There are ghosts in this house.
Now, don't be alarmed. I haven't suddenly gone round the bend, and don't need the guys in white coats just yet.
I've been cleaning ALL THE THINGS! This house, for years, has been a sort of Fibber McGee closet. There's tons of storage space (including a full attic), and all of it, plus a single-car and a double-car garage, packed, crammed, stuffed full of stuff. I mean, they never threw anything away. A cumulative two hundred fifty years of stuff, if I include my stuff and I've had to . . . dear gods and little fishes.
Some days, it seems like all I accomplish is moving things from one part of the house to another, so I can clean the part I moved stuff out of so I can move other stuff back into the newly cleaned space. There are times when I don't see an end, and the box of matches is looking rather attractive.
To be strictly fair, a lot of stuff is gone. The auction guys came on Tuesday with a 22 foot trailer (empty) and loaded, and loaded, and loaded. Consequently, I have room enough in one bay of the bottom garage to shift the rest of the packed stuff from the house down for the infamous (I hate it) garage sale.
We moved my giant (7 foot tall and 4 foot wide) bookcases (3 of them) into the "nook" and established a rather nice library area. All of my books in one place. Imagine that. That allows me to downsize two bookcases -- they're going with my friend Maggie tomorrow.
Most of Dad's stuff is sorted. The last of Mother's stuff is still being sorted. More trips to Goodwill are immanent. But today, I started going through the little, piddly stuff that gets me worse than the big stuff. All of the residue of Mother's fiber arts tools (mostly crochet hooks -- not so dear to me since I don't crochet anymore) -- I looked at them and consigned them into the next Goodwill bag. Going through my stuff is next. That's tough, and I'm not going to want to do it, but I cannot keep ALL THE THINGS.
Each piece, even the rocks, conjure memories of my past. Some are good, some not so good. The memories crowd into the now empty spaces, whispering "fill the space with something . . . anything." Each thing I touch seems to have some spark of life of its own. I question its spark . . . do I need to carry it over into a new life?
More will be revealed later . . .
Now, don't be alarmed. I haven't suddenly gone round the bend, and don't need the guys in white coats just yet.
I've been cleaning ALL THE THINGS! This house, for years, has been a sort of Fibber McGee closet. There's tons of storage space (including a full attic), and all of it, plus a single-car and a double-car garage, packed, crammed, stuffed full of stuff. I mean, they never threw anything away. A cumulative two hundred fifty years of stuff, if I include my stuff and I've had to . . . dear gods and little fishes.
Some days, it seems like all I accomplish is moving things from one part of the house to another, so I can clean the part I moved stuff out of so I can move other stuff back into the newly cleaned space. There are times when I don't see an end, and the box of matches is looking rather attractive.
To be strictly fair, a lot of stuff is gone. The auction guys came on Tuesday with a 22 foot trailer (empty) and loaded, and loaded, and loaded. Consequently, I have room enough in one bay of the bottom garage to shift the rest of the packed stuff from the house down for the infamous (I hate it) garage sale.
We moved my giant (7 foot tall and 4 foot wide) bookcases (3 of them) into the "nook" and established a rather nice library area. All of my books in one place. Imagine that. That allows me to downsize two bookcases -- they're going with my friend Maggie tomorrow.
Most of Dad's stuff is sorted. The last of Mother's stuff is still being sorted. More trips to Goodwill are immanent. But today, I started going through the little, piddly stuff that gets me worse than the big stuff. All of the residue of Mother's fiber arts tools (mostly crochet hooks -- not so dear to me since I don't crochet anymore) -- I looked at them and consigned them into the next Goodwill bag. Going through my stuff is next. That's tough, and I'm not going to want to do it, but I cannot keep ALL THE THINGS.
Each piece, even the rocks, conjure memories of my past. Some are good, some not so good. The memories crowd into the now empty spaces, whispering "fill the space with something . . . anything." Each thing I touch seems to have some spark of life of its own. I question its spark . . . do I need to carry it over into a new life?
More will be revealed later . . .
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