For a few weeks now I've been clearing the house I grew up in. Papa moved the family there in 1962 and lived there until the ambulance drove him away in February.
Things have been building for almost 60 years and I've heard of much bigger jobs. Real estate agents have told me overwhelming stories about trying to sell homes that have owned decades ago.
About the hoarders who suddenly died in the midst of their business. One told me that she sold a thoroughly cleaned house, but then made the mistake of looking through a roof she had overlooked and, after a long journey, discovered an attic packed like a small suitcase. There were clothes, papers, things that one day had to be fixed, boxes and who knows what.
In our case, the treasures moved quickly. I had the coffee table which was handcrafted from a sunken cypress trunk. Surprisingly easy. My daughter has a shark tooth the size of your hand. My sister received the paintings that my mother wanted to finish. A pile of furniture went to a friend who was starting her own business.
But most of our possessions are not so valued by our heirs. These are more difficult. And they warn us against our own consumption.
My father, a son of the Great Depression by birth and a trained engineer, believed deeply and persistently in his ability to fix anything and the correctness of his approach. It goes without saying that at least one attempt at repair must be made before something can be dismissed with a clear conscience. Hermetically sealed plastic cases with inviolable ICs inside offended him. He regularly lectured on the entire Apple product line.
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Instead of doing crossword puzzles in the newspaper, he wondered why electronics, plumbing, and even furniture were failing at their work. He saw the disposal of kitchen waste not as a device, but as an opponent to be defeated.
Quite admirable, but such efforts require parts. These parts, tools, and accessories made the garage the biggest cleaning challenge in the house.
Some decisions were easy. One-hit and stain chemicals, insecticides, and motor oil were shipped to the county's landfill.
Radios with protruding cables have been ruthlessly tossed where an antenna should be, the container full of aerosol nozzles, the rusty coffee cans, and the cans full of electrical components: capacitors, resistors, vacuum tubes, and potentiometers (the type of variable resistor). that the controls of the radio and amplifier are connected) and especially the extensive collection of power supplies and cables. All had made false promises that they would one day be useful.
Put a label on it
A coin collection also requires labeling. Taggers are what differentiates the hoarder from a determined do-it-yourselfer, handyman, or hobbyist. But like any organization tool, these users can be tempted to go too far. My father went too far. He was an early adopter of the Dymo Raised Label System, like many electronics enthusiasts of his generation, but most of all he preferred a fine sharpie.
I have found boxes and devices with notations like "obsolete parts", "not working" and "not used" in outline letters. Why? But the microorganism of small spaces in small drawers has always fascinated me.
Labels for springs, small washers, large washers, wrenches, wood screws, brass screws, "bbs" (which stood for "ball bearings") and the ever-popular "misc".
Unfortunately there is no such thing as a Dewey decimal system for hardware. Every craftsman has to improvise.
Given the hours of sorting and labeling patients that went into developing this system, it seemed like a crime to just toss everything in trash bags. The task led to two of us. Not because of its size, but because of the mutual encouragement it takes to continue the task. Afterwards drinks were served.
I've moved some of the gear from the garage to my garage, where the rusty tools Dad got when emptying the ancestral garages are now rusting in vinegar glasses. There are bags and boxes to sort.
I rarely tag and when I do it's too vague to be useful. "Things from Papa's Garage" and of course "Other".
Simple memories. I have not inherited my father's will to categorize or bring order to a house and universe that mocks all these efforts.
Emptying the house after a death is a long meditation on the memory of the former occupant. It's evidence-based accounting that's easier than formal praise. And in bringing these boxes home, I seem to have prolonged that process.
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