Packing, Unpacking, Repacking

My purpose in driving back to Utah from Wisconsin was to bring a selection of choice items from our old home. Upon examination of what I came away with, I would call some things useful; some memorable; some sellable; some... just puzzling. In the hurley-burley of packing up the house, many things have come with me more by accident than design. Some things remind me of Dad and make me feel lonely for him. He could never throw anything away. Neither could his mother. Consequently, I'm finding layers of family jetsam that have not been explored in a really long time.


Checklist: The Big Stuff


Sara gets the double bed: old, but pretty maple. She thinks she is a queen. I think we also have my parents' nuptial box spring...


Nate gets my father's clapped-out boyhood desk. Paint smears, coffee rings and gouged oak notwithstanding, he is totally happy. His lava lamp has pride of place on it.


The cedar chest that lived in the basement and was crammed full of old photos now has a new life as a table in my rec room.


The old pressed tin camelback trunk that sat mustily in the basement in Wisconsin is now sitting mustily in the basement in Utah, waiting for me to figure out what its new role will be.


The Stuff I've Transported for my Cousin


I'm the mule for the six boxes of assorted correspondence and family reunion photos. I can't face them: thank goodness my cousin has the endurance to sort through all this crap. A cursory sorting-out revealed letters from second cousin Callie to third cousin James, inviting him to visit in the summer of 1935. My grandmother's school compositions. All the gift tags from the wedding presents my grandparents received in 1924. Photos of my great-grandmother's BFFs from 1910. My cousin is coming with a minivan this spring to haul all these goodies to her home in Colorado, where they will frustrate her for the next 15 years at least. Enjoy!


Boxes of Strange Treasure

There are a number of these. I promised Simon I really would sort them a few at a time; and when I do, I'll blog an inventory of randomness. I have manged two boxes so far.


The Train Box (cushioned by an afghan that Agnes W., the lady who was the answering service for Dad's medical practice many years ago, crocheted for us after she retired)


It's full of electric trains, of course. Dad's childhood trains from the 1930s, and some others he picked up later. We used to get these out and set them up when I was little. I love the rolling stock. That goes on display on shelves in the rec room. Switches and controls? Forget it! When Mom said I could have the trains, she warned, "Be careful about the controls! They get hot and shoot sparks! If anything starts smoking, turn it off!" Oh, I remember, all right. It always added an element of danger to playing with the train. Shit. Even the electrical tape holding it all together is from, like, the '50s. Sorry, Dad. I know you would be mad, but....I threw out all that stuff. I hope that doesn't make me a bad daughter.


Mixed Box of Trash-ure #1


Old paper doilies? OUT! Dad's Pediatrics notes from medical school? OUT! Cute picture of Dad from the 30s? KEEP!

There was also Mom's old coat from the 1950s. She says it was the first thing she bought with her own money after she finished nurse's training. I love it: brown cloth, lined with mouton. What, by the way, IS mouton? Isn't that "sheep" in French? It feels like fur, not wool, though. Anyway, it's warm and I'm going to wear it.

Most intriguing, a photo album that must have belonged to my grandfather when he was a young man and dating my grandmother. So 1919, 1920... Surprising, candid shots of things like my great-grandmother playing with the family dog. My great-grandfather pruning his peach trees. Every other photo I've ever seen of these people has been posed. I mean REALLY posed: formidable; frowning; Teutonic.

This is my grandfather in his college chemistry lab in 1919. The caption reads, "No, the tube from the wash bottle is NOT in my mouth!"

And this is my grandmother on her college graduation day in 1919, apparently.... doing the Happy Dance. Anyone who knew my grandmother would find this display of exuberance ...um... startling.

My grandparents were young once. Who knew?