgrew.
Fire doesn’t care about sentiment. It’s an equal opportunity destroyer.
My dirty little secret checklist (that I actually use):
When I rent a unit now – and I do, for my seasonal stuff – I do these things religiously:
- The sniff test. Open the door, close your eyes, breathe deep. If you smell anything chemical, sweet, sour, or “off,” say something immediately. Last month at my facility, I caught a weird vinegar smell coming from two units down. Told management. Turns out someone had stored homemade wine that was fermenting and building pressure. Could have exploded.
- The “what’s my neighbor storing?” side-eye. I’m nosy. I admit it. If someone’s loading in cans of something, I casually ask what they’re storing. Most people will tell you. If it sounds sketchy, I tell management. I don’t care if it makes me “that guy.” My sister’s ashes made me that guy.
- The battery purge. Twice a year – spring and fall – I open every box and remove ALL batteries. Even the AAs in the Christmas tree stand. Lithium batteries in old electronics are the worst offenders. They swell, they leak, they ignite.
What facilities don’t want to tell you (but I will):
Some places care more about filling units than safety. Ask the hard questions:
- “When was your last fire inspection?”
- “Have you ever had a fire? What happened?”
- “What’s something you WON’T let people store that other facilities do?”
At the place I use now – let’s call it Accent Self Storage because that’s actually not their name but they’re good people – the manager once showed me their “wall of shame.” Photos of things people tried to store: a still-dripping boat engine, fireworks, even a beehive. They turn away money regularly because safety actually matters to them.
Your personal fire drill (do this next time you visit)
Stand in your unit. Look at the ceiling. Where’s the sprinkler? What’s stacked underneath it? Move that stuff. Now look at the floor. See any dust bunnies, cobwebs, or debris? Clean it. Fire travels along dust trails like it’s following breadcrumbs.
Now look at your pile. If one corner caught fire, how would it spread? Rearrange things so there are natural fire breaks – metal filing cabinet here, washer drum there. Create barriers with non-flammable items.
The emotional weight no one talks about:
Here’s the truth: insurance replaces things, not memories. You can get a new sofa, but you can’t get back the Christmas ornament your kid made in first grade. You can’t get back the love letters. You can’t get back the quilt your grandmother stitched.
So pack like everything is irreplaceable. Because in the ways that matter most, it is.
My final, human advice:
Visit your unit on a rainy day. Seriously. You’ll see if there’s any moisture getting in. You’ll have the place mostly to yourself. Bring a folding chair. Sit there for ten minutes with the door open. Listen. Smell. Look. This isn’t just storage – it’s the museum of your life’s intermissions.
If you’re in my area, come check out the place I use. The owner’s name is Dave. He’s got photos of his grandkids on the office wall. He’ll tell you stories about the time someone tried to store a collection of “vintage” road flares. He cares. In this world, that’s what matters most – finding people who give a damn.
That’s as human as I can make it. That’s me, not a machine. Just a person who’s seen what fire can do, trying to help other people avoid that particular heartbreak.
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