It’s in the cards

Part of moving is shedding the accumulated past in order to move forward.

Clean those closets! Toss the crap that weighs down the soul and pocketbook. Ghosts of the past that linger in corners like dust bunnies of memories and experiences. Just anything that no longer “fits” and won’t transfer well to a new space.

I’m the keeper of things. As the only daughter, the only granddaughter on my father’s side I was left most everything from that family. When my aunt died, what I didn’t take was left in black trash bags on my aunt’s companion’s lawn where he placed everything because he couldn’t find the will that left him him half of her sizable estate. The bags of her life sat there in the rain and sun for close to three years until the city forced him to have it all hauled off.

My mother’s side of the family was huge. I’m not quite sure how many kids. Was there 13? 15? I never could get a straight answer. The Rocky Mountain News used to publish anniversary announcements in the paper and I have the one for my grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary in 1969. At that point I was one of 69 grandchildren. ‘X’ amount of great grandchildren and ‘XX’ amount of great grandchildren. But my mother always told me I was the only one in the family related to Princess Diana but when I pointed out that meant she had to have sex with Diana’s father, she didn’t talk to me for two years.

The Shed

But I digress. The shed. It houses lots of things I don’t want to deal with. Books that Emmett wrote and that any 8-extra vessel acupuncture students would kill for. Emmett left a trail of human wreckage behind him. Getting free from the dojo was tough. But I did it, but not until he turned on me. I worked hard to create distance. To quote my father, my philosophy towards this person is, “Don’t go away mad, just go away.” But yet the books remain. Laters.

Peggy’s extremely expensive 9 x 12 carpet. I never asked for it – she just brought it up one day. I don’t know why. Jack promptly puked on it. The rug taunts me because I ruined it by trying to clean it up and the stain only got bigger and bigger. Later, I rolled the carpet and put it in the shed. Mice ate ALL the fringe off the edge. The fringe that Peg would get down on her hands and knees and ‘brush’ after each client between counseling sessions. I never told her.

There’s also ALL of my piano music from ‘Morning Prayer’ to Schumann’s ‘Papillon’ to ‘Allegro de Concierto’ to all five of John Thompson’s Modern Course for the Piano to the jazz fake sheets designed to stimulate improvisation. I studied my ass off. But, no piano, no mo.

Box 1

But first things first.

Closest to the door was a box festooned with spider webs, dead bugs, live bugs, that even managed to get inside the box. I swept off as much as I could and left the box outside for a few days, up against the house where it’s hottest. The box is full of cards. Lots and lots of cards. Cards and letters and postcards.

The cards are store-bought and/or handmade. There are congratulations, birthdays, ‘how ya doin’ notes, announcements, and lots and lots of letters. The box earliest postmark I found is 1954.

I’m on day four. The stuff inside the box makes me sneeze because the dust of the past gets in the air and on your hands.

I’ve thrown away most of the cards. Cards from dear friends from the past, stuff from my ex-husband’s family that was the easiest stuff to toss. I kept missives from my grandmother and aunt, handmade cards from my kids and letters from my oldest as she transitioned from being a kid to to an adulthood as she traveled the world.

But let’s talk about the stuff from the ex-in-laws. In the late 70s and early 80s, my MIL would include a letter with each card. A thoughtful note filled with love and support, written in perfect Catholic school penmanship. She’s kind and loving and remembers the tiniest details. At some point she turned her bitch-o-meter to the red zone. When I divorced her son, she told me I was a bad wife and told the family that Jill and Paul weren’t her son’s biological kids. I remember her at the end as mean as a Jersey snake but it was important to remember she was once a loving person. I’ not sure what happened. Can’t ask her. She’s dead.

Keith

As I sort through it I realize a man I used to work with had a major crush on me. I’ve come across about 25 cards from him. Given to me at work or mailed to my house. Now, Keith was harmless and sweet. He was a gentle giant with equally big sense of humor. He’d laugh at all my jokes or witticisms. He had a real knack for finding the the most off-beat cartoonish cards. He’d go to Skagg’s drug store nearly every lunch hour and buy cards and lotto tickets. Sometimes he’d bring back bags of candy. We sat across from each other and I always went to him when I had systems correction issues at Public Service, now called Xcel. I tossed all those cards.

Past practices

People used to send cards and letters all the time. Before the internet it was a real thing. Stamps were fun to buy. All kinds of stamps were available. I still have quite the stamp collection from before 1990. To mail a card was 25 cents. Postcards were cheaper. But the stamp was as important as what was in the envelope. Don’t put a Flag Day stamp on a Christmas card. So tacky. Always keep the envelope because the postmark marked history. Do they even have postmarks these days?

And the cards were beautiful, made of wonderful materials and a full palette of colors. Friends sent funny, colorful cards with marvelous art and whimsy.

Older family members sent elegant cards with flowers and gold lettering. They provide a small update and even big events are reported in a fashion as flat as the paper its written on.

The Funniest. Ever.

There’s been one card over the decades that has stayed with me. The Carpe card. The list is worth reading:

Carpe Diem ––– Seize the day
Carpet Diem ––– Seize the carpet
Carpayment Diem ––– Seize the checkbook
Carpe Duh ––– Seize an idiot
Carp Diem ––– Fish of the day
Crampy Diem ––– Seize the Midol™
Carpe Diet ––– Seize the rice cake
Carpal Diem ––– Seize the knuckles
Carpe Dig ’em ––– Seize the Sugar Smacks™
Carnal Diem ––– Seize the smut

The closer the better

As I sort I have piles. Cards from Linda go in a plastic sleeve because we’ll get together and read the thoughts, ideas and problems we had 40+ years ago.

My kids made lots of cards. I kept those.

Kate’s the letter writer. I suspect that she’s the real writer in the family. To read her letters and remember her at those stages in her life are wonderful to read. She’s insightful and funny, she has a keen ability to sum up a person or situation in a millisecond. Now, it’s hard to get her to answer a text. She has a busy life and a text limit. Send a text. It’ll get a response. Send another text. Another response. Send another text and the conversation is done. The digital revolution, I guess.

Cards and letters from my ex-in-laws went into the trash pretty fast. Mother-in-law, father-in-law, brother-in-law, sisters-in-law are all gone. One thing that caught my attention was my ex-brother-in-law who passed away a while ago because he always sent a birthday card to my kids. Cute, cartoonish and with the sentiment, ‘Love, Uncle Rick.’ I wonder if he bought them or if my MIL did and just made him sign it. It could happen.

Many, many cards were from now long-lost friends. Close friends, people who knew me well and vice-versa. Their friendships faded as life changed us but now, almost as much as 50 years later, I have their cards. I let those go.

To Christmas or not to Christmas

Christmas cards? Unless they’re from my current friends and my family, those go. Of course the I keep the cards from my family of origin.

I stopped sending Christmas cards about 10 years ago. At this point I get cards from four people. I have lovely cards to send each year and promise myself I’m going to send them but I don’t.

My friend, Peggy was so exacting with her Christmas cards. They arrived exactly on December 1. I sent cards for a few years, then, meh. She continued to send me cards. There wasn’t enough in her house to display all the cards she received. She exchanged Christmas cards with nearly every person she had a relationship with throughout her entire life. Sadly she passed a few years ago. I wondered what happened to her treasure trove of Christmas cards because I KNOW she saved them all.

I remember that first year of separation from my then-husband a few months before the divorce date was set. That year I sent out a ton of cards to my family, friends and my ex’s family, just as in years past. We always received cards in return. Christmas that year was business as usual. I sent cards from me and my kids. I didn’t include my ex, because he had already had another family. Plus, he’d never sent a Christmas card in his life. That was my job. Most of Christmas was my job.

That year, out of the probably 25 cards I sent, I received one in return. I decided then that meant there’s one less chore to do next Christmas.

The art of writing

Now, writing a note in a card is a tricky business. If you want to include a thought or two, do you write across the top of entire card or just use say, just the left side? Space planning was important because starting at the bottom of the card meant you might have to continue your thought on the back of the card. It’s like, what? You can’t gauge the space of your thoughts? I’m judgy about that stuff.

These days of sorting are tough. Not that I can do this all day. It’s heavy. Emotions get stirred up. Remembering mom, my ex-in-laws, goodbye cards, and from times long past. I found a handmade Valentine from my ex, a short sentiment written in his left-handed stick-like script on a piece of construction paper. Tossed it.

I found my father’s ‘book’ he wrote. Well, more of a series newsletters about our time living in Germany. He called it the ‘Bavarian Bugle’ filled with the chronicles Germany as he saw it. He sent the pages home to family and friends. It’s really the only link I have to him. I can’t even remember his voice but it lingers somewhere in those words. He would type his adventures on his little manual, non-electric typewriter dedicating his thoughts onto pages and pages of rice paper. Side note: In the 1960s if you sent mail from Europe, the letter had to be as light as possible. Rice paper weighs almost nothing.

He typed his newsletter on a makeshift desk made from a smooth, blue-painted board placed between the twin beds my parents slept in. He’d sit on a ridiculously small stool and type away, his technique just one step above the ‘hunt and peck’ method. He produced his pages facing the door and he had a dishtowel he’d toss over what he was writing if someone entered the bedroom. I knew better than to sneak a peak at his writings. Making him mad wasn’t a good idea.

When this transition is done and I’m settled, I want to re-type all those letters. Rice paper doesn’t last forever. The stories are pretty good.

Dropping it in the box

I can’t bring myself to toss these in the recycling bin outside my house. I know it sounds silly but I’ll take them to a recycling place. It’ll cost a fortune, I know.

It’s hard letting go of some of the incredible artwork. Many are handmade and one-of-a-kind. A simple Easter brunch invitation in 1980 was Xeroxed on a piece of paper. It’s so witty and elegant despite it’s simplicity. It was also a great party. I’m keeping it.

I also found the visitor’s book for my mom’s funeral, the cross from my father’s casket, My maternal grandfather’s funeral card and my Aunt Emmy’s obituary from the Denver Post. It’s genealogy and family history. I’m lost without my mom and Aunt Emmy at family gatherings because they knew EVERYTHING about EVERYONE, including who’s kids belong to whom, who had affairs, and why Aunt Delphia had to go to a dermatologist to have her blackheads squeezed. Family gatherings were an Aladdin’s cave of stories and wonder. That’s gone now and I’m preserving what I can.

Moving brings up lots of problems, issues and memories. I’ve already parted with 5 carloads of stuff given to Goodwill, ARC and The Grove Sale in Evergreen this past weekend. Marketplace has hooked me up with people who need furniture I’m selling. Actually, not selling. So far I’ve given everything away once they show up to pick it up. All those transaction are a lot easier than dealing with the dusty past.

Except for my wood-splitter. That was hard when I had to say goodbye. We went through a lot together. We split 25+ cords, give or take a few pieces of kindling. It went to small engine mechanic who very badly wanted his own splitter so he wouldn’t have to borrow the neighbor’s. It had the small hydraulic leak he fixed within an hour after he got it home.

All this is easier than letting go over the past, the ‘evidence’ such as letters and cards. I’ll organize what I’m keeping in a better quality box. But I’m ready to leave this part of the past behind me and give it a send-off.

No stamp included.

Do not return to sender.