I might be dead. One day last week my two children and a niece and nephew gathered at my house in St Pete to survey all the dusty contents and reminisce. They slowly made the circuit from room to room, fingering trinkets from their past… smiling, shaking their heads, remembering all the good times.
Each laid claim to what they wanted, Leah labelling furniture with sticky notes and Thomas hoisting the colossal bag of legos over his shoulder. In the garage he dug out the electric train that made Christmas past extra special… hoping his modest suitcase would accommodate the miles and miles of shiny track (it seemed like that much when he was five).
This is what children do when you’re dead, right? Remember The Bridges of Madison County and a whole host of other movies that begin the same way? It felt odd and eerie to be standing there witnessing this ritual in the flesh.
I had told them a few weeks earlier I had decided to sell the house. Now I was watching in horror as they dismissed my most prized possessions as stuff they could live without. Since I can’t take it with me (to Ireland, that is) that relegates it to Craig’s List or The Salvation Army. I’m coming back again in September to get it all sorted. I may have an estate sale, just haven’t decided.
Thomas, who has read about the Marie Whats-Her-Name philosophy, encouraged me to take pictures of my beloved treasures, thank them for their companionship and faithful service, then kiss them goodbye. I picture myself calling out to them as they ride off into the sunset… “Come back, Shane… er, Round Oak Table!”
It’s really happening and I’m determined to follow through. You’d think after just moving back to St Pete from Dade City eight years ago I wouldn’t have too much excess to wade through. Wrong! As soon as you stop paying attention, it starts growing again… like toenail fungus. There’s so much STUFF!
My antique bed and dresser were bought by my mother and put in my bedroom when I was nine. Yes, I’ve changed the sheets and mattress but the rest is original. The kitchen table has little indentations from baby spoons pounding it in the early ‘80s. And I searched forever before finding those North Wind pressed back chairs. It’s all going.
Where did all these musical instruments come from? They've been snoozing under beds, slouched against walls, and lying comatose in closets. You know the type. Still, I hated to disturb them. “Wake up, Gang! Time to face the music. You’re all about to be sold!” They don’t deserve this but they’re getting it anyway. Wanna buy a bass?
Don’t think for a second I have been suddenly enlightened and become an environmentally conscious minimalist. Back here in Ireland I’ve already been to salvage yards, antique shops, thrift stores and a big flea market. It’s just so much fun replenishing the stuff supply. This new Irish house will soon be full. Go ahead and shake your head. I know I'm hopeless.
