These items didn’t sell. They now sit on dusty shelves and folding tables, marked with low-priced stickers. I fold the clothes from the closet: the shirts, the pants, the dresses. I take the dolls out of their glass display cases and stuff them into a plastic bag. I feel odd—like I’m invading a space, one that was once occupied by love, strife, laughter, and tears. That’s what I imagine, anyway, as I sort the items. We have permission to be here, though, and while here we learn, little by little, about who they were and how they lived. Maybe we are invading a space, but we have to. It’s our job. When working a clean-out after an estate sale, we pack away souvenirs, knick-knacks, and collections to be sent to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. We sort out medical items to be donated, and set blankets, housewares, and candles aside for a homeless charity. Then we determine what is trash. As I go through this process, a discarded check stub tells me where they worked; I see where they traveled when a photo album turns up, showing trips taken with the family. Whether I’m helping to set up for a sale or packing up after one, I see a life on display: vinyl albums, cassettes, and CDs of country-western, pop, and Polish music reveal personal tastes in entertainment. An autographed Tony Orlando program celebrates a trip to Branson, Missouri. Sewing machines, cross stitch material, and tools tell about hobbies. Boxes of camping gear reflect outdoor family fun once enjoyed. Medicine bottles and treatments tell me of the ailments from which they suffered. Other personal items to be sorted show the decline of later years: a cane, a bathtub bench, a toilet seat riser, a box of adult diapers. A birthday card to “Mom” is among the items found on a dusty closet shelf; it speaks of a child’s love for a parent. An extensive (and expensive) collection of model trains, tracks, and associated mountains, bridges, and buildings—a lifetime of work—is taken apart, piece by piece, priced, tagged, and sold at bargain prices. The remaining village where trains passed through, disappearing into tunnels and then reappearing (most likely to the delight of grandchildren), is now a ghost town and will be torn apart and tossed into the dumpster that waits outside in the driveway. Electric hand tools are stacked in a pile for scrap, along with the remains of unfinished projects. They may have died; they might be in assisted living now—we don’t always know the whole story. What I feel while working here is sadness and a new perspective as I reflect on the things that occupy our existence while we’re alive. The “things” that we collect, the things that were once so important to us, are boxed up, bagged, and sent away. So many once-cherished parts of our lives are no longer handed down as they were in the past; the kids don’t want the china or the hutch that once displayed them. Many items are even refused by charitable organizations, and some of the things are tossed, unceremoniously, into the dumpster. The homes where we work, once filled with the warmth of family, are stripped bare of their things and prepared for another life (and more things) to fill their spaces.
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AuthorI love learning about and interacting with people of different cultures. Words and their origins fascinate me too, and at times I enjoy twisting and turning them to create a laugh. |