Katie and I made a pact; Mother, in her nineties, would live the last years of her life in an uncluttered abode. We used the days after her husband Harold’s death to clean her apartment.
Mother claimed her saving ways were a product of life lived during the Depression. We were skeptical. Mother exhibited a nesting compulsion, like a small animal burrowing in a mound of shredded paper. And we twins are the antithesis.
I began in the den where floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a kitchen table Mother deemed too good to give away, a computer table, a credenza, and other smaller pieces made the space impassable—particularly in an electric wheelchair. I sorted through books, making piles to discard. Mother positioned herself in her wheelchair beside me, making decisions about which books she would keep. Her reasons for rescuing any book were varied: “That book might be worth something.” “Mary gave me that one.” “Grandson wrote a note in that one.” “There’s one I’m going to re-read.” The keeping stack grew. Katie surveyed the stack and declared Mother would have to live to be one hundred and twenty-seven to read all she had saved. I plodded on.
Katie’s husband Ted was given the task of clearing the table. Its surface was buried beneath mounds of stuff: pens, pencils, crayons, and markers; pencil sharpeners, none of which worked; plastic trays of nuts, bolts, paper clips; three large containers of rubber bands, half sheets of paper . . ..Ted began by sorting a huge box of batteries to see if any were “good.” None were. Later he found piles of owner manuals relating to long-ago discarded items. We heaped black plastic garbage bags with detritus.
In the course of four days we took three vanloads and several carloads to the charity shop, the recycle bin, and garbage dumpster. Mother refused to take a nap. “I don’t dare,” she pronounced to a visitor, with a meaningful nod at Katie and me. We shared moments of guilt that quickly abated. Every item in a shelf of over-the-counter medicines was out-dated. One had a destroy date of 1988. We declared we were saving Mother from death by poisoning.
On the last day of our cleaning Katie held out a huge pile of plastic containers, including six plastic dishpans. Mother’s mouth dropped. “You can’t give away the dishpans. What if I want to soak something?”
“Mother, I’ve been married fifty years and never owned a plastic dishpan. You can use the sink—you have two of them.” Katie carried the pile to the front door.
Mother’s face fell. “I need them.” Undeterred, Katie marched on.
The rooms began to take on an airy look. We put an overstuffed chair in the den with an end table beside it and a phone within reach. Mother was pleased. “I never thought it could look so good. I could sit in that chair and read.” Mother urged her visitors to check out her rearranged rooms. On Saturday, Katie and Ted headed home to Oregon.
On Friday morning of the following week I stopped to pick up Mother for a shopping trip. “I’ll check the pantry to see if you need any paper products,” I said as I opened its door. There, prominently displayed on an eye-level shelf was a pretty pink plastic dishpan. Mother sat, triumphant in her wheelchair, watching me. I didn’t say a word.
Edmonds writer and first-time memoirist Dorothy Monroe writes about everyday topics. Her book, “Cobwebs on the Chandelier,” can be found at Amazon.com. Kirkus Review said: “This candid look at running a household mixes Erma Bombeck-worthy insight with warmth and humor.”
This article appeared in the October 2012 issue of Northwest Prime Time, the Puget Sound region’s monthly publication celebrating life after 50.
