a life overboard

Friday was very hot too - I'm not sure what the temperature was, but the humidity was such that you'd have sweat dripping off your face just from walking around indoors. Our Melbourne houseguests were astonished by the humidity. As a Sydneysider, I don't think much about it, just accept it as the natural summer background.

But it wasn't a great day for driving north to continue clearing out my father's waterside apartment, which goes up for sale at the end of this month.

My father died almost two years ago, aged 83. He hadn't lived in his apartment for three years, but it wasn't rented out, instead used by various relatives for holidays and weekends.

My father didn't even live there fulltime - he and his wife had their main home up the coast. But after she died in 1999, he took everything and moved into this apartment for the year before a stroke made it impossible for him to live on his own.

Growing up, I would never have known that my father was a sentimental hoarder. Maybe he wasn't, back then. Maybe he had no reason to be. But he certainly became one in his older age - from about age 60 onwards. This is something I've discovered ... uncovered, in the past few years whenever I've stayed at the apartment.

I started out taking away the things which I could use or give to Olle - books, pens, erasers, paper (my father was an architect and did a lot of writing and drawing), tools, sheets, blankets, framed prints, photos, plates, bowls, towel...

Then I progressed to taking away a suitcase full of my father's (and his wife's) shoes and clothes each time we visited.

Early in 2005, I had to get serious about clearing out the flat. So we went to stay for a weekend with a friend of mine who had never met my father. She spent two days dismantling shelves (and everything on them) in the spare room, throwing out rubbish, taking everything out of the wardrobes. We managed to fill two Sulo rubbish bins, two tall paper recycling wheelie bins, one glass recycling wheelie bin and take away another four suitcases (his) of clothes and knick knacks for a charity shop.)

It looked as if we'd done nothing.

I went for another two weekends and a week in the school holidays and threw out more rubbish and created more charity donations. A sister of mine went and took away quite a lot of furniture. The apartment looked better, less cluttered, still full.

Each time I went would be a new process of confronting and then shedding memories. His memories, not mine. I found a drawer full of drink coasters and swizzle sticks from every hotel he'd ever stayed in around the world. Christmas cards, birthday cards, postcards, notes and letters from friends and relatives. Minutes of strata meetings from 1984. Carbon copies of letters written on a typewriter - insurance claims, complaints, funny letters to his nieces. Copies of architectural drawings stretching back to the 50s. Family trees. Death notices. Funeral leaflets. Sympathy cards. Thanks for sympathy cards.

I delved into the life of my father in a way that probably no one else has. Most of this life took place after I had left home, become an adult. It wasn't the life he lived as my father when I was a child and teenager (though there were remnants of that as well - fishing trophies, golf clubs, a projection screen and projector, books that I remember from the bookshelves outside my bedroom...)

I discovered secrets. I found all his past wills. I found the letter offering to pay for my cousin's divorce costs. I found a box full of letters from his second wife, pre-marriage. Another box full of his letters to her. (I haven't read all these letters closely yet.)

The front room of my own house would pile up with boxes of stuff brought from my father's place. They would sit for weeks at a time before I could bear to do something about then. Then I'd unpack a box containing two telephones, an electric knife, small picture frames of scenes in Tuscany, tea cups and various little knick knacks (he was big on knick knacks). I'd look at it, then take the bulk of it to St Vincent de Paul. I started to feel resentful, dominated by his life when I couldn't even get my own piles of photos into shape.

Time is pressing now. Last Friday was one of the last chances to clear up yet more stuff. I had to be as ruthless as possible. I brought a wheelie bin into the room and threw photo albums into it. My father took a great many photos and not many of them had people in them - there were entire albums full of shots of scenery. But there were also albums with pictures of his second wife - posing in fromt of various views around the world. What would I do with those? She's dead, he's dead. Into the rubbish bin they went. Along with hundreds of photos and negatives of scenery or people I didn't know. Alongside his company accounts from the 60s, 70s, 80s. The placemats from his second wedding dinner. Happy aniversary cards. The crucifix from his mother's coffin.

I think I know why my father kept all of this - it's a kind of proof of meaningfulness and connection from a man who didn't display much emotion. That's one message I've taken. But the literal message I learnt, as I tossed things into bins, is that meaning doesn't reside in objects, although they can hold memories for us and remind us of experiences and feelings. I'm glad I experienced some of my father's memories second hand but I'm also glad now to be rid of them.

Comments

[Liz]

What a thought-provoking post; and what a fascinating, overwhelming and poignant process for you.

On a practical (and unsentimental) level, I already feel scared about clearing out the homes of my parents and (particularly) my mother-in-law, who has a gigantic house filled with all sorts of things. I can imagine it taking weeks, even with family members working together. It's a truly daunting prospect.

I was really struck by the notion of throwing out photo albums. Living in a tiny home has forced me to become a ruthless culler of my own possessions, and I've been surprised at the things that I've managed to let go and hardly missed afterwards (for instance, we donated about 2/3 of our books to Lifeline when we bought our townhouse). But reading your post makes me realise that I kind of think of photo albums as sacred. It's sobering to reflect on how fleeting their significance really is.

[David]

I can imagine that each object is kind of crying out for attachment to you. Each is a part of your father's life, a connection to him, though he's gone; a clue to the past. Respect for that makes it hard to just chuck things out without a parting glance. I'm dreading have to do that.

[Lori]

My parents are having a similar experience going everything before selling their home before they separate. Some of my things are still at home (left with intentions of bringing them back to Australia at some point) but I haven't missed much and I have said that most probably don't need to be kept at this stage. When I am faced with the type of job you are doing, I think it will be much easier since they are doing this now. I guess the prospect of moving to much smaller quarters will do that though.

Similarly again, as we are trying to clear our house so we can prepare it to sell, I am finding I will have to put a certain amount of sentimentality aside. After all, most of it gets seen once every five or ten years. I have to also admit to being a bit of a hoarder too, so more of a problem. As for the kids' belongings, it's overwhelming and I find I am having to go behind their backs to get rid of some things. Which makes me feel guilty as I never wanted to do that... but especially with N, it's just impossible to take some things away with their knowledge.

Your post really is thought-provoking, as Liz mentioned, and touches on aspects of the death of a loved one that aren't usually discussed.

[Ron]

When I cleared out my grandfather's house, it had to be done in a hurry too.

How I now regret the things I so ruthlessly threw out - photos, medals and awards and certificates, letters and so. Especially now when my children ask about their grandparents.

I think I prefer the old idea when the family home and contents was often passed down the generations and many memories were kept intact.

We live in a throwaway society - family, friends and memories.

[Ron]

Suzoz,

The above was not meant to be a criticism of you. My apologies if it came out that way.

What I wrote was a reaction to the guilt I feel, and have carried for a number of years, over what I did with the remnants of my grandfather's life.

Regrets? I have many ....

[Valerie]

Thanks for the quote, "meaning doesn't reside in objects." I really like that. I'm guilty of having way too much stuff around my home, hoarding all sorts of old things of questionable value. I think telling myself "meaning doesn't reside in objects" will indeed help me to throw things away.