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books and a box
My youngest brother started going through the parent's stuff. Got half of one side of one attic space cleared out. He told me he found lots of bags of stuffed animals, children's books, more bags of t-shirts, some fabric, and my box.
He's hanging on to all of it for me until I can get down there and take things. I keep asking him when he needs me to come down to help, but he's not answering me. He's probably just as overwhelmed and confused as I am. I really am not ready to back down there yet.
When I moved out of my parents house as a teenager, all I could take with me was what would fit into my two-door hatchback car. I left a box of things that I wanted to get later. Things that were important to me, but not important to setting up a new life. I took dishes and clothes, for example. Left mementos, jewelry, yearbooks.
My mom let me put the box right inside the attic door, so it would be easy to get when I came back to visit. She made a point of saying that it was right there.
When I came back about 6 months later, I asked if I could get the box, and my mom told me it had gotten pushed back too far in the attic. That there were lots of other things in front of it and it was too much work to get it out.
I was pissed. And I never got it back. Whenever I got angry at my parents or got stressed about anything I would start bitching to my husband about how my mom was so passive-aggressive that she made it so I couldn't get my box on purpose. After twenty plus years, he's sick of hearing about that damn box.
My husband's father was so angry about his son moving in with me at the age of 16, that he threw away everything my husband left behind, hoping to get at a later date. Since my husband had to move from Alaska to Minnesota, all he could take with him was what would fit in a suitcase, and that wasn't much. So, my father-in-law, unable to be an adult and angry that I was taking away his little emotional punching bag, threw away all the letters I had written my husband over the two years we knew each other but lived in different states. He always claimed it was an “accident” but I know him well enough to know he's full of shit.
I don't know why parents do these kinds of things. But now I am not sure if my mom really was being mean. She was quite the hoarder and when we opened the attic door last time I was there, it was packed totally full.
But, at least it seems my illusive box has finally resurfaced. I used to joke with my husband that maybe I would get my box when both my parents were dead. Well, that time is now and it's not funny anymore.
My brother also said there were more children's books than he even remembers. I don't really have a use for them. Nor for the stuffed animals, but I would like to look through them before I ask the multitude of nieces and nephews if they want them for their kids.
My parents house is like a library. Not “like” a library. It is. The only time I have seen that many books in a house is on TV shows where the person is supposed to be rich and they go into the “library” to drink, or get killed. Every wall except the kitchen and bathroom in that house has those big metal utility shelves full of books. Three and four rows deep. Books on their sides to fit on top of rows of other books. And more books.
And the thing is, they read almost all of them. I could read by the time I was 4. I wrote my first short story not long after. In crayon. About people getting murdered and a robot family taking their place. I wonder if it's in the house somewhere?
I stopped having friends come over to the house because I was embarrassed. They would say stupid things like, “Why are there so many books here?” “Why do you live in a library?” Kids get embarrassed easily, but it is unusual.
I took a few tote bags full of books when I came back from there last time. My youngest brother and I were planning on separating out the rest between us. That, and the music collection, which is almost as big as the book collection.
It's exciting to have all these great treasures, but it's overwhelming. We have room for it. Our house is about twice the size of my parent's house. But, we also have plans to get the fuck out of here and move onto land.
I suppose if you have 40 acres, you could have a storehouse just full of treasures and it wouldn't matter at all. But, what's the point of hanging on to all this, when there is no one in your life to pass it on to? My parents had kids and half of their kids had more kids, and those kids had kids, etc...
I'm trying to be selective, but it's hard to let any of their stuff go. And that's why I have 8 bags of t-shirts in my basement.
I've spent most of my life trying to “die with a negative amount of things.” I've given away or sold things I kind of wish now I hadn't. I didn't keep things I should have. I guess I really didn't expect to live to be this old. Not really. I thought I'd be dead by the time I was 30.
12:49 PM - Sunday, Apr. 08, 2018
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