“So Mom wrapped the bookshelf in Christmas paper to hide the mess,” Ron said.
One of my husband’s favorite stories revolves around his mother’s entrance into hoarding. Preparing for family dinner, the small bookshelf in the corner overflowed with papers, receipts, photos, news clippings, and other odds and ends filled the three shelves on the hip-high pressed wood fixture.
For the last decade of marriage, I’ve listened to the story many times, but tonight I saw the remnants of the tale. Since Ron’s dad passed away last week, we’ve started cleaning out the memory-filled house. For years, the dining room remained unusable, stacked to eye level with boxes, bags, and other odds and ends, becoming a storage room.
After working for hours, I noticed the torn green Christmas wrapping paper still partially attached to the sides and top of the small piece of furniture. Instantly Ron’s story came to mind, “There it is,” I thought to myself, proof of my Honey’s story.
As I peeled pieces of scotch tape from the top of the fixture, I regretted not taking a picture before I cleaned it off. Picturing my mother-in-law Page, wrapping the shelves, proud of herself for her ingenuity, made me smile. I will never forget noticing the bookshelf in the corner with wrapping paper hanging from it, smiling to myself, knowing the history behind it.
“Dwayne’s kids weren’t born yet, and they’re in college now, so that’s what? Twenty-some years ago? Yeah, Mom was in her sixties when she started hoarding.”
Ron loved recalling the Thanksgiving dinner his Mom wrapped the bookshelf. Cousin Dwayne noticed and asked her about the large green present in the corner.
Just like the small black pieces of tap lining the garage floor.
“I told Dad, every time he crossed the black tape with stuff he owe me a steak dinner from Outback.”
Ron cleaned out the garage so he could host band practice with his friend in highschool. But alas, his Dad couldn’t keep from straying past the black piece of tape with his own form of hoarding, eventually filling the entire garage with junk. And Ron never did get a steak dinner.
Built in 1974, the Morrison home holds many fond family memories.
“It took 40 years to collect this much junk, and three hours to clean it out,” Ron said.
“There’s a lesson in that,” I replied.
We spend too much time worrying about stuff and not enough time living life to the fullest. One day someone will clean out our stuff, things we valued will have no value to them. Building our treasure in heaven will never fail us, living life for the Lord, and not getting too attached to things of this world will help us experience life in abundance.
Bob and Page lived their lives faithfully for the Lord. Their reputation of kindness precedes them.
“Your father was a kind man. He would call just to see how I was.” Neighbor Ray said when he offered his condolences learning of Bob’s passing. His sincere sadness poured from his body language, as well as his words of compassion for us.
“Now we don’t have to do this all tonight. We can pace ourselves.” Ron said on Tuesday night as we headed over for another night of cleaning out.
“We’ll get it done!” I replied.
How niave of me. I hadn’t seen the attic over the garage, filled to the max, barely able to get into it. Bob won, no way would we finish this in a night.
I wish I’d taken pictures of the garage and dining room before we cleaned them out. At least I took a picture of the attic.
Beth Morrison 