Rummaging thru ye olde digs at London’s Lancaster Gate.. .or was it thy olde David Garrick club in Leister Square? Our rooms at Lakenheath USAF-RAF base, near Ely in the Midlands… “Sergeant Gideon here”?
Or Duxford RAF outside Cambridge, site of the American British Air Museum grand opening, amidst her Majesty’s entourage and celebrated USAF honor guard...
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We came across a Dear Mom letter.. .
It not only honors the biological props of our species, but also recognizes the Queens blackout across the pond in the Big Apple, during the third week of July 2006..
You blokes still living in the Howard Beach neighborhood, know well the bloody sweats..
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Soldier Jack “Moose” Nym from Ford Ord, California (“Henry V”) downloads his 21st century incarnation from Avenue “J” subway...rooms above Dubin’s bakery.. P.S.217…Midwood High... Wingate Field, his “Comets”.. Brighton Beach.. Coney Island’s boardwalk.. Bay 7.the Cyclone.. Prospect Park dances..., morphing as a hot blooded Fair taxi driver batch husband father grandfather playing out his Harriet’s “Merry Dyms of Howard Beach”
Without further ado, his youngest lass, Denise, writes….
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An Empty House Filled With Memories
I just spent a long weekend cleaning out the house that my parents lived in for 38 years. It’s the house that I lived in for 16 years, plus scattered weekends and holidays after I left for college. It’s the house where my parents raised four children and, throughout the years, provided shelter for several cats, a few turtles, and at one point, about 20 gerbils. (We started with two, not realizing they would mate).
Although it was a very overwhelming and emotional weekend, it could have been much worse. Thankfully, the house was not being emptied because my parents had passed away, an experience many children must face. My siblings and I convinced my parents, at 73 and 79, to move to an apartment not too far from the house where they had lived for so long. The apartment will be easier for them to manage with their physical challenges. My mom’s arthritic knee was making it increasingly difficult for her to navigate the stairs in the house, and dad’s lack of handyman abilities made basic maintenance and upkeep of an almost 40-year old house daunting. Plus, once the house sells it should provide them a small degree of financial security that will make living out their retirement years a bit easier.
Cleaning out 38 years of memories was a physical and emotional challenge for me, but at least I wasn’t alone in this overwhelming task. My two sisters, my brother and I all pitched in to do the work, meeting at the house we all grew up in together in Queens, NY. I flew in from Atlanta, GA; one sister flew from Ft Lauderdale, FL; one sister had an hour drive from Westchester, NY, and my brother had the shortest commute – just 30 minutes from his apartment in Brooklyn. Additionally, a dear cousin from Massachusetts drove 3 hours to help out for two days. Taking vacation days from our jobs, and leaving behind our own family, friends and social commitments for these few days, we shared some final memories with each other at our house.
As we all went through every room and uncovered more and more pieces of my parents’ life as a married couple, the main thought that kept going through my mind was, “Why did they need …and why did they ever keep…all of thisstuff?” In the 38 years they lived in the house, I’m convinced that just about nothing was ever thrown out. We found a no-longer-valid life insurance policy from 1960. We dug up copies of 20-year-old utility bills. We found a stack of programs from Masonic events my father faithfully attended. It was easy for us to toss out these items; obviously not so for my mom and dad.
What wasn’t so easy was disposing of things that either had sentimental value or possible usefulness for someone else. In this 2,500 square-foot house we unearthed brand-new pasta makers, humidifiers and china dishes. Drawers and boxes held literally thousands of photos. We found the sewing machines that Mom very skillfully used when we were younger – and a closet full of the clothes that she had made for us, with her special labels sewn into them: “Made especially for you by Harriet I. Dym.” We did take home a few of these items, as well as most of the photographs. Others we gave to friends and neighbors, as well as a truckload for a local charity.
Yet even our four separate homes in far-flung locations, and our four separate lives, could not accommodate all the physical evidence of the 38 years lived at this house. Most of the things wound up in an enormous dumpster. I felt so unsettled watching the entire contents of the house I grew up, ending in an overflowing dumpster.
I’m lucky that I was able to share this enormous undertaking with three wonderful siblings. We’re still so close. I’m sure there are many children like us who have to go through a similar exercise all alone.. This was a very positive experience in so many ways. We were able to spend a few days together to go through these memories. We laughed at the photos of ourselves as children, amazed at some of the clothes we wore and the hairstyles we had growing up. We reminisced about the birthday parties we had in the house and the secrets we shared. We dug up a letter written by my sister at 16 years old about “the first time she spoke with Eddie,” and then rolled on the floor, laughing with tears streaming out of our eyes, remembering what life was like as teenage girls with a crush on a boy.
Over the course of the long weekend, we were also able to get my parents settled into their new home. Although they made this move a bit grudgingly, I think they are starting to appreciate that life can be a lot simpler for them in an apartment. Shower broken? Call apartment maintenance. Stairs that are painful to climb… What stairs? The building has an elevator. And just think -- no real estate taxes!
As for me, I think in the coming weeks I will go through my own house and try to get rid of items I no longer use or need. In the end, its just “stuff” – it’s the memories that matter the most. And those never wind up in a dumpster.
I love you Xoxo
