Almost four years ago, my father died after several years of poor health. I’m cleaning out what’s left of his belongings this month at his house in Kent. Lucky me, my relatives did most of the heavy lifting. Almost all the furniture is gone except a couple of lamps and an end table and old dresser that was used to store photographs in the basement. They cleared out most of the items during the past few years while they rented the place from me while they saved money to purchase a house.

I don’t go back to Kent often. For many years I only went when guilted into it, at Christmas. “You should visit more often.”
“It would be nice to see you more.”
“My how you’ve grown (older).”
All of these comments were met with a dead silence as I stared back at the person speaking these words thinking to myself that if I’d rather be stuck in an elevator with a diarrhetic pony than be there for more than the once a year obligatory holiday visit.

I liked the life I had created for myself in Columbus, which was far enough away from the neurosis of a strict Catholic mother with poorly treated mental illness. I don’t mean to speak of mental illness disparagingly because I no longer find it to be a lousy excuse for shortcomings. I’ve come to realize that it is actually a very good excuse for shortcomings. But when you are 14 and the shortcoming is your mother, you do not see things this way.

One particular day while waiting for a light to turn green, I suddenly realized that I could stop waiting for the weekly phone call laden with drama that would invariably come from her as it always did because it wouldn’t happen. It.would.never.happen.again. Although she had passed away a year prior to this green light moment, the stress hangover still weighed heavily on my chest and in my head most days. That day the hangover lifted and it has rarely returned.

The few exceptions have been when I was faced with a visit to Kent. BAM, that hangover hit me in the back of the head and forced me to come up for air. For many years, I would develop hives on my way home and my stomach would turn in knots. By the time I arrived, I was edgy. Triggers shape-shifted to look and sound like my mother as they creeped in from the shadows. My fresh cigarette pack was empty by the time I pulled in the driveway. I had an excuse to go out. Which I did, for most of the remaining visit.

I enjoyed visiting my father during the last decades of his life, although he had his own neurosis, which were more funny than not. On a recent trip, I drove down a hill not far from my father’s house, and told Sean that this was the hill my father refused to drive on because he claimed that the driving on the hill would “ruin the car”. As you can imagine, stories like this chipped away at the credibility I once had for my father as a young child. The more I protested, the more he doubled-down, telling me his mechanic had warned him not to drive on hills like this. I finally gave up and resigned myself to experience the hill only when someone other than my father was driving (my mother did not drive due to anxiety issues). Since aforementioned hill was on a main street in town, I still had plenty of opportunities to enjoy the hill, but not so many opportunities to believe the stories my father told me in the future.

Finally – on to what this post is about – Collections. Boxes of collected Hummel figurines, glassware, heirloom Bavarian and German tea sets, candy dishes, candle holders, greeting cards, wedding invitations, along with their program, napkin, and map to the rehearsal dinners, the list goes on. This is what I spent many hours the past two weeks sorting through and boxing up to donate. Some items I’ll attempt to sell, as they may be worth a small amount, from the little research I’ve done. I’m not sure whether I have the energy to prep them to sell. Both the physical and mental aspect of this clutter has already made me tired.

Collecting for collecting sake is something I can not justify. My only collections that take up real estate in my house are books, some rare bootleg and import music CDs, and a stack of Rolling Stone magazines from the 80s. Nostalgia is definitely a factor with all this, but I have attempted to curtail what I can. My book rules are as follows: Kindle if available. Library if not. Hard copy only if the book is so great that I want to share it with friends. Like most rules, I don’t always follow them.

I suppose when I die, someone will complain about having to pack up all my stuff. But unlike a piece of porcelain, china, or ceramic, the item will hopefully be something someone somewhere can unpack on their terms, in their time, and make it their own discovery as so many songs and books have been for me. The experience I get from a thing is much more meaningful than the thing itself.

I pulled out of my dad’s driveway this afternoon, car full of boxes, the sun setting as flakes of snow hit the pavement. I headed home, away from a place that hasn’t meant home to me in a very long time. The axiom “You can always go home” may apply to all of us, but I think it begs the extension “if you want to.” I listened to the New York Dolls on my drive, as Sylvain Sylvain recently died. The lyrics to Human Being shouted at me.
And if I want too many things
Don’t you know that
I’m a human being

So many people from my parent’s generation seemed to want lots of things. Perhaps this is a delayed effect of the Great Depression when so many of their parents did without. Many of my friends (but thankfully not as many as I once had) want lots of things. Packing up all these things made me realize I have enough of everything. Except maybe books. More music would be nice. And some old Rolling Stone magazines.