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October 5, 2014

Journey through the past: downsizing and discoveries.

When my mom died, my sister and I went through her condo, packing and discarding most of her "stuff".  We each kept some mementos but would never know the stories behind these donated objects; photos and books and vases, with no dates recorded, no history of their purchase or meaning. Lost memories.  My generation, born during or just after WW II has lived through many momentous changes in the world, transitioned from the age of radio and live entertainment, books with hard covers owned or borrowed from local libraries.  Communication changed from rotary telephones, often with party lines, and written letters to the multidimensional world of computers and smart phones, e-mail, scanning and twitter and texting; instant and encompassing information.  
I am now in the process of going from a three story, four bedroom home we moved into in 1977.  I had considered the option of moving to smaller space, but it remained a sketchy, vague plan.  I came home from Florida with a swollen foot, which ended up needing major ankle and heel surgery.  Instead of a summer filled with friends, and trips and thinking more about moving, I found myself  confined to a bed or sofa in the living room for more than 10 weeks.  The need to shrink my living space and move toward a one floor, accessible apartment became suddenly real.  Exhausted after surgery, feeling helpless and vulnerable, I returned to my home, now retrofitted to allow for single floor occupancy.  The kitchen, front door and small bathroom were all on this floor, only a bed was needed.  I would not, could not rent a hospital bed.  I had watched as my darling husband spent the last 6 weeks of his life in that same corner, penned in by his illness and the multi-runged side rails.  So there I was, lying in a bed purchased hastily to be able to stay on the main floor. I spent the first night in anxiety, sleepless and drained. How would I, could I stay in this state, using a knee-propelled scooter to get from bed to bathroom to kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, maneuvering to reach in for basic foods like milk and bread without tipping the scooter over, took time, patience and care. 
 Friends, family, neighbors quickly filled in the gaps for me, visiting regularly, acting as my legs to move things closer, put in a wash or empty the dishwasher, bring in the mail Mostly they came to visit, bring food and talk, share stories and life histories.  Such quiet, intimate times might not have happened in our ordinary, busy, complex lives. I am grateful for that opportunity. 
And yes, I also needed to sort through all the stuff in my house, my life; 2 five drawer metal filing cabinets; 5 book shelves filled with an enormous variety of books and reports read and written by Ben and I, preserved and available but rarely visited anymore.  How much easier it is now to google Shakespeare’s plays, or Cummings poetry; Jewish history, a compendium of all the major world religions, Art books by artist, or genre, or both, even the Diaries of Anais Nin. (Yes, crossword puzzle addicts, we know this book probably without reading it, because it’s so often used  in clue construction.) The most incredible find was a book written in the 1950’s, a mock chronicle of a broadsheet newspaper of the days and events in 1200 BCE through to 500BCE,  complete with OpEd columns, travel specials, caravan sales, and gossip.
The most memorable finds have been old photographs, letters and poems written I’ve written throughout my life.  The earliest find was a poem my sister and I wrote to our parents on their Anniversary in 1955 when I was 14 and she 11, and an A+ paper I wrote in creative writing class in high school, adding a chapter to a Jane Austen novel.  I found a poem I wrote the night before my son was born, in early labor, welcoming him into the world. I found sweet notes written by my daughter, who was then nicknamed the Kleinberg Turtle, for her propensity of slipping into our bed from the footboard, slowly creeping upwards to our pillows. I even found a photograph of my grandfather, as a young man with a beret, standing in a field somewhere in Poland.  Context and content make this available to my children and their children. 
I am sorting, scanning, saving and sending much of these finds to my children and my sister.  I know the stories behind these memories, the context and meaning of a place or experience captured in film or journal entry. If I had left the task of sorting out my life for my children to manage after I passed away, I’m not sure if their import, their context would be apparent.  I sit now, again able to walk through the house “un-casted” among boxes of books, bags of recycled papers and pamphlets, old tax returns to be shredded. 
I am ready for the move, ready to keep treasures with me for now, knowing I can explain their context and meaning to my children now, hoping they will share them with their own children.