the first few paragraphs

This is in such a draft state it’s not even worthy of being called a draft. I literally just started writing it, and there’s a lot more to be written. I just thought I’d share, since it’s been awhile. It may make more sense if you refer back to my entry on June 28, 2003. Yes, 2003.

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“Why?!?”

It was a phrase I would shout often during those first couple of weeks. I couldn’t fathom what could possess two people to keep so MUCH for so long. It really makes you rethink your own hording tendencies once you see the build-up fifty years of saving can leave your grandkids with.

“Why would they keep THIS??” I pointed over to the old cast iron hospital bed sitting in the basement that Mom’s sister, Karen, had used before she passed away at age twelve. For such a painful memory to my grandparents, I didn’t understand why they had kept it for over forty years. Other than the obvious reason for keeping it down there, being its extreme weight, it had only been used as long as I had been alive as just one more thing to store boxes on.

I groaned, realizing that we would also have to go through each of those boxes.

Looking around the basement, which would be by far our largest task, I saw an endless list of stuff. At that point that’s all it really was – stuff. The old dressing table and mirror under the staircase was green, terribly dusty, and filled with Grandma’s old paint supplies. Grandma had passed away when I was about 9, and I guess Grandpa just never had the heart to get rid of it. Her easel stood nearby, along with an ancient vacuum, actual wooden golf clubs, and a couple of bowling balls. Grandma and Grandpa’s old bowling trophies sat on a close ledge, along with a 7-up can. It was clearly old, but as a child I was always a little confused about that pop can.

Next to the staircase, Mom’s blue, childhood bike rested against the hospital bed full of boxes. The rope and pulley system Grandpa had used for physical therapy when he dislocated his shoulder (he had done this at my sister’s softball game when we were little, as he attempted to let himself down gently from the top row of bleachers) still hung from the unfinished ceiling. An old, putrid green exercise bike sat near the pulley system, an object that had given Carrie and I hours of entertainment for years as children. Admittedly, this was one object that Grandpa actually still used in the basement at the time he left, but it does make you ponder the longevity of exercise equipment.

The center of the room attempted to be a living area, but had long since ceased to be used. There were two reclining chairs – one a dark green, and the other with a sort of white and gold pattern – that Care and I wore out from our constant pulling the wooden levers on the sides while kicking out our feet. Behind the white recliner, next to the wall, was an old crummy stand-up radio. I remembered years prior it had still worked, and we were able to tune in international radio stations with it. Now it looked fairly decrepit, full of white spots. The opposite wall was lined with old dining tables, chairs stacked on top, which had been used occasionally over the years as a Barbie hangout. That last major piece of furniture was a brown pull-out sofa, also broken at this point, which we used to sleep on as guests. Over the sofa, Mom’s old, pressed butterfly collection was displayed.

The far wall (opposite the hospital bed and stairs) was lined with old dressers, and TV cabinet (from when TV’s literally were pieces of furniture). All drawers were full, and a pegged board filled with thread bobbins hung overhead. There was so much to go through… and this was only one side of the basement.

It was clear that with all of this… stuff… we would probably need a fairly large trash receptacle. Mom called a nearby waste service and arranged to have a dumpster dropped off at the side of the house. The plan was to fill it over the course of a couple weeks, and then have it picked up and taken away. The man who owned the service, named C.C., asked Mom if there were any antiques she was looking to get rid of in the house, that he knew a couple guys who might be interested. That day C.C. paid us a visit to scope out whether or not anything in the house might be of value for his buddies. For a guy with a waste company, C.C. was a lot more of a meek, button down shirt kind of guy than I would have ever expected, with an uncanny used car salesman creepiness about him. He claimed to know these antique collectors who might be willing to trade labor (i.e. getting the heavy junk out of the basement and up a full flight of stairs) for antiques. Despite his sliminess, we agreed to get in touch with his buddies. He made them sound strong, and, well, we were in need of some strong men.