Saturday I started the epic task of going through my-dearly-departed husband’s stuff. A good chunk went to family and friends already. Clothes donated to the Salvation Army. The remaining stuff consisted of things he squirreled away over his lifetime. Most of it I had packed and repacked in our five moves and not yet unpacked from the last.
Two boxes hold every stuffed animal he received since birth to high school graduation. The collection of plush Moose (his nickname) decorates the bookcases in the outbuilding called the dungeon. Five Christmas ornament boxes hold every plastic model airplane, he ever glued. Books, model kits, magazines, thousands of photographs mostly of race cars, souvenirs, every letter anyone ever sent him, disks—computer and music, machine oil, craft paints, brushes drafting pens, slide rules, helmet, sunglasses, and stuff.
The room also holds my books, Champagne glasses from our wedding, and his father’s stuff. I open a letter and read Paul’s moment in time. Hold a book and remember he read aloud a paragraph to me. Many things came from his pre-Pam past but that was only eighteen years. The rest represents our life together.
This is the reason it took me two years to start this process.
There are little piles of stuff all over my kitchen. A pile for his brother, one for his sister, his uncle, my nephew, charity, and a category I like to call I-just-don’t-know. The two recycle bins are full as well as the garbage can.
Mom stopped by and was forced to take a load of books.
Sunday I went to church then took Mom to her Art Reception in Placerville. On the way back, we ate diner food that is not on my diet. Lemon Meringue Pie finished the calorie orgy.
I should feel bad about the splurge but I don’t. There are no calories on Sunday. That’s the truth. It’s in the Bible—Genesis, I think.