Slogging

We're still chipping away at the deep pockets of stuff in mom and dad's house. Mom is making her presence known, through dresser drawers I couldn't bear to empty years ago and bags of "bills" from the 70s and 80s. Bills which are really PCH sweeps and credit card offers. Perfume bottles on the mirrored tray. My brothers' bow ties from when they were little. A favorite cat mug and a broken Husky mug. Old postcards, some sent, some just kept. Stacks of stickers and stationary and receipts and instruction manuals for electronics long since lost. The police report from when the house was broken into in the 80s. Rainbow pillowcases and scarves. The white leather belt dad favored in the 70s, yikes. Pictures of people I do not know and babies I can't identify. Cases of canning jars and cases of homemade jam of unknown vintage. Pans and pens and candles and magazines. And dolls. And crocheting and fishing and photography incidentals. And cookbooks and old food storage buckets. And Navy stuff which must be sorted carefully because dad and the Navy were one and the same in our minds.

And crystal glasses. Mom and dad must have bought a new set of glasses every year or so.

Argh.

Pay homage to Minutiae and Detritus, the household gods who occupy the homes of the recently deceased.