Stuff

Humans have an interesting and irrational fascination with “stuff”.

While I was home for Christmas I was helping my mom put her basement back together. Last October, the basement flooded and everything had to be moved from the basement to the second floor while the carpet dried out and the basement was re-done. Finally after living in a construction zone for three months, it was time to put life back in order.

To add another dimension of human behavior and emotion to the mix, not only were we trying to reorganize the basement, but at the same time sort out much of my deceased grandmother’s personal items to determine what would be done with them. Grandma had been living in the basement after we remodeled it for her with a personal kitchen and bedroom. She passed a

way on year ago, but the basement remained untouched since the flood.

I believe I am the least nostalgic person in our family which makes me the best person for this job from a practical standpoint, but the worst man for the job from an emotional standpoint. As I was helping mom, I couldn’t keep myself from suggesting that we sell much of the “stuff” or give it to Goodwill. No matter how hard I tried to employ empathy and concern, I think I still sounded heartless when I continually asked, “Why don’t we get rid of this.” I was walking on eggshells and my mom was being patient.

I found myself on multiple occasions getting frustrated that we were cramming nick nacks back into the closet that had been previously hidden for 15 years and never retrieved. At one point I came to four small ceramic pots that I had left with my mom two years ago. I made them in ceramics class and had left them for my mom to enjoy. They weren’t really gifts, just something I really didn’t have a place for in my apartment. “What do you want to do with these?” I asked. “We can give them to Goodwill,” responded my mother.

I found myself wrapping them in newspaper and putting them in my suitcase to take to my apartment. I guess I haven’t completely let go of them yet. I imagine they will sit on my apartment table never to be used. At some point, I will then gain the courage to throw them out. Perhaps I’m more nostalgic than I care to admit.