The long goodbye
By Mike on Sunday 10 August 2008, 19:44 - Journal - Permalink
Over the last few weeks we have slowly but inexorably removed mum and dad's
belongings from their home.
The garage sale was, for the most part, a pleasant day. We watched as people picked over our parents' things. Some of them made me angry - strolling around and turning things over with their toes, wrinkling their noses in distaste. However, the majority of people come in more for curiosity and the social interaction than the acquisition, it seems.
The day began early, with the first dealers turning up at 6:45 am and making a killing. Over the duration of the day we had about 100 visitors; at one time there were six cars parked outside the house. Right at the end of the day the last man to come in turned out, unbeknownst to either him or us, to have been a distant colleague of dad's at Rolls-Royce. He was very keen to take old photographic items, anything to do with Rolls-Royce, such as books and customer giveaways, and Chinese items. It was ironic that I finally found the perfect customer for what I consider to be the most boring book in my possession, 'The Airports of China'. Here he was, an avid reader, aviation enthusiast, and interested in China. It was just a shame that the book was back at home.
We managed to sell about three-quarters of the house contents, but were left with far more furniture than we would have liked. We sold some surprising things, such as engineering drawings of jet engines and bits of wood. When we added up the returns for the day it was shockingly modest: $1,500. The greater part of a lifetime's accumulated possessions disposed of for about one weekly pay packet. And from that sum we had to subtract the $600 in removalist fees that we'd incurred as a result of moving some furniture to Greg and Rachel's places. Another $75 for the newspaper ad for the garage sale gone, and very little was left. We shared out the remainder between the three of us, as we couldn't think of anything better to do with it.
The next stage in the plan was that St Vincent de Paul's charity were to come around and take whatever they wanted, either for resale or use in their welfare programmes, and the rest would then be thrown away. It was here that we ran into a bureaucratic hiccough. St Vincent de Paul's only take what they are told about beforehand, and because Greg had given them only a brief sketch of what was still available, they took only those items and left us with a few boxes to pack the rest.
This weekend we have done that. Old clothes, books and kitchenware have all been packaged and boxed, and stacked in the hallway. On Tuesday, St Vincent de Paul's will take these boxes, a few lingering items of furniture, three of the ladders, a wheelbarrow, and several pictures. At that point the house will be empty. We have already thrown the rest of mum and dad's things away. We didn't want them, no-one visiting during the garage sale wanted them, and St Vincent de Paul's won't take them as donations. The truth is that not even mum and dad wanted these things. Most of them they didn't even know existed any more. Their possession of them, like their lives, had just been rolling along through a kind of irreduceable momentum. The total volume of material we have throw away has come to an astonishing 50 cubic metres. More, actually, as we stacked quite a row of things outside the fence in the hope that someone would simply steal away with it in the night.
Now that some of the rooms are completely clear, the filthiness of our parents' living conditions is plain to see. Despite the frequent visits of social service workers with, in theory, the goal of doing some cleaning, the place was pretty squalid. It reminded Rachel and I of the sensational stories sometimes featured on current affairs programs: 'The tenants from hell' 'They wouldn't do this if it were their own house', 'How can a landlord let people live like this?' The carpets are badly stained and the dust under the furniture has thickened into balls and skeins.
On each visit to the house Rachel and I have set aside yet more items for rescue. Greg does not seem to be interested in hanging on to things, not even his own childhood toys and other belongings. For my part, I have accumulated several large plastic trunkfuls of books, masonic material, photographs, small personal items such as the lead we used to walk a long-dead Staffordshire Bull Terrier, fondly remembered cooking utensils, and so on. It will take ages to sort through, and much of it needs immediate treatment to kill the mould. The stale odour of decay has begun to seep out of these things and is pervading my own apartment. So that is the priority. Reviewing everything, including simply thousands of old slides and photographic prints, is something that just might have to wait years.
So, on Tuesday, five months after dad left the house for the last time, we will have it ready for the builders to come in and get to work. It has been a long and difficult task. Everything had to be categorised and treated accordingly. Then we kept finding that our categories were not working, and inevitably, it seemed, items kept slipping down the list, from rescue to sell, to give away, to throw away.
I shall talk soon about how mum and dad are doing in the retirement village, but for now I am struck by how the vestiges of their lives (which we seem to think are already over) are tenuously retained in the few rescued items. Memories and recollections will resurface as we sift through these odd survivors, but it feels to me as if we have finally said goodbye to mum and dad.
The garage sale was, for the most part, a pleasant day. We watched as people picked over our parents' things. Some of them made me angry - strolling around and turning things over with their toes, wrinkling their noses in distaste. However, the majority of people come in more for curiosity and the social interaction than the acquisition, it seems.
The day began early, with the first dealers turning up at 6:45 am and making a killing. Over the duration of the day we had about 100 visitors; at one time there were six cars parked outside the house. Right at the end of the day the last man to come in turned out, unbeknownst to either him or us, to have been a distant colleague of dad's at Rolls-Royce. He was very keen to take old photographic items, anything to do with Rolls-Royce, such as books and customer giveaways, and Chinese items. It was ironic that I finally found the perfect customer for what I consider to be the most boring book in my possession, 'The Airports of China'. Here he was, an avid reader, aviation enthusiast, and interested in China. It was just a shame that the book was back at home.
We managed to sell about three-quarters of the house contents, but were left with far more furniture than we would have liked. We sold some surprising things, such as engineering drawings of jet engines and bits of wood. When we added up the returns for the day it was shockingly modest: $1,500. The greater part of a lifetime's accumulated possessions disposed of for about one weekly pay packet. And from that sum we had to subtract the $600 in removalist fees that we'd incurred as a result of moving some furniture to Greg and Rachel's places. Another $75 for the newspaper ad for the garage sale gone, and very little was left. We shared out the remainder between the three of us, as we couldn't think of anything better to do with it.
The next stage in the plan was that St Vincent de Paul's charity were to come around and take whatever they wanted, either for resale or use in their welfare programmes, and the rest would then be thrown away. It was here that we ran into a bureaucratic hiccough. St Vincent de Paul's only take what they are told about beforehand, and because Greg had given them only a brief sketch of what was still available, they took only those items and left us with a few boxes to pack the rest.
This weekend we have done that. Old clothes, books and kitchenware have all been packaged and boxed, and stacked in the hallway. On Tuesday, St Vincent de Paul's will take these boxes, a few lingering items of furniture, three of the ladders, a wheelbarrow, and several pictures. At that point the house will be empty. We have already thrown the rest of mum and dad's things away. We didn't want them, no-one visiting during the garage sale wanted them, and St Vincent de Paul's won't take them as donations. The truth is that not even mum and dad wanted these things. Most of them they didn't even know existed any more. Their possession of them, like their lives, had just been rolling along through a kind of irreduceable momentum. The total volume of material we have throw away has come to an astonishing 50 cubic metres. More, actually, as we stacked quite a row of things outside the fence in the hope that someone would simply steal away with it in the night.
Now that some of the rooms are completely clear, the filthiness of our parents' living conditions is plain to see. Despite the frequent visits of social service workers with, in theory, the goal of doing some cleaning, the place was pretty squalid. It reminded Rachel and I of the sensational stories sometimes featured on current affairs programs: 'The tenants from hell' 'They wouldn't do this if it were their own house', 'How can a landlord let people live like this?' The carpets are badly stained and the dust under the furniture has thickened into balls and skeins.
On each visit to the house Rachel and I have set aside yet more items for rescue. Greg does not seem to be interested in hanging on to things, not even his own childhood toys and other belongings. For my part, I have accumulated several large plastic trunkfuls of books, masonic material, photographs, small personal items such as the lead we used to walk a long-dead Staffordshire Bull Terrier, fondly remembered cooking utensils, and so on. It will take ages to sort through, and much of it needs immediate treatment to kill the mould. The stale odour of decay has begun to seep out of these things and is pervading my own apartment. So that is the priority. Reviewing everything, including simply thousands of old slides and photographic prints, is something that just might have to wait years.
So, on Tuesday, five months after dad left the house for the last time, we will have it ready for the builders to come in and get to work. It has been a long and difficult task. Everything had to be categorised and treated accordingly. Then we kept finding that our categories were not working, and inevitably, it seemed, items kept slipping down the list, from rescue to sell, to give away, to throw away.
I shall talk soon about how mum and dad are doing in the retirement village, but for now I am struck by how the vestiges of their lives (which we seem to think are already over) are tenuously retained in the few rescued items. Memories and recollections will resurface as we sift through these odd survivors, but it feels to me as if we have finally said goodbye to mum and dad.