The last box is on the curb.
The house is empty and cold and dead. Next week it will be full again with other lives. But we can never go back inside again to wander in the bookshelves, closets, and attic. We will never smell the smells of hot meals on its stove, of warm fresh clothes from its laundry room, of flowers from its garden, or of clean sheets mingled in the old blankets on its beds.
It happens to all of us when we move after being in a house for a long time. But when our parents or grandparents move to a smaller home– or die– it is more than moving.
It is clearing out. Clearing out the treasures– and the junk. Deciding what’s what. Finding places for these newly orphaned things. Yesterday, they were secure in the loving possession of one whose love and memories surrounded them. Each one had its special place. Each was tied to precious people and events. Out of the house they now must go. And without the protection of the one who loved them, they are just things.
Who gets the silver service? Will anybody take this old cup from Niagara Falls? What do we do with this plaque that Dad got? Does anybody want the plate that has a picture of the old church? Who takes the pitcher that brought my mom’s mint-lemon iced tea to the table? Who keeps the bell that brought us to dinner together? (Did we really eat supper together– every evening?)
Who will take the books? The bookshelves in this house were such welcome places. Every book has a story to tell– some special connection to our family. All the books together were a reflection of my parents and their special interests in ideas and places and people. Books signed by the authors remember special friendships and connections. Where will they go? Where will they fit? What will happen to them if nobody saves them? What will the grandchildren say if we give any of them up?
Clean out the closets. Old ties, old dresses. Suddenly my mom thinks that the Mint Museum in Charlotte will be interested in one of her dresses for its collection. She thinks that the dressmaker Mrs. Colvin was a great artist and some example should be kept forever. We think that is a crazy idea– but we set the dress aside to humor Mom. (The Mint Museum is delighted. They want the dress. Mom is right again.)
Who will take the desk? Who will take the chest? Clear them out first. And there they all are– all over the floor. The letters. The photos. The old catalogs. Canceled checks from many years ago. Tax returns.
There are thousands of photos. How can there be so many? One of my father when he was much younger than I am today is indistinguishable from a recent picture of my son. I go into a misty dream that brings him back alive and puts the three of us together as contemporaries and buddies.
Letters. Letters. Letters. My brother settles in with the letters between my parents. Written 50 years ago, they describe the joys and pains of bearing children, moving, living through hard times with optimism, and of loving each other. My brother is moved and cannot be pulled away. But where will these letters be stored? Who will hold them for the grandchildren?
The doorbell rings. He comes in like a character from a Greek play– to bring a conclusion to our own drama. It is the flea market man. He helps us build a pile of treasures for his bid. “I’ll give you an extra $50 for the old telephone. Maybe I can double my money; maybe not. Thanks a lot. I sure have enjoyed getting to know you folks. You’re good people, and I know what you’re going through.”
Then he’s gone. And we’re finished. And the last box is on the curb. Now, the tears can come.
D.G. Martin, a lawyer, retired as UNC system vice president for public affairs in 1997. He hosted PBC-NC’s “North Carolina Bookwatch,” for more than 20 years.
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