Sorting

I’m glad my parents have moved three times in the past 10 years. At least Sis and I don’t have 40 or 60 years worth of stuff to sift through as we move Dad to his small Memory Care suite. On the other hand, my parents are packrats; enough has been saved from all those moves to make the current task daunting.

Last week we tackled Mom’s drawers and closets, filling several bags for charity and an entire suitcase of clothes for me. Thankfully, Mom had great taste in clothes and her jackets and sweaters sometimes fit me. We also filled a bag of clothing that is quintessential Momma. These items will be cut and diced to make “Momma pillows,” memorials to the fun, creative, charming woman she was. Sis, her partner, and I will reserve a special day before I leave town to create and remember.

Tucked among the undies, the Poise pads, and plastic baggies filled with scarves, we also found receipts verifying the purchase price of jewelry, old family photos, and other small items obviously valued and carefully saved. It made me wonder why, if we value such things, we tend to stick them in a drawer and never look at them again.

We also cleared out a few of Dad’s drawers where he had stashed old mail and receipts that he thought might be valuable but couldn’t figure out what to do with. The stash included his father’s social security card and other personal papers and photographs, as well as plastic baggies filled with old dentures.

When we had nearly finished our work for the day, Dad came into the room, looked uneasily at our piles of stuff, and headed into the closet. “What are you looking for, Dad?” we asked.

“I hope you haven’t gotten into it,” he replied with a wild look in his eye.

“What is it, Dad?” we asked, fearing that we had, indeed, gotten into it and either hidden or disposed of whatever he was looking for.

“Treasures,” he replied mysteriously.

He soon emerged from the closet with a small, old briefcase. He put it on the bed and carefully opened it to reveal a collection of coins. We persuaded him that these things should go to the bank to the safe deposit box and he reluctantly agreed after we assured him that he could go, too.

Among the coins was a business envelope that he held in his hand. “What’s in the envelope?” I asked.

“A thousand dollars,” he said. My heart sank. Was it another check too old to cash? But when I gently took the envelope from him and opened it, I found a four-year-old statement from the rental office at the apartment complex where Mom and Dad had lived.

“This is just a statement, Dad,” I explained. It’s meaningless now. You haven’t lived in that apartment for four years. It’s not necessary to keep it. Since it has your name on it, I’ll just go shred it,” I offered.

“You’re just so eager to shred things,” he grumbled.

He ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

Sue