The Snow Man

Tonight I got my snowblower out for the first time this season. Mother nature has thankfully not seen fit to really sock it to our part of Michigan yet, but enough snow had accumulated over the past several days to make it worthwhile to retrieve the snowblower from the depths of the garage and get it out on the street. Snowblowing is a manly sort of activity. Any activity that starts with mixing oil and gasoline is manly in my book. Basic, elemental type stuff. The possibility of explosions and burning down the garage. Excellent! I really wouldn't want to burn down the garage. The lawnmower lives in there and the lawnmower wouldn't like it. I don't think the lawnmower likes the snowblower very much, being from different seasons and all, but I digress. Once the snowblower is all fueled up we're ready to go and that's when the transformation starts. It starts with the first pull on the starter cord (no electric start for this born in Michigan, raised on pine needles, can drink Vernors without sneezing, native son. No sir!) The snowblower roars to life and announces to the entire neighborhood (and I mean ENTIRE neighborhood -This sucker is loud) that the snow situation is now under control. A feeling of invincibility comes over you; a pure testosterone rush. (I don't think it matters if you're male or female) You are suddenly Lord of the Snow, The King of the Hill and Vanquisher of Drifts. Feel my power and tremble! Snow becomes the enemy and you are Samuel L Jackson. You cop the attitude ( or 'tude for the more hip) "I want this motherf***ing snow off this motherf***ing driveway! So you conquer the driveway. Then you subdue the walk. Then you beat the sidewalk into submission. Then you look for other worlds to conquer. The neighbors walk. The neighbors sidewalk. The neighbors driveway. Then you start thinking "Hey, I've got plenty of gas, I should do the whole block!" I have, I admit, in the throes of this frenzy, snowblown my drive, walk and sidewalk, the neighbors drive, walk and sidewalk (both sides of my house) and then finished up on the rest of the sidewalk from corner to corner. If I hadn't run out of gas, I probably would have kept going. I swear if you live in Michigan and don't ski, this is the best reason to stay here in the winter. It's visceral sensation, an affirmation that the season can be beaten (or in this case, thrown) back from your door. So suit up warriors, dress warmly, fire up your machines and head out into glory. Just be sure to look up once and awhile to make sure your surroundings are still familiar. No sense getting lost.

Toothpicks and Memories

I've been spending more time at Moms house the last few days. I finally felt it was time to contact a realtor about selling the house so I called one in the area and met him there on Tuesday. It was surprisingly easy to get going. I just signed a bunch of papers and gave them a set of keys. They were quick. The next day there was a big for sale sign in the front yard. Now I really have to get going on emptying out the contents. It was weird when we first started parceling out Mom's stuff amongst myself, my brother and my sister, but it gradually became routine. Now that we are past all of the major stuff; cars, furniture, appliances, we are down to the personal level. This is strange. Examining anothers life at the detail level spawns strange thoughts. Why, for instance, did Mom have 17 tweezers. They were everywhere. In the bathroom, the hall closet, the bedroom, the drawer in the table in the living room. And emery boards. Apparently, though she never talked about it, she was deprived basic manicure supplies as a child. It's kind of funny. I lived in that house for nearly twenty years and never noticed this while I was there. I guess one does not pick up each and every thing that belongs to someone else while they are still around. It's only when you have to examine each item and decide "keep" or "not keep" that you get this view of a persons life. Why did she keep this thing? I will never know. I will never know the memories that each item invoked whenever she looked at them. I think that is part of what pains me to make these decisions for these types of things. What did Mom see in this that I can't? Is this precious, or just some junk that she probably had forgotten she even had? Was it a gift from a grandchild or niece or nephew? Did Dad buy it for her for her birthday or as a surprise? Was it Dads? Was it even hers or was it borrowed from someone else? Perhaps it belonged to Grandma. I fear that I am throwing away someone's memories. Someone's life. The little things that defined them. Things that will have no meaning to the next owner and that seems terribly sad. Sad because I wish I knew the memory. However if I did, it would be a hundred times harder to make the decisions I have to make. I can't keep everything. I don't want everything. I have kept plenty. I guess I would like the items new home to know something about them, not just be anonymous pieces for sale in a consignment shop somewhere. But how much of a story can there really be behind 17 tweezers? I'm probably just a little overwhelmed by it. People amass a lot of stuff in the course of a lifetime. Consider how many pictures you have. Consider how many hairbrushes you have. How many toothpick holders you own. How many spoons. After I've been at it for awhile, I switch into express mode. "Ok, here's the consignment box, here's the Salvation Army box, and here's the box for the curb. Let's fill'em up." But that's when I'm sure I'm being hasty. I brought home six teaspoons yesterday. I mean the kind used for stirring tea. The long handled variety. They weren't particularly special. Made in Japan. Stainless steel. Ordinary. I just thought they were cool. I have no use for them. Someday, when someone is looking at the contents of my life, they are going to wonder if I had a secret tea fetish. What a cruel trick to play on your decendants. Start laying in little caches of bizzare stuff for them to find after you're gone. "Dad had 30 cribbage boards! Why? He didn't play cribbage. Neither did Mom. I never once heard him talk about cribbage. Should we keep them?" I guess some things will always be a mystery. That's part of the sadness of loosing someone. No more time to ask "Why so many tweezers Mom? How many toothpick holders did you think you needed? Who gave you the blue bowl?" I guess I can make up my own stories now. "Mom was raised in a time when nailcare was only for royalty and she vowed that one day she would have as many nailclippers as a queen would have. And she realized her dream." Perhaps then I can part with them, knowing that she had her time with them and now it's someone else's turn. And then I can really say goodbye.