One Last Phase of Goodbye

The ancient lockbox always sat under the old slant-top schoolmaster's desk. The desk was a Christmas gift from Mom to Dad. She was a teacher when they met, and a couple years after he became a teacher too, she gave it to him, the desk lovingly stripped and refinished by her patient hands.

I've spent so much time in that lockbox over the past 20 months, going through their papers - SO many papers! Pictures from their childhoods, family birth and death certificates, taxes, scribbled genealogy notes, pension papers, pay stubs from the 60s, homeowners' insurance, car insurance, investments, taxes, wills, medical stuff, assorted licenses - and the deed to a house I've never lived in, but have lived with, for over 40 years. 

That house became mine when Mom passed in March 2023, and it's now been three weeks since I finalized the sale of what was called, on the 1981 survey, "The Drummond Estate."

Built in 1824, it was a little farmhouse with an outbuilding or two, and perennial gardens which, if memory serves, were a huge selling point. Mom and Dad had always admired the flowers on their daily trips to and from the schools where they taught. 

Over the years, the gardens changed; bulbs gave up after many years of bloom; raised beds replaced ground-level ones; herbs replaced flowers; flowering trees and shrubs, roses, more perennials, and more bulbs were planted, expanding the garden from its original spot in the east lawn to vantage points from windows in almost every room. 

Over the years, the house expanded from its original footprint, just as the garden had, as family members' lives and needs changed. With none of us in a position to take it over, for a variety of reasons, I've sold it to someone who will bring it up to date, allowing a family to move in and enjoy the gifts the Estate has to offer.

For a long time, even before Mom passed last year, it's been hard for me to see and feel the memories I had of the house. There are many reasons for that, including me putting up a protective shield to purposefully keep them out, and later to keep them from getting in the way of handling the estate (the lower-case 'e' is intentional), and spare me the pain of her loss, and Dad's 18 years ago next month. 

But as I walked the buyer and his team through the house, those memories started to sneak back in:

• staying in the tiny room at the top of the steep and narrow original stairs, as I described where the original house ended and additions began;
• the dogs having to be collected from the old house and driven back home (more than once, the silly pups) as I walked him around the yard;
• standing in the dining room, remembering running my fingers over the indentations in the old dining room table, where Dad marked papers for years with a heavy hand;
• looking out where Dad's little pumpkin patch (a fun field trip for Mom's elementary school kids) used to be; before that, the asparagus patch, and at some point, the Christmas trees, only a couple of which were ever harvested;
• the half-removed sidewalk leading to where the chickens made their home in one of the long-since-gone outbuildings that appeared on the survey;
• the surprise 50th-anniversary shade garden My Sweet Baboo and I planted where they'd see it every morning at breakfast; 
• the hours spent in the living room, packing little bags of herbs and spices for the booth at the Jordan Fall Festival, and singing 'Oh-ree-gano' to the tune of Handel's 'Hallelujah', leaving us giggling the rest of the night; and more.

I was surprised how much the house, emptied of Mom and Dad's worldly possessions, spoke to me. Moreover, I felt encouraged for the first time in a long time. Obviously, getting the house sold and all of the associated 'stuff' settled was a huge relief that I'd been looking forward to for over a year and a half. But it was more than that. 

If I could smile, misty-eyed, as I walked through the empty rooms for the last time, remembering where Dad's blue recliner used to be, where the stairs used to rise, where the schoolmaster's desk sat, looking out the kitchen window where I could see the moon rise, spots in each room where specific pictures used to hang, where laughing grandchildren used to open presents... there's hope. 

If the empty house, primed walls hiding the familiar colors, could awaken my memories with more smiles than tears, then maybe I can finally start putting all of the sadness, anger, frustration, pain, and guilt that have taken up so much space in my head and my heart behind me.

And maybe I can tackle the boxes of 'stuff' that came here that I've been avoiding, and the rest of the 'stuff' sitting in a storage unit that I've been avoiding even more. And maybe I can empty out that darn lockbox for the last time. 

Dad's schoolmaster's desk, the gift from Mom back in 1966? Yeah, that's here, and it will stay here until it comes time for someone to figure out what to do with my stuff. I may just keep the empty lockbox under it, for old times' sake. 

Yet Another Phase of Goodbye

For many years, I’ve collected Santas. I have some made of wood, cast iron, tin, plastic, resin - even felt-wrapped Styrofoam. They're tall, short, and in-between; the kind that sit on a table or hang on a tree, or balance precariously on a stand. Some ride in cars, trains, and sleighs, or sit on the moon; one even rides a sheep.

Several hold an evergreen tree in one arm, and a staff, a child, a deer, a bag of toys, or even snowshoes in the other, to ensure they can get to children in the snowiest parts of the world.  They wear red, of course, but also plaid, and robes of green, white, blue, or brown; some have sparkly accents or fully sparkly outfits.

My collection has grown in the years My Sweet Baboo and I have been together; I don’t think a single Christmas has passed without him gifting me another Santa. Others were gifts from my mom, from friends, or received as holiday party favors.

Every year, but never before December 1^st, they come up from the Christmas Room in the basement, or from the hall closet, where the cast iron ones spend the off-season. I open the totes and the boxes, sometimes with a plan, but more often haphazardly, freeing the Santas from their wrappings of old newspaper, nearly airless bubble-wrap, and tissue paper at least a decade past when it last saw better days.

Slowly, randomly, I'd start placing them in the foyer - on the sideboard, or the bookcase, or the table where the family pictures usually sit, or the table by the door. I’ve followed that process here for nineteen Christmases. And then came this year: the first Christmas without my mother, who passed in March. 

She loved my collection and looked forward to seeing how they were displayed each year. And she had her own collection, too.  Some of them I suspect came from kids she had in class during her nearly thirty years of teaching. She saved everything they gave her, just as she saved everything my brothers and I gave her over the years. Her collection was augmented by My Sweet Baboo - he gifted her a Santa each Christmas for the last 15 years or so, too.

Earlier this month, after I brought my Santas out of storage and prepared to put them on display, I struggled to stay motivated. I'd work for a while, walk away, and then give up. For the first time, it felt like a chore rather than a favorite holiday tradition. I knew why, of course – there were other Santas out there, in a closet half an hour away.

I hadn’t been out to the house - Mom's house still, even though I officially own it - in weeks. Honestly, I can't remember when or why I was there last. Too much emotion, too much stress, too much to do, too much… everything. I had planned on going, a couple of times, and planned on getting the Santas, a couple of times, but those ‘couple of times’ never worked out. And here I was, in December, needing to make the trip, needing to 'make Christmas'. 

Out we went. While I sorted through some of Mom's things, making 'keep' and 'toss' decisions on books and placemats and random artifacts of her life, My Sweet Baboo rescued the Santas from the closet under the stairs. When I had had enough, had done enough for one trip, we loaded them up, along with Dad’s old schoolmaster’s desk (a gift from Mom) and a small Christmas tree, and brought them all home.

The next day, I stood in the foyer, surrounded by Santas. They were all over the place, wherever I had unceremoniously left them, looking ridiculously forlorn and forgotten. A tote and four shoeboxes of my Santas sat on the floor, unpacked. A tote and a bag or two of Mom's were nearby.

I took a deep cleansing breath: a full, slow inhale, then a full, slow exhale, and then I took another, inviting in the emotions I knew would come as soon as I started unboxing her collection, and then forcing them out, refusing to let them overwhelm me.

It took two or three hours to arrange them all, blending hers with mine, placing them just so amid the strings of lights I put out to help show them off. For the first time, the collection spilled up onto the picture shelves on the wall, down onto the floor, and over to the corner bookcase. I needed to recruit a plant stand from the porch, too, which would have made Mom smile.

The whole thing - seeing her Santas seamlessly integrated with mine, miraculously no two exactly alike - would have made her smile. And finally, I was able to smile, too. 

Another Phase of Goodbye

Wednesday, I stood in the floral department of my local grocery store, My Sweet Baboo by my side. Three bunches of flowers for $15 - a weekly special, according to the sign. 

There were a dozen or more buckets on the display rack, each holding a few bunches of different cut flowers, and it initially overwhelmed me, at a time I was overwhelmed by the task at hand. 

I touched, poked, and picked at them, picturing a kerchiefed older woman behind, or in front of, a market stall. Depending on where she stood, Ishe could be picking and poking and straightening her display, or picking and poking and rearranging it, searching for 'the best' of whatever she was shopping for. It made me smile, and gave me a moment to catch my breath before moving ahead.

There were several bunches of sunflowers to choose from. Mom loved sunflowers; she and Jen saved and planted seeds from ones they got at the market, and she delighted in their crop. There were a couple bunches with three flowers, or four. I kept picking and found a bunch with five. Whew.

What next? Alstroemeria - so pretty, another of her favorites. White? Yellow? Pink? How about soft red? Yes - those work! Baboo-approved, into the cart they went.

Most of the 'special deal' flowers were min-carnations, but that was OK. There were orange ones, reminiscent of Dad's traffic-stopping azalea that grew on the east side of the house. That's not a joke - people would stop to admire it, ask to take pictures of it, or ask if they could look at it up close. Yes, and yes, of course you can!  

There were burgundy-and-white ones, which called to mind the giant rhododendron, anchoring the other end of the east side of the house, another show-stopper they both loved. I was with her at the library one day, a few years after Dad had passed, and someone stopped to tell her how beautiful the two plants were. I listened as they chatted about the flowers, and life, and I had a bit of a happy tear in my eye as we headed back to the car.  

Ivory, and white, too - more carnations. They added light, and grace, as did she; the flowers different enough to add both to the cart. Teasel, sea holly, and statis; they're all stronger than they look, and while not classically beautiful like a perfect rose, beautiful nonetheless; into the cart they went, and then home, all of them into a pickle bucket on the porch.

Thursday morning, after my garden walk, I laid out the nine bunches of flowers on an old tablecloth on the porch floor, removed their plastic sleeves and the rubber bands holding their stems together, and I became the woman at the market, picking and poking and rearranging. I started with the sunflowers, anchoring each of the five bouquets I needed, trying to spread the other stems equally by volume, if nothing else. They weren't all the same, but that was OK. 

Neither are we - my brothers and me; my nephew; my uncle and my cousin. We are all different, too. Certainly, none of us are classically beautiful, but we are beautiful nonetheless. We are stronger than we look - we have to be, for what we've all been through individually and together - and for whatever is to come. 

On a rainy Friday morning, in a town that was her home for nearly sixty years, we placed our imperfect bouquets on Mom's casket and said our final official goodbye, sixteen years to the day after we said our final official goodbye to Dad. 

That part of it all, at least, was perfect.