askyermom

In the course of sorting my mother’s things a few years ago, I held out hope of finding a different sort of treasure. She had a mountain of costume jewelry that was mingled with a few interesting pieces, and she had some peculiar collections, like an embarrassment of Smithsonian replicas, but they were just in the way. What I was looking for was my grandfather’s stories. [The mailman grandfather, not the weatherman].

In my imagination, there was a footlocker of files with all his stories and genealogy correspondence. He used a typewriter and carbon paper and later had copies made to safeguard his work. In my grandparents’ little office, which we called The Ivy Room, there was at least one file cabinet, possibly two. Remembering the formality of naming a room is delightful to me now. The house was not grand, just a midcentury suburban brick home with wood print paneling downstairs, a lime green bathroom complete with lime green toilet and mono-mosaic lime green tiles, and a miniature kitchen that would make a tiny home enthusiast scoff.

Maybe I should have a Morning Room or maybe I will call my office The Open Channel Room. Hello, Guest!! You will be sleeping in the Moon Room tonight if that’s all right. We employ the Dutch Method in all the bedrooms, so you’ll have to bring your own curtains if you cannot adapt. The Feng Shui in the Moon Room makes up for the purple walls and you’ll fall asleep before you even notice how cozy you are.

Anyway.

During all the previous paper sifting, I was disappointed. I found ten year old electricity bills and an infinite number of pencil budgets. Mom had a purely chaotic financial diary method and documented the chronic optimism that always led her to over spending. It didn’t make me smile before, but it does now.

After about a year of pretending the remaining papers weren’t there in the basement, I decided to purge the tax records. In front of the tax box, there was a trash bag containing other papers. I almost didn’t look at them. They were already in a trash bag, after all. Laziness would suggest they should continue on their journey to the dump.

Instead of assuming, I pulled the papers out. How had I not seen them before? Did I give up going through this bag because my phone rang or some other non-estate estate business diverted my attention? That time is a blur now. I did stuff. I talked to a lot of people. I got Mom’s previous dogs stowed away with her ashes like an Eqyptian queen who was cool with being cremated. [Another story.]

With improbable neatness, piled in the bag were my grandfathers stories and letters. It’s not a huge cache of material after all, and I am beginning to think my imagination conjured up a more prolific writing practice for him. It’s true that when he wasn’t working he was drinking, so maybe that explains it. I then remembered that my mother, who often lied, said that his letters were quite cruel and she had destroyed the ones she thought were too unkind for preservation.

Is that true? Is my memory (or momory) to be trusted here?

There is a special sort of emotional weariness that sets in in these situations. This is why people who are grieving or dealing with delaying grief can struggle so much with simple decisions. I think that’s correct. I remember being unable to decide on a sandwich in a hospital cafeteria. It felt like the choice of chicken salad or tuna salad was a calculus beyond my ability.

Neither thing seems to matter and sometimes that soggy sandwich is surprisingly wonderful and that’s how you know you are hungry.

I may avoid the basement for another year. I’ll just be here in the Open Channel Room in the meantime.

Love,
yermom

The electronic edition is released!! Don’t Eat Your Children is available at most retailers for download and mail order. It may be on Hoopla.. I can’t tell!! The paperback is cheaper than the hardback edition and every bit as much fun, if you don’t care about dust covers. Try this independent site: Bookshop.org. If you subscribe to my newsletter or my parenting substack, you will be in the loop for whatever comes next.
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