The Room of Requirement
Jul. 11th, 2017 06:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
underusedAfter dad left the house it stood uninhabited for one year. My brother checked in; he cut the grass to keep things from looking abandoned. Our across-the-road neighbour kept his eye out for anything odd. We drove back and forth from the city on the weekends we could. But even after we'd decided to take the place, there were considerations. We had jobs and commitment, so the house waited.
There was a smell when you opened the door, like a cottage after winter. Though we kept the furnace circulating, there was always a hint of rising damp. It was the smell of the dirt basement, stale air, and mice. I put sonic repellents in the outlets. Then, when you opened the door, there was a smell and a buzzing. And the house was full of stuff.
My parents grew up in the war. My parents were immigrants. My parents were poor. All of that is to say my parents were pack-rats. Not hoarders, quite (although dad did his best towards the end), but prone to keeping things and susceptible to a bargain. Between their large family and a desire for stability, they favoured massive, solid furniture--especially heavy wood cabinets with lots of shelves and cubbies. Every room was full of stuff, and all that stuff was full of stuff. But it was okay; Mom was fastidious. Everything had a place.
Seven years after she died, the downstairs hallway had become impenetrable, piled with things dad bought but wouldn't let anyone install (or rejected but wouldn't let us remove). He would shuffle past it sometimes, survey it, make plans. That's the new medicine cabinet [x] brought. Maybe we'll put it in next weekend. Even as he said it, we both knew it wouldn't happen. (The old one was there when we moved in.) There was a brand new dishwasher still in its wrappings. There was nowhere for it in the kitchen anyway.
When the old windows were replaced, things in harm's way were moved to carefully labelled boxes. By then dad was no longer able to get up the stairs and certain things deemed problematic (for whatever reason) were relegated to the second floor. The master bedroom remained mostly uncluttered (it's where we slept when we came to visit), but every other room slowly filled with junk and dust and sadness. Outside, there was a "temporary" tent. It was meant to hold the old windows until dad decided what to do with them, but he never did. It filled too, and remained until the top disintegrated and my brother replaced it with tarps.
The first year we started working on the place in earnest, we removed truckloads of furniture and skips of trash. One rainy day we emptied the tent. When we finally cleared the hallway, I wept in disbelief and gratitude.
When my friend was working on her PhD at a university nearby, I told her she and her boyfriend could live here rent free. The summer before they moved in there was a mad push to remove extraneous furniture and broken appliances. We boxed up anything boxable and piled it in my old bedroom.
Since then, we've done a lot, but that room has remained. It's literally filled with my mother's collections of ceramic and crystal, old projectors and cameras, 78 records, stained glass lamps, board games, books. They are the things that, after three years, still mean something--remnants of another life (though perhaps not my own or anyone else's). One whole corner is our stuff because there's still nowhere to put it. It feels like a failing or a dormant genetic disorder. I keep the door closed. I scowl when I pass.
Yesterday, my sisters and I filled eight boxes with things that suffocate me to keep and break my heart to give away. The upstairs hall is almost impenetrable, but it won't be for long. This morning, everyone is still sleeping. Outside hangs a thick white fog. It's hard to see.
There was a smell when you opened the door, like a cottage after winter. Though we kept the furnace circulating, there was always a hint of rising damp. It was the smell of the dirt basement, stale air, and mice. I put sonic repellents in the outlets. Then, when you opened the door, there was a smell and a buzzing. And the house was full of stuff.
My parents grew up in the war. My parents were immigrants. My parents were poor. All of that is to say my parents were pack-rats. Not hoarders, quite (although dad did his best towards the end), but prone to keeping things and susceptible to a bargain. Between their large family and a desire for stability, they favoured massive, solid furniture--especially heavy wood cabinets with lots of shelves and cubbies. Every room was full of stuff, and all that stuff was full of stuff. But it was okay; Mom was fastidious. Everything had a place.
Seven years after she died, the downstairs hallway had become impenetrable, piled with things dad bought but wouldn't let anyone install (or rejected but wouldn't let us remove). He would shuffle past it sometimes, survey it, make plans. That's the new medicine cabinet [x] brought. Maybe we'll put it in next weekend. Even as he said it, we both knew it wouldn't happen. (The old one was there when we moved in.) There was a brand new dishwasher still in its wrappings. There was nowhere for it in the kitchen anyway.
When the old windows were replaced, things in harm's way were moved to carefully labelled boxes. By then dad was no longer able to get up the stairs and certain things deemed problematic (for whatever reason) were relegated to the second floor. The master bedroom remained mostly uncluttered (it's where we slept when we came to visit), but every other room slowly filled with junk and dust and sadness. Outside, there was a "temporary" tent. It was meant to hold the old windows until dad decided what to do with them, but he never did. It filled too, and remained until the top disintegrated and my brother replaced it with tarps.
The first year we started working on the place in earnest, we removed truckloads of furniture and skips of trash. One rainy day we emptied the tent. When we finally cleared the hallway, I wept in disbelief and gratitude.
When my friend was working on her PhD at a university nearby, I told her she and her boyfriend could live here rent free. The summer before they moved in there was a mad push to remove extraneous furniture and broken appliances. We boxed up anything boxable and piled it in my old bedroom.
Since then, we've done a lot, but that room has remained. It's literally filled with my mother's collections of ceramic and crystal, old projectors and cameras, 78 records, stained glass lamps, board games, books. They are the things that, after three years, still mean something--remnants of another life (though perhaps not my own or anyone else's). One whole corner is our stuff because there's still nowhere to put it. It feels like a failing or a dormant genetic disorder. I keep the door closed. I scowl when I pass.
Yesterday, my sisters and I filled eight boxes with things that suffocate me to keep and break my heart to give away. The upstairs hall is almost impenetrable, but it won't be for long. This morning, everyone is still sleeping. Outside hangs a thick white fog. It's hard to see.
no subject
Date: 2017-07-12 10:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-07-12 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-07-12 02:10 pm (UTC)The neighbours are long-time family friends. Their boys grew up with my mom and her siblings, and they've been like an extra set of grandparents to me my whole life. At the height of their sons' cleaning frenzy, assorted hilarious crap kept mysteriously appearing in my parents' yard: an enormous wire-frame of a star, wrapped in silver tinsel and covered in Christmas lights, a large pair of realistically painted ceramic chickens, wind chimes. (My parents still have the chickens. They are nestled very proudly in my mom's front flowerbed. She pats them on the head whenever she walks by.) It was heartening to see them having fun with something that was otherwise exhausting and frustrating and sad.
no subject
Date: 2017-07-12 08:21 pm (UTC)Some nice things happened, though. We found a box of little soaps and toothbrushes from Japan Airlines (my aunt was a flight attendant in the 60s and 70s). Among them was a little box of men's soap labeled "Duke and Forsyth Superior Soap." It smelled exactly--EXACTLY--like my grandfather. He died when I was 12, but the scent was unmistakable.
no subject
Date: 2017-07-13 05:15 am (UTC)