The stuff may be gone but memories still remain

The last of a number of dump loads hit the scales at the Valley Transfer Station at a shade over 760 pounds.

In large part this was not unlike a hundred other trips to unload a trailer full of junk, but there were some differences, most notably this time my wife was riding “shotgun.”

This was not a first I was reminded, but relatively rare. Sexist as it is, I do the dirty work at the dump, she scrubs the toilets at home – neither being either of our favorites but jobs that must be done.

Coupled with a meeting at the closing attorney’s office in just a few days to sign the final papers, one of those chapters in our family’s lives you never really give much thought to has it’s final entry as the home my wife’s mother occupied for the past 43 years becomes someone else’s property.

“Jan from Spokane,” as she loved to be called, passed away this past February at age 82. All things considered it was something we all knew would happen sooner rather than later, but as with all death we’re never really quite prepared when it arrives.

That trip to the transfer station not only shed the last batch of stuff that wasn’t fit for another person’s use but along the way a few tears, too.

Because while there had been at least three similar drives with trailer in tow, numerous trips to Goodwill, visits from Volunteers of America and an estate sale to clear the place for the next family, this was it, the final time we’d sweat and fret.

The race to prepare the place for sale while the market was good was a six-month marathon with a summer sprint at the end to empty rooms of furniture and closets of clothes and shoes. And as much as we were able to vacate the place of stuff, fond memories will always remain.

I nervously met my future in-laws there 39 years ago for the first time and wondered just what the heck manicotti was. I hoped I’d like it, that I didn’t have to pick out any mushrooms, because up ‘til then I had a painfully boring history with food.

A couple of years later the home hosted leg-two of our wedding reception, a party of epic proportions around the swimming pool. Two things stand out from that day over and above the wedding.

One was Jan emerging from the house and yelling in her raspy voice the question, “Is everybody having a good time?” That appeared evident when our friend Sonny dove into the pool in his wool suit. So much for another wearing.

It was amazingly to think that 35 years ago this Thanksgiving we held the first public unveiling of our first-born there. And since we know babies do not come with any type of owners’ manual, how were my wife and I to know to bring a spare outfit in case of a diaper explosion?

For decades a Christmas Eve party for both family and friends kicked off our holiday celebrations. Starting as toddlers, our kids opened gifts prior to the arrival of other family and friends. Later in the evening the home was always abuzz with the hum of dozens of conversations and fun that lasted to all hours of the night.

Perhaps one of the most fitting gatherings might have been the final Christmas Eve spent in the home a couple of years ago, one that featured four generations with “Nana” on one end of the age spectrum and her great grandson, Logan the other.

Through all that has gone on in the emotional roller-coaster ride of the past year, my wife and I have vowed to make sure one thing does not repeat itself when it’s time for our kids to assist us moving.

We’ve already started the process of cleaning out closets, shelves, nooks and crannies and clearing the clutter to cut down on tearful trailer loads.

Paul Delaney can be reached at [email protected].