How do you move after thirty years in the same four-bedroom house? That was the question Marjorie and Thomas had to answer, quickly. The buyer had asked for a thirty-day escrow.
They started packing boxes. Well, at least they tried to pack boxes. Marjorie kept spending time looking at every object, some she’d forgotten she owned and some she hadn’t looked at in years. There seemed to be a story attached to every vase and platter.
At first Thomas listened respectfully as she recounted the narratives. But after two days, the path down memory lane was using up energy and precious hours. He became impatient with her, and she became testy with him. After forty-five years of marriage, they rarely argued. But this project seemed to be putting an end to that blissful tranquility.
Thomas was able to sort through things easily, tossing whatever he didn’t want in the rapidly growing “give-away pile” and never looking back. Unlike Marjorie, he wasn’t emotionally attached to the memories the objects generated. He viewed it as a job that had to be completed within a designated timeline and he intended to accomplish the goal.
Marjorie on the other hand was almost paralyzed with the thought of giving her things away and deciding what to keep. They would be moving to in-law quarters within the home of her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren, so space was limited.
After a week of creating piles in every room of the house, she was in tears. Which pile was which? Making a huge mess had been her only major accomplishment. This inability to be decisive and selective had never been part of her psyche. Stuff, she believed, had always been just stuff.
When she got to her study and had to sort through about a thousand books, tears turned into pathetic weeping. She didn’t understand what was happening. She had been looking forward to less responsibility and the upkeep a two-story house required. She wouldn’t miss those damn stairs for sure. What a gift it would be to see her grandchildren every day and help with their upbringing. Why so unhappy now?
She plopped down in the rocking chair, the one purchased the month before her daughter was born. The old Bentwood with all its creaks had rocked every child in the family; nieces, nephews, friends’ babies and now grandchildren, grandnieces and grandnephews. Wiping the snot and tears, she did what she should have done a week ago, sat quietly for a while and pondered her misery.
Maybe it was the rocking motion itself or the magic of the old Bentwood, but she felt soothed for the first time in a long while. She realized all the frustration and fighting with her husband was about more than objects. Psychologically, she felt she wasn’t just giving items away, she was relinquishing her autonomy, piece by piece. Ah, sorting through that mess was where she should begin.
— Mugsy
They started packing boxes. Well, at least they tried to pack boxes. Marjorie kept spending time looking at every object, some she’d forgotten she owned and some she hadn’t looked at in years. There seemed to be a story attached to every vase and platter.
At first Thomas listened respectfully as she recounted the narratives. But after two days, the path down memory lane was using up energy and precious hours. He became impatient with her, and she became testy with him. After forty-five years of marriage, they rarely argued. But this project seemed to be putting an end to that blissful tranquility.
Thomas was able to sort through things easily, tossing whatever he didn’t want in the rapidly growing “give-away pile” and never looking back. Unlike Marjorie, he wasn’t emotionally attached to the memories the objects generated. He viewed it as a job that had to be completed within a designated timeline and he intended to accomplish the goal.
Marjorie on the other hand was almost paralyzed with the thought of giving her things away and deciding what to keep. They would be moving to in-law quarters within the home of her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren, so space was limited.
After a week of creating piles in every room of the house, she was in tears. Which pile was which? Making a huge mess had been her only major accomplishment. This inability to be decisive and selective had never been part of her psyche. Stuff, she believed, had always been just stuff.
When she got to her study and had to sort through about a thousand books, tears turned into pathetic weeping. She didn’t understand what was happening. She had been looking forward to less responsibility and the upkeep a two-story house required. She wouldn’t miss those damn stairs for sure. What a gift it would be to see her grandchildren every day and help with their upbringing. Why so unhappy now?
She plopped down in the rocking chair, the one purchased the month before her daughter was born. The old Bentwood with all its creaks had rocked every child in the family; nieces, nephews, friends’ babies and now grandchildren, grandnieces and grandnephews. Wiping the snot and tears, she did what she should have done a week ago, sat quietly for a while and pondered her misery.
Maybe it was the rocking motion itself or the magic of the old Bentwood, but she felt soothed for the first time in a long while. She realized all the frustration and fighting with her husband was about more than objects. Psychologically, she felt she wasn’t just giving items away, she was relinquishing her autonomy, piece by piece. Ah, sorting through that mess was where she should begin.
— Mugsy
After living in the same house for over 36 years, I feel her pain. Good job.
ReplyDeleteGreat writing. The different approaches to the situation. I can relate.
ReplyDeleteThis is really good. I do identify with Marjorie (and coincidentally named my character in my writin tonight the same name!). I don't have kids or a four-bedroom house, but the feelings will likely be the same, if I ever leave my house. I WISH my husband were like Thomas, but my husband is attached to objects too! My favorite line, Mugsy, is: "...she did what she should have done a week ago, sat quietly for a while and pondered her misery." So important! ----Macoff
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