The Final Division

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We had put off this task for nearly two years, sorting and dividing the last of our late parents’ possessions. My mother died nearly two years ago, my father two years before her. In 2007 we had taken on the difficult job of dismantling our parents lives. We sold most of their possessions, moved them into assisted living, and stored what needed to be saved — photo albums, much of my dad’s artwork, some furniture in a storage unit. The artwork he created, originals and prints, went into storage as well, save for some pieces for the apartment and later nursing care facilities in which they lived out the rest of their lives. When my mother died, what was kept in the nursing home went to storage as well.

My mother loved to take photographs. Boy, did she ever, especially once the grandbabies started arriving. My two older daughters were the earliest victims because they were the first grandchildren. My mother would photograph practically their every move during those early years, then put together photo albums that eventually filled the shelves of the living room in their modest home on South Twelfth Street in Longview.

Her photos and my father’s Western-style artwork filled the walls. My dad made his living as a signpainter, one of the finest craftsmen in the area. He spent his nights hunched over his drawing table in the carport converted into a studio, drawing and painting until bedtime. All that changed when a botched operation laid him low at 59. My mother cared for him nearly two decades, which wore her out as well. I assumed responsibility for their care and moved them into an assisted living apartment near me in Lufkin. A year later we moved back to Longview when I was transferred back to our hometown.

An elderly reader once asked how she could best prepare for this transition, to that time when she needed more assistance to live a comfortable life. Here is what I told her:

Clean out your closets while you still can. Downsize if it’s feasible. When you can no longer safely use power tools, for example, sell them or give them away to the grandkids. Strip your material life of what’s not necessary, while it’s up to you to make that decision.

We hired an auctioneer to come get what we didn’t take to the apartment or to storage. The money went toward their care, as did the sale of the house and their car. In a few months we had indeed dismantled their lives. It was what had to be done, to keep them safe, to prolong their lives in a caring, clean environment. And they did receive excellent care with rare exceptions that were quickly corrected

After my mother’s death, I periodically would nag my two younger brothers. “We need to divide up this stuff and quit paying rent on this storage unit.” But I didn’t complain much. I didn’t want deal with it right after my mother’s death either. The thought of rifling through albums of memories of happier times when our parents were young and healthy, our grandparents alive, our own children young, didn’t sound appealing.

We decided in early February it was time to quit procrastinating. Winter was about to end, spring is typically brief and working inside a storage unit during the heat of summer would add physical torture to the mental stress. On the day we chose, the weather was gray and raw — cemetery-like. We set up a folding table outside the unit, and then began hauling out boxes of photo albums and divvying up memories.

It didn’t take as long as we thought it would. Enough time had passed to put some scar tissue over the emotions, I suppose. We each took plenty so that our children would have photos to choose from, pieces of my dad’s artwork, and other items to remind them of their grandparents, when they were healthy and doted on their grandbabies’ every whim. Good times worth remembering.

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