Christmas cards

I must have thrown away a hundred or more, mom kept them all. From the 80s to the present, and no doubt there are more lurking in the basement.

When dad died, there was so much more to it than his departure. Cleaning the house means reconnecting with mom and all she left behind. Sure, when she passed we took many of her things, but this is the deep down daily things. Bills and junk mail, letters and cards, her graceful handwriting everywhere. Her love of beautiful things and cute little toys. All the things she received from us, or planned to give to us. Wrapping paper and tiny soaps and all those perfume bottles. Her crocheting, all those patterns and all that thread, all unused now.

Connections, connections. Today I feel so very weepy.

Landmines

There be monsters here.

Larry went through mom and dad's nightstands for me, not asking a lot about what to keep. A small brown book with Family Record stamped in gold on the cover made it home. A family tree book. Inside, in mom's beautiful hand, were our names as Mother and Father. Below were the empty lines entitled Children. She must have bought it when I was pregnant. That wasn't a very good Christmas, was it?

Interestingly enough, only the women on my side were filled in past my grandparents' generation. I guess you start with the childbearers. Larry's side was entirely blank. So on the plus side, while I knew my great grandmothers' maiden names, I can now rattle them off. Houghton, McGregor, Brown, Nelson.

I could not stand to throw away the little book, but I made sure it was somewhere I could not run across it casually ever again. I tossed it behind the tall Japanese desk in my work room. I won't be the one who moves that piece of furniture. It may well stay there until I die.

And I'm okay with that.

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.

The Intangible Aura of Material Goods

Stuff is just stuff, except when it is not.

Stuff is utilitarian, surely. That's the easy part. You need this knife to cut your steak. You need shoes so you don't freeze your toes off.

Stuff can be pleasing and delightful. We call that art for the most part. Everyday items, well made and good in the hand are a wonder.

Stuff can be plastic crap from Mal-Wart, and not worth more than a disdainful "screw you" and a toss toward the landfill.

Stuff is history. "This is the first known example of tool making by proto-humans." "This is your great grandmother's scarf she wore on her journey from Europe." "This horse is my first toy."

Stuff can be potential. Did you buy that blouse because you needed to cover your tits? No? You bought it because it gives you a feeling, perhaps of being secure financially, of being pretty, of being chic. Mom bought cookbooks, not for the recipes, but for the possibility of loving family dinners. Look in any craft room and it will be stacked to the ceiling with patterns and scraps and fabrics, each a symbol of the loving mother handmaking memories with her children.

Stuff is memory mixed with emotion. "This is the glass teapot Mom bought in the bazaar in Shiraz, next door to the silversmith who made the silver bowl for the Empress." The glass teapot represents every magical day in the bazaar. "This is the print I bought for dad's birthday at the New Sanno." The print is more than a gift, more than art for the wall, it represents dad's love for Japan, and for every joyous weekend spent in a fine hotel. Cat stuff means mom, every bit of porcelain means a love of beautifully crafted pieces, travel to far places, and an abiding respect for the wider world.

Stuff is best with stories. Stuff which has lost all history, has lost its people, that is sad stuff indeed.

Kitty kitty

Dad's little girl cats, Trixie and Punkin, live in my basement guest room. They are sweet and loving little cats, and they were dad's constant companions. The problem is, I can't get Oide to be anything but aggressive with them unless I have my hands directly on his scruff. He has attacked Trixie a couple times, he's drawn blood. I thought I got them doing well, but only if I am there ad they are ignoring each other. Punkin won't even come out of the room now. This breaks my heart.

They're safe, well fed, they have a clean litter box, a scratch post, toys which they do play with, a window to look out, and I spend time down there several times a day. Trixie loves me. I simply feel very guilty as they want to be near people all the time and that can't happen. They don't even like each other much. Ounkin should be an only cat, and Trixie would get along if Oide would. LOL, Harry gets a glimpse and runs upstairs and hides under the bed! I can't imagine them trying to get along with dogs, never going to happen.

This isn't a huge deal in the grand scheme of things, but it is a little piece of sadness in my world.

Mountains of Crap

Long time, no see.

Burning Man happened. It was okay, we had rain and whiteouts and didn't get out of camp much. Just a weird year, and not in the most interesting ways. My camera died a dusty death.

Still dealing with dad's house. I finally have the nieces off their asses, some of them, to retrieve their treasures. You want your inheritance? Come and get it.

Marvin is still in the basement but he's hiding from me. Only a couple weeks left on his 30 days to vacate. I don't think he has the money, but I don't care now. I cared when I thought he was a human being, not a filthy pig. Ford and I were emptying the cupboards so the kids could see the dishes and such and take them. We're talking a lot of nice things from Japan. Anyway, I opened the drawer and there's not a fork or spoon to be seen. WTF? And then I got looking at the "daily" dishes. Almost all of them are AWOL. So I went downstairs to see if I could spot any. I never have gone into Marvin's room, I don't go into people's bedrooms if their doors are closed. Never. But I had decided to push the door open to see if I could see any dishes. DAMN. I could only open the door a few inches. The room is chest high is GARBAGE. What. The. Hell? He can't be sleeping in there, he must be using the recliner upstairs. No wonder he was upset when we took all the old mattresses away. I think he'd been sleeping on the mattress dad died on.

I thought I was giving the man privacy, not license to make the basement into a toxic dump. I had thought of some money to help him move, but now? Not a dime.

I will wait the 30 days to avoid the legal hassle of evicting a resident. He could become a squatter then and have rights. No fucking way. In two weeks, his time is up and I can legally throw him out. If I have to call the cops, I will. The health department too if that's what it takes.

I hate it when I trust people and they turn out to be a waste if my faith in humanity.

No news is not good news

I didn't have much to post about in June, and July was just bumbling along.

Dad died the 21st of July, in his own bed, in his sleep, his cats by his side. He was 87 and resisted any suggestion of assisted living or an aide or housekeeper coming in. He went on his own terms.

I feel terribly guilty, did I not do enough? Of course not, but we each do what we can and beat ourselves up over the slightest things, and the not so slight.

Trixie and Punkin are living in the basement. Harry runs from them, Oide is curious but hissy, and I don't know how to make the peace. I love the cats in shifts.

Dad's house is so full of stuff. There is a lot to sort out and the nieces and nephews want mundane crap like the TV. So many treasures. I cannot keep but a fraction, I have no room. I am dragging my feet because how can I dispose of a lifetime of wonder and love?

David is cheerful and easygoing. The SILs are being laid back. There isn't much in the way of money, the car can't be retitled for a month (stupid DMV), and the house is a wreck.

I'm going to Burning Man without half the art I usually make. I have no heart for creation, but the event won't wait.