The Trappings

Eventually, when Dad was too sick to stay in Assisted Living because he needed more assistance to live than they were prepared to provide, all the contents of his apartment came home to my house. We'd decided on a Nursing Home and had gotten him placed. But the timing was such that we'd have to clear out his apartment the next day or pay for another month, which was not exactly cheap.

Lars and his friend rented a U-Haul after work and took everything they could carry out and stuff into the truck. There were several big pieces of furniture that we donated to residents who might have need. And there was Dad's enormous TV. Lars had gone back to the store, which was owned by one of Dad's long time customers, and had explained Dad's situation. The man graciously let Lars return the big TV in favor of a smaller one that could go with Dad to the nursing home. Lars is by no means a saint, but this was a Big Deal at the time.

And that is how those now fabled sentimental pieces came to be in my possession. My husband saved the family thousands in a good will gesture and an effort my brother refused to make. I took in all the furniture, all the papers, all the clothes, shoes, boxes, into my home. Everything. The good. The bad. The ugly.

And when I asked my siblings to help sort through it and clear it all out, only Charlotte came to the rescue. Took 50 years of pay stubs and tax records and other such stuff and sorted through it. Burning what could be discarded and filing the rest.

I again sorted through all the items and assembled a box for each child...Charlotte's godfather is pictured here, she should get that. This is a photo of Joe's godparents on their wedding day. He should have that. This treasure should be Joe's. This treasure is special to me. Charlotte might want to keep that. Tons. Of. Stuff.

I had no burning desire to fill my basement and attic with the contents of my childhood home, but I did. And eventually, piece by piece, got rid of a lot. And welcomed my siblings help with disposing of things. Charlotte was a sport. Joe was an absentee.

It mattered less and less. I made room in my living space for the desk Dad had made in Wood Shop. Not because it was beautiful. Because it was special. I gave my hutch to the young family who had just moved in across the street. I polished and buffed the one Mom and Dad had had made and moved it into my dining room. Again, only because it is special. Dad and I had taken a special trip to the furniture maker together. A day off from school spent exclusively with Dad when I was in the fourth grade. To me it was not just furniture. I found a spot for the little chair that my grandmother always chose when she came to Dad's house.

And now, all these years later, Mom is trying to cast it all in a most unfavorable light. It is her special gift. She can turn a diamond to a turd in a matter of sentences.

And why on Earth do I care? I know the truth.

I suppose what shreds my nerve endings is that anyone could have such hateful thoughts about their own child. And worse, that she could go on a smear campaign in an attempt to undermine that same child. Recall and recount every last thing I'd ever done that frosted her cakes, whether she remembers it correctly or not.

To what end, Mom? What do you hope to gain?

I have no idea how she'd answer those questions, but I do know what she risks losing. And frankly, it's already lost.