Misguided Ambition

I drove to New Jersey this weekend, armed with 60 boxes and 6 rolls of packing tape.  Yes, it was time to clean out my dad's house, where he had lived for over half a century.  I thought I was up to the task.  I thought it would be cathartic to go through that stuff, sort it out, and box it all up.

And, yes, it was cathartic - that is, if catharsis is the process of grief morphing into a feeling of resentment toward the dearly departed once the mourner realizes, with a sense of dawning horror, that 60 boxes is NOT NEARLY ENOUGH.  60 boxes is a JOKE.

Woefully inadequate

I had a realtor stop by, approximately 24 hours into this process.  Up until then, I was doing okay - focused on my progress, energetic, hydrated.  And then, as I took her around the house, I snapped out of my illusions and saw the mess through her eyes - the accounting office with papers from 1978 on, the 2-car garage already full of boxes, the laundry room with I-don't-know what-all shoved into it.  It was in this last room that she turned to me and said, in the tone of voice one would use to disabuse a small child of the notion that she can single-handedly dig all the way to China, "You know, there are people who can help you with this.  They come with a big truck and take it all away."

Yeah, that would be nice, wouldn't it? 

On the bright side, I dug up a photo album filled with pictures of my father as a boy and a young man.  I had never seen any candid photos of him from that time in his life - I had assumed, in fact, that none existed.  He looks so young, so happy, with his whole life spread out before him - it's a nice antidote to my memories of him from the past 4 months or so, when he was becoming feebler and more senile by the day.  His physical and mental misery spanned maybe one year out of a total of 87 -- these photos remind me that that single year doesn't define his entire life.

Now to find those helpful people with the big truck...


[Boxes image: enviromom]

Broken Dreams

A while ago, I announced on this blog the exciting (to me) acquisition of a new set of glassware, an acquisition necessitated by the sad fact that we had only 3 intact glasses remaining in our kitchen cabinet.

An all-too-familiar sight...

Fast forward almost 3 1/2 years - Brian dropped a glass in the sink and I realized that we, once again, had only 3 usable glass drinking receptacles left.  Now, in this house, 3 1/2 years is not a bad run for a set of glassware, not bad at all.  But still, I've grown to dread that sound of breaking glass.

In Target later that week, I chanced on a clearance shelf full of plastic tumblers.  Understand, if you will, that - approximately a decade ago - I had decided that I DESERVED glasses, not plastic tumblers. Sick of bowing to the exigencies of a house full of children, I swore that never again would my lips touch anything but glass.  And, until that fateful evening in Target, I had stuck to my vow, regardless of our kitchen's granite countertops and tile floor that spelled eventual doom for any breakable housewares we might have the temerity to possess.

But that evening in Target?  I was the one who broke.  Turning my back on the shelf of glassware that was beckoning just to my left, I put 6 of those cheerful red tumblers in my cart.  You see, it occurred to me that I was tired of cleaning up broken glass, tired of trying to fish jagged glass pieces out of the garbage disposal, tired of discovering shards of glass on my floor even though I had vacuumed the entire kitchen twice. What price, I wondered, was being exacted by my determination to be civilized?  What awful price?

THIS is what defeat looks like, in case you were wondering.

So, yeah, there they are.  50 cents each, and I bet they last forever.


[Broken glass image: Recycle This]

Gone

Quick note to say I'll be back soon.  My dad passed away on Sunday, and we've been busy doing stuff - funeral, sitting shiva, eating ridiculous amounts of cake and cookies, and trying to figure out how to clean out a house that was lived in by the same person for over 50 years.

I'm grateful he isn't suffering anymore, very grateful - but it is disorienting (to say the least) that someone who has always been in my life is not there anymore.  Apparently, judging from my surprise at this situation, I have just figured out what death means.  Some of us are slow learners, you know.

And now, to bed - last night I didn't sleep well, as I was alone in my dad's house, with ALL the lights on.  I was working with the theory that a well-lit house would discourage other-worldly visits.  And then I turned half of the lights off, because I remembered my dad scolding us for leaving the house "lit up like a Christmas tree" and figured that my overuse of electricity might trigger a haunting.

But seriously, it just felt as though he would come walking around the corner any minute.  How could he not?  He had always been there.

Plumb Crazy

The rash hasn't killed me yet.  Just thought you should know...

Uh-oh, forgot to pack corn cobs!

Today?  I had to help Rachel get ready for her FIRST GIRL SCOUT CAMPOUT EVER.  Rachel's naturally high level of enthusiasm was ramped up to the nth power, because she gets to do archery and kayaking tomorrow and I'd even think of joining her, it sounds like so much fun, but the place where they are staying?  Has no flush toilets.  Yet it has cabins.  With cots.

SOMEONE at Girl Scout Central seems not to understand that plumbing is not a negotiable camping option.  Beds are negotiable.  Wooden shelters are negotiable.  You see, tents and sleeping bags suit even this civilization-loving gal just fine.  But, to my way of thinking, there just aren't enough s'mores in the world to make using an outhouse a reasonable proposition.  With or without the corn cobs...

[Outhouse image: Wikipedia]

Walking The Walk

It's hot here.  Just thought you should know.

I left the air conditioning off for most of the day, because only 1 member of the family was going to be in the house most of the afternoon, and damned if I'm going to air-condition a 2300-sq-ft townhouse for hours on end for only 1 person.

By the way, that 1 person?  Wasn't me.  Key point.

So, David got to enjoy some solitude, at the price of feeling a bit, well, poached by the time the rest of us returned from our various classes and play dates and errands.  I was hoping the hot house would encourage David to go out and look for jobs in air-conditioned stores and eateries, but no such luck.  He seems content to continue to rake in money from hapless older people who cannot figure out how to move their photos from their cameras to their computers.  So be it.  Lord knows he isn't going to run out of customers any time soon.

Where was I going with this?  Oh, yeah, it's hot.  Africa hot. So I turned on that AC as soon as I walked in the door.  Do teenagers deserve air conditioning?  Discuss.

**********

I'm still waiting for the wealthy and wise part.

For the past 7 days, I've been making myself go to sleep at a decent hour and get up early (6:30) to exercise/walk before we do breakfast and school.  I hate to admit it, but I am feeling better about my life, as in I no longer feel like I am drowning the minute I wake up in the morning (NOT a good sensation, believe me).  The kids like it better, too, since I actually cook decent breakfasts.  That means, unfortunately, that I have to continue being sensible and healthy, like, forever.  I'm not sure I can pull that off.

In other news, I have a mysterious rash on my arm that I fear may be fatal.  At least, if itchiness can kill, it could be fatal.  So, if you don't hear from me again, it's because Larry, not believing my dire prognostications, provided me with some hydrocortisone cream rather than calling in the best medical minds to focus on my problem.  I tell you, I'm so tired of not being taken seriously around here.

[Benjamin Franklin poster: TheFederalistPapers.org]