Transitions Can Be Managed. Or Not.

A few of decades ago, my folks called to say that they sold the house and they were moving permanently to the sunny south. I was the last of five kids, my parents were in their 40’s when I was born.  Children of the depression, they were then in their mid 60’s, retired and yearning for a warmer, less slippery climate.  Their message was kind but clear, if I want any of my stuff, come and get it cause who knows where it will be in a few weeks.

I lived in Chicago and they lived outside of Detroit so it’s not like I could walk over with my wagon. But, I was young, a few years out of the house, and I had a pickup truck, so I decided to make the three hundred mile journey for a brief visit to wish them well, say goodbye to my childhood home and preserve some of my treasures. 

Their closing was on a Wednesday and I arrived the previous Saturday.  My plan was to load the truck bed with the few useful things and leave the next day.  I assumed they discarded most of the property I left behind when I went to college, but to my surprise they had not.  The house was full of items from my youth, my siblings youth and, I hesitate to say, my parents youth.  “Do you remember this?” my mom would ask as she handed me a well made and surprisingly well-preserved child’s fire helmet from 1968.  I though you might like it.  Thanks Mom, I’ll try to shrink my head to a third of its current size and be a fireperson next Halloween.  “Maybe you’re kids will have use for it.”  Sure Mom, I’ll store this in inventory for when my kids are born several years from now. 

To be fair, my parents were not hoarders.  Their house was orderly, but full of meaningless (who am I to judge?) knickknacks.  And they didn’t keep a balanced inventory.  Stuff came in but little went out.  Clearly, they suffered from the very common “they might need it someday” syndrome. So into a bin, closet, garage or backyard shed it went. 

My six-hour journey east was relaxing, as I love the open road, Springsteen and Sinatra cassettes keeping me company. But a few hours after I had arrived in childhood home, I began to feel the stress. Mom handing me things, trying to relive a memory, Dad tinkering around with no clear direction.  Five days before closing and they hadn’t’ even started to pack.  I was worried they could even get it done.  That’s when I opened the door to the garage. 

There’s a common scene in movies where the kids enter a cave or a spacecraft and there’s a monster is staring them in the face. They stand there paralyzed in fear not knowing if they should fight or run like hell? That was my face when I opened the garage door and saw miniature mountains of stuff.  The “five days” reality continuously ran through my mind.  

My dad couldn’t park a scooter in that garage let alone a car. Bicycles, desks, tools, chairs, boxes of who knows what, filled two bays to capacity.  Things were hanging from the ceiling and walls. Some tools were in their proper place, but many were scattered on the workbench. Again, it was controlled chaos. And oh, hello, there was Calico, my cat.  You still live here? You’re still alive? I picked him up and cradled him in my arms, sensing that his advanced age, and the stress of the move was even getting to him.

At this point, my task shifted from being a simple retrieve and leave trip to a salvage and recovery mission.  How much stuff could I eliminate and make my parents move less difficult? Dad, you’re office desk, do you mind if I take that? Mind you, it was 6 feet by 4 feet and would barely fit in any room in my apartment, but it was heavy and I didn’t want them to deal with it.  “Sure, no problem.  Do you remember you used to hide under that desk and I would pretend I couldn’t find you?” “Good times Dad.” I replied.  All I could think of was “five days.”  

I am not a wizard in mathematics, but I do know to calculate the volume of a container (depth times length times width) and I was measuring and calculating every inch of my pickup, inside and out.  I spent the next 10 hours gathering, collecting, re-living and in the process somehow adding emotional value to things that I thought were long, long gone. To be clear, I really didn't even think about them as long gone because I never ever thought about them.  They just weren’t important, yet somehow, now that they were back in my life, (hear me complete set of Topp’s 1978 MLB cards), I thought that perhaps they were. 

I loaded up the truck, swept the garage, cleaned and organized as much as I could, hoping that my presence would inspire my folks to pack up and begin their next chapter.  We had a nice dinner, I had a good sleep and Sunday afternoon I wished them well, hugged them, held Calico for the last time, and I was on my way.  

During my six-hour drive home I had a lot of time to reflect, the hypnotically scaled back sounds of Bruce’s Nebraska helped deepen the reflection. Yet, I could really only think of two things; why weren’t they ready for this? And with an apartment slightly bigger than my truck, what am I going to do with all this stuff?

It was an early wake up call, but it took a very long time for me to actually wake up.

However as I look back, it was really my introduction to the necessity of midlife minimalism.

JS

Increase the peace.