Yesterday, I wrote on how one goes through a mental journey as you process the hoarding, the cleanups, the care of elders and their deaths. Well, a moment happened today with an inanimate object…my dad’s old car. A vintage car by now, I had held onto it for years while my mom was alive and with the off chance one of my three sons might want to refurbish it. But, alas, no one appeared to have the capacity/money to do that. So, I decided to sell the car…a 1965 Chevrolet S/W with a unique 396 cu. in. engine that gave it that special status…at least to us. The car had great significance to me because my dad was a hell of a man. He gave me many outdoor experiences with that ‘rig’ and touched my life forever.
So, I snapped some pics of the car. I talked to the new owner, a nice man. I felt this was a good thing: further closure; loose ends contained; the memories maintained not dissipated. I didn’t stick around to watch it roll off the lot. I said my goodbyes to the ‘rig’ and drove away.
From there, I drove down to my Aunt’s house. The garage door company showed yesterday and tore out the old door. This was suggested as necessary before they could even give me an estimate for a new door. By tearing out the old door it revealed secreted crap above….more stuff, more metal, more wood, more stuff. Another drop box appears to be in order…a smaller one, but there is more stuff to bring down and sort and most of it is dank and tainted by that smell that never, ever goes away once it impregnates stuff. So, a work day of the old variety this coming week and part of next weekend.