A Pack of Lies

There is a whole bunch of other crap in the voice mail too, and then there are musings my mother has shared with Charlotte as bonus tracks. Most notably, she thinks I took things from my Dad's house when we were cleaning it out to sell it.

I don't know how she sleeps at night.

A dozen or so years ago, Charlotte and I had the daunting task of getting my Dad's house ready to sell when he was moving into an Assisted Living facility. (Having taken a header down the steps one to many times for any of us to be able to ignore, even my brother, who pretends nothing is ever happening.)

I say it was Charlotte and me because Charlotte took charge, and I did whatever she thought was best to do, and Joe did nothing (unless forced, and even then, he brought his monstrous children along to be underfoot and on our nerves and spent most of the time asking about when we'd be ordering lunch.) He was so lame, that Mom actually covertly took a ride north one weekend to help, because the house was sold and still looked like a museum. I'd ordered a dumpster and we needed to fill it fast.

But for quite a long time, Charlotte did the planning and she and I executed the plan together. She spent hours at the house while the kids were at school. I would make calls to the township for pick ups, and make arrangements for donations. Order the dumpster and it's eventual hauling away. Spend chunks of weekend time cleaning and disposing of things. Return on weeknights to put out ever growing loads of trash or charity donations to be hauled away the next day. There was quite a lot to do. It was an understatement to say that the house "had gotten away from" Dad. It wasn't quite Grey Gardens, but it was headed in that direction, minus the raccoons and feral cats and trees growing through the roof.

Charlotte had figured out what furniture Dad needed in his apartment and what additional items would fit to make it as much like home as possible. The rest had to go.

Nothing had been thrown out in years---since before my mother sashayed out the door to "find herself." Charlotte and I were like the cast of Clean House. We started small. We made piles: A pile of each child's personal stuff that had never left the nest (sports trophies and swimming medals and yearbooks and diplomas). Sentimental favorites that should be kept in the family (like the bench my parents got when they were first married or the desk Dad made in woodshop in high school and the golf clubs that he held in his hands every Saturday for years). Things that could be donated (such as dishes and linens and pots and pans and small appliances. Who needs a blender in an Assisted Living facility?) Stuff for a yard sale (power tools, a snow blower, cook books, patio furniture.)

It all needed to leave the house. Bell, book and candle by plane, train or automobile. It was all up for grabs in a sense. At any point, any one of us could have laid claim to anything. (Except evidently Lars. My mother charged him $40 for a hedge trimmer that broke after one use. We were still years away from the first divorce conversation. I never did understand that.)

I took my personal pile. I took the bench. At the time, no one had anywhere in their homes to display it, but it needed to be cared for, so I took it home to store. That was about all I could see taking. Dad would be enjoying my most favorite sentimental pieces for a long time in his apartment, I'd hoped. I didn't really want to scavenge. But I did take those little pine incense things.

My brother took Dad's golf clubs (both sets) and the wooden delivery wagon used by paperboys at the newspaper where Dad had worked (It is awesome, and probably a collector's item) and the ceramic Nativity set my parents had gotten for themselves as a Christmas present one year (which I learned later remained in the trunk of his car for a number of months thereafter.)

Charlotte took a few holiday items my mother had made in a ceramics class and a little wooden desk that had been her bedside table. I still love seeing it at the cottage each summer.

The rest went to charity, the dumpster the yard sale or with Dad. (or to Joe's mother in law, who, while cleaning the refrigerator because Joe could never get to it like he promised, helped herself to some bedroom furniture).

There was one item that could not legally be sold or donated that my mother helped herself too. It makes me uneasy in a way, but should come as no surprise to anyone that the one thing she could not resist was...

(Drum roll, please)... Dad's hunting rifle.