In the Name of Mulch

I arrived in Michigan Monday evening expecting the house to be completely empty; I expected to feel very sad about this: All my mother’s sewing stuff, all my father’s workshop stuff, all my parents’ gardening stuff and much else: gone. One estate sale person I spoke with said more than once, “Everything sells.” So I was rather perplexed to find the house surprisingly full of stuff, every room. And beyond perplexed to find my bathroom filthy, with poop smeared along several inches of the underside of the toilet seat.

I texted our estate sale lady to inquire what had gone wrong. I started by pointing out that I had marked that room not to enter, but ended on a breezier note, not wanting to be a jerk: “Anyway, if that can get a thorough cleaning on Wednesday, that would be good.”

The estate sale lady was so upset to hear about this that I almost felt sorry I had even mentioned it. She said she had made every effort to keep that bathroom off limits, but that one visitor had snuck in there. I replied that if one person had managed to make that kind of mess, that was pretty impressive. I assured her that it was not the end of the world and that she should not give it another thought. (I also ended up cleaning the bathroom myself, as the alternative was to walk clear to the other end of the house.) 

This house has a dark central hallway that starts near the dining room and living room and ends at my bathroom, passing three bedrooms and the linen closet en route. It’s not a giant house, but because of that hallway, you do feel like you’re going on a trek. Sometimes my father would be in the TV room and I would ask him a question whose answer required a trip to the office and he would say something like, “Doopty doopty doop” as he traversed the hallway.

Originally, the plan had been that the estate sale would be on a Saturday, which it was, and then normally nothing happens on Sunday, in case the family wants to gather in the post-sale house and reminisce and take, after all, anything that might be remaining. The final cleaning is normally on Monday, but it turned out that ours would not be until Tuesday for some reason, and then that got changed to Wednesday.

I was disappointed about this, as my initial thought was that it would be ideal if the cleaning happened before I arrived Monday evening. When I found the house with so much stuff still in it, I initially couldn’t figure out what to do with all the items I’d stuffed into my bedroom, and the kitchen was also completely unusable, with items for sale covering every flat surface. In a fit of pique, I announced to myself that I guess I’d just have to sleep in the car, and I actually went outside and got in the car, first trying the driver’s seat fully reclined (not comfortable) and then the back seat (really not comfortable). I felt a little vulnerable out there just several feet from the sidewalk, and decided I would feel pretty foolish if I were to be raped and murdered while doing such a stupid thing as to sleep in a car when there was a house several feet away, so I went back inside and moved things from my bedroom to the office and sank into my camping cot (that which I sleep on here) and felt extra grateful to be sleeping indoors, in a bed. This is a thing I give thanks for nearly every night.

On Tuesday I went out to lunch at Knight’s and did some reading for work; I kept falling asleep. It was hot and humid that day, ditto on Wednesday, the day the estate sale lady came with her crew to do the cleanout. It turned out to be good that I was there because there were several questions that arose, though it was also hard to see so much identifiable stuff walking out the door. Part of the point of having an estate sale was not to have to see that. I found myself snatching things off the tops of piles that someone was carrying by just because I recognized them, even though that could be said of nearly everything in the house.

I told the crew that if there was anything they personally wanted, at this point they should by all means take it. It turned out that one fellow scraps metal; he took a bunch of metal away, including lots and lots of nails. Another fellow is a worm farmer. He took a wooden frame maybe a foot and a half by two and a half feet that enclosed coarse metal grating. I thought it might have been the top of the cage of a long-ago pet; my sister said maybe our mother used it for sifting dirt pursuant to finding rocks, one of her many, many interests. Whatever it had been used for in the past, it was something the worm farmer thought he could use, and he also took our massive 1933 dictionary. I joked that he’ll be saying a lot of interesting things by the time he gets done reading the whole thing.

Among our holdings were two shoeboxes of rocks collected by our mother, each with a note saying what it was and where and when it had been found. She had also made, no doubt for classes she took, two posterboard displays with many rocks glued to them. I had long ago resigned myself to those ending up in the trash, but it turned out that the fellow who scraps metal also collects rocks, and he took all of those things. So that’s why it was on the whole good that I was there on Wednesday. Otherwise, I would have pictured all those rocks and all those nails and maybe even the giant dictionary in the trash.

The estate sale lady said she actually never puts a rock in the trash; she takes them home and tosses them near her own pond. Her crew works for other estate sale companies besides hers. When she asked them if it’s true that she puts less in the trash than other companies do, her crew confirmed that this is so. This was what made me and my sister choose her. We liked the idea of things going out into the world to be enjoyed or used by others, and we hated the idea of having a massive Dumpster backed up to the house.

My mother left behind her journals, along with strict instructions not to read them. The New York Times’ Ethicist said in answer to a question about something like this that the living have a compelling interest in reading such documents and that it is not unethical to do so even if the deceased prefer not, which surprised me. The main reason I’m not going to read my mother’s journals is that I don’t even have time to read my own old journals, but every now and then, I read a couple of pages. Written well before she got dementia, they bring her vividly back to life. I will always keep them.

Toward the end of my last visit here, I read a couple of pages and found myself quite surprised and even a little upset by certain revelations. How little we really know about others. In retrospect, I think maybe I was a bit angry with her or maybe with my father, or maybe just generally roiled up, but I decided it was time to move on with my life and thus to let go of a couple items I had meant to keep, which were kitchen utensils that anyone in our family would recognize: a slotted spoon and a ladle.

Later I really lamented having let those go, but it turned out that this lamentation was needless, as those items were among the many things still here when I arrived this time, and they are now safely in a kitchen drawer.

My sister inherited all of our father’s tools, which we interpreted to mean everything in his basement workshop. She invited me to pick out a sentimental item, and I chose a hammer with a slender wooden handle meant for a use I am ignorant of. I could tell my father had used it a lot. It felt nice in my hand. But I didn’t specifically remember it, so did it really count as a sentimental item? I decided it didn’t and left it with the things to be sold, and now I really regret that. I didn’t remember it, but I liked it, and now it’s gone.

Wednesday, cleanout day, was miserably hot and humid. In the afternoon, I went out for lunch at Ricewood and then to Arbor Farms for groceries. When I got home, the place was really and truly darn near empty, just as I had mistakenly thought it would be Monday night. That was a terrible day to do so much physical labor. That crew was heroic.

Twice that day I was complimented on my license plate (MTLHEAD), including by a fellow who pulled up next to me at a red light and yelled over that he loved it. A flurry of devil’s horns ensued.

I decided to wipe the kitchen cupboards before I reshelve my stuff. As I wiped out one cupboard yesterday morning, I realized my mother undoubtedly did the exact same thing 20 years ago when they moved into this house (and then never again). To the extent that the cupboards were wiped after that, it would have almost certainly have been my father doing it.

It’s fun playing house, deciding what to put where.

Sifting through what is still here, I was relieved to discover that I had kept both of the quilts my mother made. I also for some reason kept 15 place mats, give or take, though only one person lives here, and I also have about six brooms.

Today the weather was very pleasant indeed, not as hot and not detectably humid. I went over to my sister’s to pick up some yard tools she’d taken to her place for safekeeping. I was intending to dig out some burdock and needed my shovel.

Several months ago, a utility pole on my lot was replaced. It is obvious that before the pole was stood up, it was dropped on my yew hedge, because parts of the hedge have turned a sickly dead orange and there are visible broken branches.

I am just starting out as a gardener, but I am learning. My glasses kept sliding down my face last visit, so I ordered a strap to keep them in position, and found today that the new strap worked perfectly. In no time at all, I learned that it’s a very good idea to wear gloves when weeding thistles. I have learned that a lawn and leaf bag on its own is unwieldy; it’s better to stand it up in a plastic garbage bin.

I decided that, before I dug up burdock, I would cut the dead parts out of the yew hedge in hopes that maybe the holes will fill in next year. Close up, I could see a place where a main branch had been broken right above the ground by the wayward utility pole. I meant to spend an hour, but ended up spending two just on the hedge and only finished a bit more than half the job. It was very satisfying to see the orange parts going away and just green remaining, and to hear the snick-snick of the same clippers my mother used. I also pulled some ivy out from underneath the hedge, and pulled a few weeds out of the cracks in the sidewalk.

I fetched the broom to tidy up and realized there were a lot of dead leaves under the hedge. I wasn’t sure whether to sweep them out in the name of tidiness, or leave them there in the name of mulch. I compromised by sweeping away most of the leaves in the areas I tackled, but sweeping the final bits back under the hedge.

When I was done for the day, I lay down in the grass. It all seemed swooningly idyllic, the sun shining down and the beautiful blue sky and all the green and the smell of green. I’m starting to have a mystical feeling about this whole thing, like maybe my parents purposely left the birds and the dirt and the thistles that need to be pulled, all these things that are so beautiful and bring so much pleasure and satisfaction. Things that nourish and heal after four years that were so exhausting and difficult, though I would not have missed one second of any of it. The hardwood floor gleaming in the sun, the stately hawthorn in the front yard, the roots easily coming up when the weed is pulled. (Maybe I’m more a weeder and pruner than a gardener per se. I think my father might at heart have been a pruner.)

I called our realtor today to see about getting updated comps, as there is not much more to do to the house, just painting the interior, cleaning, and washing the windows.