The house is familiar as I enter. The kitchen cupboards have changed over the years – I don’t remember the color those cupboards were when Mom would slam them repeatedly in her frustration – but now they are a dark hue of wood, a soothing tone that I recognize from one of the first renovations the house underwent when Poppo remarried. The round kitchen table that housed Poppo’s piles of bills, receipts, newspapers, reading material and stuff (much like my own square table currently houses) sits at the ready, already laden with an unusual collection of things. A few steps further in and I’m looking through the dining room to the living room – starkly different than it has been in any of the visits when the house was truly occupied. Now the carpets are pulled up because the cats ran amuck. A mishmash of tables edge the room, covered in glassware, lamps, trinkets – with boxes of more of the same tucked underneath and into the center of the rooms. Little furniture is left. Familiarity drops away.

There’s another thought forming, not going there yet.

Defined by a deadline, I am back in my childhood home after about 4 years of basically not seeing the inside. I’ve driven by. I visited a couple of times – intended to help sort and clean – then COVID, and my mother-in-law passed, and life continued to grow larger. My last visit was about a month ago. I identified a few pieces of furniture I would like to add to my home, sorted through my Poppo’s belongings in his bedroom. Wondered where the rest of his collections might be hiding. Looked at the backyard. Packed some things.

Today I am to finish gathering my Poppo’s belongings and packing the furniture that I had selected. The house is very close to empty – my step-sisters have been diligently moving forward and so good about setting dad’s stuff aside for my brother and me. They have moved their mom to a beautiful facility that cares for her heart, body and soul and finally they can visit her and have lovely talks and see for themselves that she is safe and well cared for and content within herself. They have found a buyer for the house – in a time where it is truly a sellers market – and the money will change hands and be tucked into their mom’s account for helping with the extreme costs of care.

She won’t miss the house, but the rest of us will.

We found Poppo. He was tucked in the closet in the front door foyer. He was in the garage, mostly on the walls and the second floor walk up storage room. He was living large in the basement, on the huge set of bookshelves that backed the old stained glass storage bins; in several outdoor style cabinets with plastic doors that swing wide to reveal books of stamps, postcards and memoribilia; and on the tool benches – still piled high with bits of projects and cigarette butts stumped out into bowls, ashtrays and anything that wouldn’t burn.

I thought he’d stopped smoking back in the 1990’s.

I gathered his airship and blimp goodies – books, photos, Goodyear advertising, blimp models and pins. I boxed the volumes of postcard books carefully cataloged by city, with date of purchase and other information tucked along with the cards. I brought together the stamp collections, the coins we could find, the exhaustive research findings that brought history to life for him (and us – when we would sit still). I found the books that acknowledged his contributions of photos and historic information from these extensive collections he kept.

I did the work of salvaging his interests – and found that I was once again touching his life.

The basement gave back hours of conversations over stained glass projects worked on past midnight – while listening to a radio show mystery hour. On the workbench was a note I had written my father about a love of mine that was unrequited, and letting Poppo know how much I loved him, and saw his sacrifices raising the two of us kids. There was his old Goodyear wooden tool box, full of the tools from that job, offering up several small unfinished starts of jewelry that he would make in his spare time. It smelled of stale cigarettes, felt like soft wood, glass splinters and the patina of lead. It sounded like creaky metal stools and the furnace kicking on and off. It looked dank and dirty and abandoned and alive with the two of us – all at the same time.

As I walked back up the steep steps of the basement – the weight of realization shifted heavily. I was holding onto the railing, pulling myself up the stairs with my right hand, taking each step one at a time – as I now do so often. I heard Poppos reluctant voice the first time I successfully begged him to let ME carry the turkey upstairs. We always cooked it in a roaster down in the basement’s laundry area. Set on a table, it would roast away. Then Poppo would call me and we would go downstairs with a huge platter and collect the turkey. He would lift it out of the roaster in that wire contraption and awkwardly tip it onto the platter that I was holding. It was never a fully accomplished activity – we frequently bobbled it – or I had to tip it towards my apron and catch it against my belly. After much quiet laughter (a cover up – couldn’t let Mom know what was happening), Poppo would haul it up the stairs and I would pour the juices out into a glass container to bring up for gravy fixings. This time, I saw how difficult it was for him to take steps AND hold onto the tray. I wish that when he had aquiesced, I had taken my time going up the steps carefully, instead of bounding up them as I did. I wish that now from others, a slower ascent/descent, out of respect for my former abilities and current level of pain. I’m the same age he was when he had his hip replacements, when he told me to lose weight so as not to end up in the situation he was in.

Back up in the kitchen, I sit on a folding chair and wrap and pack our finds. My amazing husband lugs and lugs and hauls and packs and does all of the lifting. He watches me carefully, constantly making sure I’m not overheated, or overwhelmed. There are people here. The new owners have stopped in to assist and to measure things. They talk with me. I respond from somewhere in my head – chiding myself to be friendly, to reach out, to share stories, to engage. I tune them out quickly – as that feeling that was pushed away at the beginning of the day returns.

Not going there yet.

The last of the things I wrap are the over-sized sheets of stained glass that Steven has so kindly gathered from the basement. Three times he asked if I wanted to take them home. I ignored, answered no, then shrugged. I wanted them, but so much had been carried. So much sorted, packed, wrapped, transported, – I couldn’t bring myself to ask for one more thing. Up he came, four trips it took, with beautiful sheets of heavy color – purchased on one of the magnificent trips to the Canton glass warehouse Poppo and I would piece through together.

How did I not know he was an artist at heart?

As Steve finished the packing, he suggested I go sit on the window seat in my old bedroom. I walked upstairs and wandered one more time through each room. Touching woodwork. Memorizing nooks and crannies. Thinking through the years. I perched on the windowseat that he had cleared for my comfort. Leaned against the same wall I had leaned against when writing for Mrs. Jenkins. Listening to my mother’s piano – or her tears in the next room. Day-dreaming about boyfriends. Getting lost in a million books. Just plain getting lost. The view out of the window is blocked by a tree that has grown faster than I have – but I can still see the lawn, the road, and hear the quiet of the neighborhood.

The feeling surfaces again – that which has gone un-named. It is sorrow and joy; grief and expectation; anger and distrust; growth and wisdom; jumbled thoughts and smooth transitional self-honoring. It brings silent tears and exhaustion and a desire to move on. The place is memorized. The memories are solid and can be elicited by closing my eyes and thinking a thought. No need for photos – they are in my words. This house. This family. These ups, downs and sideways.

All is fully alive and ready to be told.

29 Jun This entry was published on June 29, 2021 at 12:39 am and is filed under Learning. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.