FYV: Lesson 8 - Handle With Care 18 August 2013

Handle With Care

   ESTATE SALE – the sign caught my eye.  “A good place to find lots of great stuff,” I thought.  I had never been to an estate sale and imagined it would be like a huge yard sale.  I turned at the corner, following the signs. Cars lined the street at the house with the Estate Sale sign in the yard.

     Inside, the living room was comfortable and inviting, with soft cream walls and traditional  furniture. Shelves of books lined one wall. A handmade afghan was draped across a pretty rocking chair, a book lay open on the side table.  A recliner with worn arms sat nearby, its owner’s pipe waiting in the ash tray. I closed my eyes and imagined an older couple sitting together in companionable silence.

     A woman bustling by jolted me back to the present. A number of people milled around the room, picking up knick-knacks off end tables and shelves, sometimes putting them back, sometimes clutching them close as they moved along.  I followed a burst of laughter into the kitchen.

     There I found a bee-hive of activity. Several women sat at a breakfast table picking through a pile of linens. Other women were going through kitchen cabinets, pulling out canned goods and dishes.  One woman unplugged the coffee maker, tucked it under her arm and moved swiftly to another room. I paused at the refrigerator to read a letter posted there.  “Dear Gram and Pop,” it began. It was from a grandson in the service. Beside it was a poem scratched on the back of an envelope.  "I was here..." it began.  In an alcove a woman was taking clothes from a dryer, periodically holding up an item for inspection before shoving it in a bag or tossing it on a growing pile of clothes on the floor. I moved on.

     In a bedroom,  a large sleigh bed was piled high with clothing, all but hiding a beautiful handmade quilt in soft, faded hues of blue and green. Family photographs covered the wall above the bed.  I watched as one woman plucked a frame from the wall and removed the picture which she tossed on the dressing table.  Other women hauled clothes from closets and riffled through dresser drawers. In one corner sat an easy chair, a basket of half finished quilt pieces on the floor.  I wandered on.

     The next room held a work table with a collection of paints and brushes, papers, pens and colored pencils. Two women browsed through a stack of scrapbooks and journals at one end. “Listen to this,” one woman nudged her companion. “Today is Wednesday and what a beautiful day it is.  The jonquils are just beginning to open up…I do believe I will try to draw them. Got a letter from Harris… Good grief, I hope when I’m old I’ll have something more exciting to write about!”  The women’s laughter faded as I drifted from the room.

     Back in the kitchen, I stood at the back door looking out upon flower beds full of colorful blooms. A bench swing nestled under an old oak tree. Bird houses and wind chimes were scattered about the yard.

     Oblivious to the hubbub of prattle behind me, I thought about the woman who had lived in this house. What had happened that so suddenly she was gone? There was so much of her essence here! She was well educated, evidenced by the diplomas hanging on the wall. She was a photographer and traveler – her photos of far-away places were breath-taking. She was an avid reader on a wide variety of subjects. She obviously loved her garden and nature.  She was an artist, and a writer. I bet she was interesting to talk to. I wish I had known her.

     How very sad that this woman, such a lover of life, had been so suddenly plucked from her home.  Strangers combing through her belonging without any thought of what they may have meant to her. Her treasures going to unfamiliar places with folks who had no knowledge of their sentimental value or regard for the memories they held. What a sad commentary to a lifetime of living!

     Sadly, I turned to leave, but first, I took the letter and the poem from the refrigerator, and put them in my pocket.

                .  .  .  .  .

I was here. I want you to know.

I had some thoughts, I wanted to grow.

I felt joy and pain; I knew laughter and tears.

I had some feelings, I had a few fears.

I was once young and so in love

With the grass ‘neath my feet, the clouds up above.

The roar of the ocean, the whisper of wind,

The people around me, the house round the bend.

Can you understand? I want you to know

That I was a person not long ago.

Not just a name or a face in a frame,

But a body with blood,-  bones and a brain.

I once was alive, like you are today –

Regard my things ‘fore you throw them away.

And know that on earth, they brought me much cheer,

Though nothing to you, to me they were dear.

My things were important to me, if not you,

They each told a story, they each held a clue

To the person I was – to what made me, me.

I want you to know; I want you to see

That each little thing handed down from another

Or brought to my home for one reason or other,

May have no value, they may not be rare,

But they’re part of me; please - handle with care.

Story and poem written by Dianne Housch Conley 18 August 2013

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