The following posts may be broken into several sections. It is difficult for me to say everything I want about this subject. There are a lot of memories and emotional components that might get in the way of brevity. I apologize in advance and will absolutely understand if you don't want to follow or go along for a prolonged ride. It might get wordy. I am not sure how it might turn out, but I will try hard not to make it pedantic and deathly boring. I will also try to infuse some humour. There will definitely be some sap and for that, I apologize.
There is a conversation to be had about our "stuff". George Carlin began this dialogue back in 1986 with his brilliant soliloquy. I highly recommend you watch it. Not only is it wickedly funny, but it is truly an excellent distillation of conspicuous consumerism. Carlin was truly on the cutting edge of modern philosophy; an iconoclast ahead of his time.
It is easy to dismiss the things we keep as unimportant.
"Why the hell did Bubby keep a drawerful of rubber bands? What was she thinking?"
Bubby probably filled a drawer with what we see as junk because she grew up when everything could be used again. Bubby wasn't necessarily a hoarder, but rather an early adopter of environmentalism. She understood the value of renewable objects. Tossing that stuff into the trash was anathema for her. It was her "stuff" and judging it from across the chasms of time seems disrespectful.
There are so many memories attached to our stuff. The Playbills I keep from live theatre performances are of no value. They are simply printed magazines with pretty covers. But when I see them, the joy I felt sitting in those theatres comes flooding back in jubilant waves. What is the harm in holding onto them?
The same goes for artwork or chachkas that are accumulated over a lifetime of collecting. Maybe you have mugs or little silver spoons purchased during your travels. Perhaps you are a connoisseur of local artisans. If you are a traveller, buying some knickknacks brings back memories of adventures well-spent. Surrounding oneself with "stuff" can bring joy and contentment. I am certainly not advocating hoarding or a troublesome addiction. I am merely looking at the memorabilia we all collect. At this moment, I am having a difiicult time seeing the downside.
Which brings me to the reason for all of this nostalgia. We are at a point in our lives where we are dealing with downsizing my parents' "stuff." This isn't the first round of divesting. They have moved several times in the past decade, so all of us who are involved are well-versed in the task. This time it feels different, more permanent. As such, there are many emotions that need to be managed and many egos that need to be stroked.
As I write the first of these posts, I am sitting in The Southern Home. It is unusual for us to be here in the heat of a South Florida summer, but my parents recently sold their condo and we were tasked with cleaning out their "stuff". This space is filled with memories from their globetrotting days. They were true collectors of local artisans from all over the world. When we first started this exercise back in the winter, knowing that they would be selling, I watched my mom wander around the apartment in a wistful haze. She and I would decide on what needed to go; I would take it out of the cupboards to mark it for removal; and then twenty minutes later, I would find it back in its original location. It didn't matter what the object was. It could have been a broken serving dish or a drawerful of dried-up pens. My mom found comfort in knowing her "stuff" was where she left it. While Toronto is where their family is, South Florida has always been home for them. Over the past three and half decades, this was the place where my parents thrived. Their relationships, their social situations, and their activities were all far more engrossing and engaging down here. They didn't simply visit for five months of the year. They lived here. My mom and my Other Mom would spend weeks at a time here, just the two of them, while their men commuted back and forth between the countries. The memories here are vivid and colourful and the sadness at them having to part with this place penetrates my soul.
We knew early in the spring that The Husband and I would be the ones to deal with the sale of this place. (We didn't know how quickly we would have to rearrange things in order to fly down, but that story is for another post.) After all, we are also here a lot and we fully understand the importance and magnitude this space has for both of my parents. My brother and I have the luxury of being on the same page when it comes to my parents' and helping them to continue to live their best lives. Not all families are this fortunate, so I will count my blessings. Walking into their condo on Tuesday was heart-wrenching for me. I could hear my aunt's voice. I could smell the cookies baking. I could see my dad sitting at the pool. Thirty-six years came flooding back in an instant. It was a lot of years, and yet not enough.
Some of their most prized stuff was shipped to grandchildren and beloved families in Toronto. Some were given to dear friends down here. The buyer wanted a few things, so The Husband made some deals. We had building friends walk through and take mementos. We gifted some things to workers in the building who are forever sending items back to needy families in Cuba and Central America. (We also gifted the staff here all of my dad's booze and told them to have a blowout fiesta in his honour.) Photographs were lovingly boxed to be shipped at a later date. We cancelled their phone number. The same number they have had for thirty-six years. We called charitable organizations to take the furniture. And we called the junk people for the broken and battered "stuff". We did it all in five days. Thirty-six years of memories and "stuff" dispersed in five days.
I have cried more than once during this exercise. I have silently told Marie Kondo to go fuck herself on numerous occasions. The Husband has been my rock. He celebrated his birthday in the middle of this week. It is not an ideal way to celebrate, but he has been unbelievable. He has given me the space to work the problems, and more importantly, the space to grieve. Nobody has died, but a chapter of our lives has closed. (Once again, another post.)
I wrapped a few small items to take home to my parents. I packed a small mezuzah designed by Agam and a small ceramic gator. They will find places of honour in my parents' new space in Toronto. I also shipped home my mom's favourite wine goblets. I hope to have a toast with her when they arrive north. Because in the end, it isn't just stuff. It is a reminder of lives well lived.
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| He will have a place of distinction in Toronto |
Thanks for reading. We fly home tonight and I will continue this series of aging and downsizing when I return to The True North Strong and Free.
