Everything Must Go

We headed back to Michigan a week ago Sunday, Karen and I. We went to my Father's place first to unpack and prepare for the week. On Monday, we got back to work at what's been our second job this fall, dismantling the remains of our Mom's life.

We made a list of everything we had left to do in her house and discussed what we should tackle first. The conversation was part farce because we had been both been itching to sift through the box of Christmas ornaments, completely unsorted unlike everything else in the house. These were treasures, that next to the cat and the coffee maker, were probably the most dear to my Mom. As we settled down on the now bare floor, “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas came on the radio. I'm generally not one to assign anthropomorphic qualities to the universe such as intentionality, but really universe? Melodramatic, don't you think? Despite the circumstances seeming almost contrived, the emotion was real and in that moment, we both nearly lost it. We could either laugh or cry and fortunately laughter prevailed.

We picked through each ornament, recounted the story, the history, what each one meant to us. My sister even kept some of the 1970's plastic icicles that she had hated for decades. These had long ago been banished from the Christmas tree, but my Mom had kept them anyhow. We ended up each keeping a few ornaments. Some were made by our Grandmother, some by our Mom, and some were acquired on one of my Mom's many trips.

After the ornaments, I wandered off to excavate a basement closet packed with all my old collections. This mostly consisted of baseball cards that I used to obsess over. I marveled at my ample collection of cards of the now disgraced Pete Rose. These I couldn't bring myself to part with and they now sit in another basement waiting for the next closet or basement to call home.

Other treasures I did let go, a plastic nativity set, which even now I still adore. Now gone, these little pieces of plastic have a disproportionately visceral effect on me even though it depicts a scene which I no longer have a shred of faith in. Another treasure, a plastic tub we called “The Game” for reasons that neither my sister or I understand, I let go. I still second guess this choice. But these are items that will leave a hole, which for me is a more potent reminder of my Mother than the objects themselves. I need that reminder so my mind can start to wrap itself around the bigger hole that I honestly still can't digest.

The rest of the work was composed of small, not particularly notable tasks.

And then Wednesday morning came. The auctioneers showed up and within three hours, everything was staged. We stuck around to visit with well-wishers, host would be customers doing early bird reconnaissance, wait for Kyeorda and Micah to make the trip up from Chicago, and to just let the time pass.

Thursday morning started with fog. We hauled everything outside into the damp air. With just 45 minutes of work, we had everything prepared. People trickled in as the sun burned away the mist. Near the 10:30 am mark, the bustle and chatter of 150 plus patrons went oddly silent. In the pause, there was a peculiar tension. I felt like the air was being pulled out of my lungs and then the auctioneer launched into his sing song rambling. Within four hours, everything but four boxes of books, which we subsequently donated, was sold. An hour or two after that and it was all gone, each piece claimed or bought.

Everything must go.