|Dad with tons of tools|
This has been a continual process for more than 3 years after my mom left. The house was a wreck to start with (three grown kids, 2 grandkids, and more than 30 years of accumulation will do that), but it was doubled when my grandmother moved to Texas in 2011, her house (and Dad's workshop) sold, and all his tools had to find new place to live.
|Josh unscrewing the pot rack hanger|
while Emily cleans up
It's also hard emotionally. This was the house I grew up in and is filled with echoes and memories. Some are good, but most I'd like to put out of my mind forever.
|James stayed entertained with toys |
and a big box. Gotta love being 6!
It might sound angry and melodramatic, but there is a big piece of me that would love to smash these items on the brickwork outside. To see these plates and vases and stupid trinkets blown to dust would be an enormous relief.
Why? Because only then would I be guaranteed to never see them again. As morbid and sad as it is to think about now, my dad is 62. I will help him move, and move again as his life changes, but there will be a day that this stuff no longer has an owner and I will have to face it all over again.
By the end of 2 days of hard work, I did see the light at the end of the tunnel. We'd boxed up the house and moved furniture, planned the staging of the house, and eaten two great meals together. There's still a lot left to be done, but I feel like we've tackled the hardest part this weekend.
Now I'm off to sit in the sun and piece some itsy bitsy hexies!
Let's go quilt!