We think in cycles, every full moon, every birthday, every St Patrick’s Day, every Valentine’s Day.
This time last year, I was clearing the home of an 84-year old woman named Maureen. A sudden fall on 4th of July 2016 led her to call 911 and subsequent ambulance transport to a hospital and then a private nursing home. She never returned to her three-bedroom condo in San Fernando Valley since.
It’s not hard to think of her, for I wear her red flannel shirt and pink indoor slippers. I use her ceramic mugs, George Foreman panini grill, electric lap blanket, hand bags, cookie sheets, and other useful items I salvaged from her home of forty years.
The last week of March 2017 was the second time I visited and stayed in her nearly empty condo. Previously, the last two weeks of 2016, I did the best I could to clear her five closets, all packed densely with clothes, mostly brand new matching tops and trousers, from size 12 to XXX, some duplicates, some still with price tags. By the time I had gone through her clothes, make-up, shoes, books, and miscellaneous new kitchen items, I felt like I already knew her. Or rather, I was curious who she was. What did she look like? Why did she accumulate so much? Was she a hoarder? Was she a shopaholic?
At Christmas in Laguna Beach, I met Maureen for the first time. She was not what her middle son had described her to be. It was easy to get to know her. I felt as though we could talk about anything. I had a thousand questions. How did your two sons become such great chefs? She laughed. She recounted how she was starting work and gave her sons a choice about either having something on the table when she returned or else. I forgot what was the second choice. Her teenage sons learned to cook that way.
I told her our shoe size was the same. She told me to take everything I could use. I could fit my kitchen with what she had. There were so many duplicates, all new, …. so many things I could use.
I didn’t expect a son would know the value of his mother’s clothes, make-up, shoes, and accessories. You need a woman to discern what to keep, what to donate, what to throw away. He could handle documents like old tax returns and other confidential papers that need to be shredded. He could pour over old photographs. He could deal with the Ethan Allan furniture, a legacy from his grandmother.
I have written extensively about decluttering and letting go. I’m convinced you need two people to do a job like this. One person is the responsible one, in this case, her son but also one who is emotionally connected. The other is the one who is not emotionally connected to her things and can be impartial or practical. In this case, I also have a conservation or sustainability mindset. There’s a pecking order to clearing a property for sale.
Since there was no time to sell online or conduct a garage sale, we had to figure out what could be donated for a tax write-off. The furniture was the hardest to dispose, for selling them would fetch a fraction of their worth, yet they were the most precious. What do you do with them? I could use them but my home is on the other side of the planet.
There are forty years of memories in these rooms. How do you transport these memories? The pink roses that bloomed before I left were planted by her mother. Every single item, I’m sure, holds history and with it, memories. To the outsider, they are just stuff with no meaning. Can it be sold? Can it be exchanged? Can it be shipped or carried? Is it worth keeping? Can it be donated? Given away? Recycled? Repurposed?
This time last year, I saw Maureen for the last time. She thanked me for helping her son go through her things and saving some of her favourite clothes.
I thought of writing her but I didn’t have her new address. After all, I wasn’t part of her family, just someone who wanted to help. In spite of my reservations, I knew I would have enjoyed corresponding with her.
On Thanksgiving Day 2017, I welcomed my mother to Boston for her first visit. Somehow her presence made me think hard about Maureen. In late January 2018, I learned that Maureen had passed away that very same day.