Native Americans say white women have too many possessions which need dusting. As I'm doing early spring inventory at my house, I am reminded of cleaning out my mother's house a few years ago.
My mother had moved into a nursing home and because her house was to be sold, I was elected chief sorter of family items. Decisions – like a flock of barnyard geese – pecked and hissed at me. Trophies winked from the mantle in my mother's kitchen and brought up memories of the good old days when Mom and I competed in gymkhanas and horse shows together. What to do with those trophies?
After notifying my kids about their grandmother's move, and that her house would be sold, my son arrived from college. He said, "Mother, please don't sell Grandma's house where they loved me all my life. You should move in here."
Ouch, I felt a twinge of his pain. But I explained to him that I would feel isolated living by myself in Mom's house. He sadly faced the facts and chose some things of his grandfather's to save. My daughter arrived from Chicago. With a good eye, she chose furniture, paintings, antique jewelry and fans from her favorite grandmother's place.
After my daughter and son left, I sat at the kitchen table and studied a framed photo of my older brother looking handsome in his U.S. Navy pilot's uniform. Since he wasn't available to help me, I had to figure out what to do with his camping equipment, Linda Ronstadt posters, and Beach Boys albums. These items had been stored by my mother in a bomb shelter-style store room. This cement basement space, behind the furnace room, was stacked with fishing equipment, cardboard cartons stuffed with financial papers, war memorabilia, and handwritten love letters between my parents during World War II.
I was happy to find these letters, real treasures. I also discovered every letter I had written to my parents when I was in college in New York. After reading a few, I was reminded how many exciting things went on in my life in those years, such as photographing demonstrations against the Vietnam war in New York City.
But after a day sorting items into boxes labeled: save, estate sale, garage sale or trash, I was overwhelmed. Native Americans were right about white women having too many objects. Out of desperation I grimaced and invited my ex-husband to go through giant piles of family photos. "This is staggering," he said, as briefly he pitched in. Then he said smoothly, "Could I have your mother's turquoise covered longhorn skull? And also the model of the B-24 your father was shot down in?"
No, yes, I mean no, not so fast. Help me, God.
The family accountant showed up and helped with the numbers. We looked at the framed photos of Mom with congressmen and senators on the wall of her office.
With mixed feelings of relief to get the house cleaned out and longing for the past, I wondered what it all meant. Did God have a plan? I shoved my grief deep down inside, but it was like an ocean wave that surged forth at high tide.
But eventually I got the job done, with most of my hair intact, and life moved on. I sold Mom's house for a fair price and put the money in her account. She enjoyed the nursing home, not having so much stuff to worry about. She enjoyed a good life and is gone now.
Now as I get ready for spring cleaning in my own house, I go through my inventory. I still have all the letters from Mom's house and haven't read them yet. But along with that I have too much on paper, too many photos, too many cell phone chargers.
Maybe the Indians are right. I'm a white woman collecting too much dusty stuff. My husband and I have talked about setting up a tipi in the back yard where we could go meditate on the theory of simplicity.
It might be a good idea before it's too late and my kids are sorting through my things and saying, "Why the heck did she have three backpacks, ten pairs of sunglasses and 15 purses? And why did she keep those notebooks full of those columns she wrote?"
"You better not throw those out," I'll warn from beyond.
Mary Stobie is finishing her untitled book containing her best columns from the last 30 years. Mary's book contains new material about her life in Hollywood acting in films, writing screenplays and performing standup comedy, before she became a column writer.