Mom and Dad lived in their Bradenton home together for over
33 years. Dad made no changes whatsoever after Mom died in late 2007. Except
for her clothing, which he asked my sister Susan and me to take care of right
away after she passed, the detritus of those 33 years, plus another four of Dad
on his own, remain. From the large closets of each of three bedrooms packed
from floor to ceiling with plastic containers, boxes, albums, three-ring
binders, silk floral arrangements, and sewing, quilting, and knitting supplies,
to the numerous filing cabinets filled to overflowing, to the kitchen equipment
of small appliances, every size bowl, spoon, baking dish, and pot or pan you
can imagine, not to mention the roll-away plastic bins under beds, the attic
full of decorations for every holiday, and a garage full of saved nails,
screws, washers, and other bits and pieces (because you might need that some
day), and so much, much more (have I mentioned the dinnerware and glasses
yet?), the house is a veritable junk drawer of a life saved.
I have only just begun cleaning out the house. All of the
papers—bank statements dating back to 1974, tax returns to 1954, investment
statements from every quarter since 1978, old invoices for work done on the
house over the years, old bills from Florida Power & Light, Verizon, the
Bradenton Herald, and several credit cards, as well as the Bradenton Country
Club statements—are now either in some landfill or were shredded on site by
ShredQuick, a local company franchise I highly recommend. All tolled, I
estimate I went through around 30 linear feet of paper, most of which was
moldy, dusty, suspiciously coated with tiny black specs of fecal matter, or all
three. At the end of the week during which I undertook this task, I was quite
literally sick. I should have worn one of those masks people wear when there’s
a SARS alert. Except that I’d already had my Aunt Beth get rid of all the
medical supplies in the house, and that included an unopened package of
disposable surgical masks.
There is a silver lining in all this grousing. And that is
that while pawing through one of the filing cabinets, I came across two
folders, their labels quite distinctively giving me a moment of pause. The one
was labeled “Debra – School Information” and the other labeled “Susan – School
Information.” Now, I had always suspected that my memory of my grades over the
years was a bit cheerier than the reality. I knew I was capable of doing good
work, and therefore remembered the best of what I had done and conveniently
forgotten the rest. The report cards my mother had saved proved both the former
and the latter. As to the latter, I audaciously flirted with “C’s.” And though
never as a final grade, I tried on a “D” or two along the way just to see how
it felt. This was a sort of rebellion, I suspect, since I knew my mother would
absolutely hit the ceiling upon seeing such grades, and there really wasn’t
much she could do about it. Pretty much without exception, I pulled off a “B”
or even a number of “A’s” as final grades. But those mid-term marks, comments,
and test grades? Wow, I was testing my mother’s limits. My sister, on the other
hand, consistently worked hard and has the final report cards to prove it
sitting in her file folder. Beautifully aligned “A’s” and a few “B’s” pepper
each report. But even this isn’t the point.
Placed in my folder, still in the envelope I addressed to my
mother, is a letter I wrote to her the fall of my junior year at Stetson
University. Reading between the lines, it seems as if my mother is exasperated
with my sister. I can hardly believe that this could be the case, except that
Mom was such a perfectionist that I can only surmise that even Susan’s good
report cards somehow failed to earn her a full-fledged approval. What is even
harder to believe is what I have written. I’ll let the words I wrote in 1978,
as a 20-year-old, speak for themselves.
Dear Mom,
I wish you would share some of your feelings with me. I
want to know you better. I know you as my mother, the woman who has put her
precious time and effort into making me into a woman, but, I want to know the
special person that you are. My friend Jill has such a close relationship with
her mother. They talk for hours about their ups and downs. They comfort each
other and give strength and support to each other.
So, you’re having a hard time dealing with Susan? She’s
in a world far removed from childhood now. She sees her friends ascerting [sic] their adult influences and wants to
“move with the tide.” She needs your subtle guidance more than anything now. I
don’t know what kind of a relationship you and Sues have now, but she needs
your support through her new experiences. Susan, like any fourteen-year-old,
will not take lightly to being told the way. Sometimes experience is the best
teacher. I know how hard it is to watch your children fall and pick themselves
up again. You should rejoice that you have given them the solid ground and
confidence to get up and go back fighting.
Don’t ever let it be said that we have little love or
respect for you and Dad. Your strong characters have kept me going through many
of the harsh traumas of adolescence. Please bear with Susan during these times
and open yourself up to what she reaches out for. Sometimes just a gentle hug
or “I love you” means more than all the lectures or punishments you can ever
hand a child.
I hope you can be as happy about life as I am. I owe a
great deal to you and Dad but there are many hard lessons along the way that an
individual must experience for themselves. Try not to stifle Susan’s growth in
any way. She’s responsible enough to know the difference between right and
wrong. But, she needs your wise thoughts to help sort out the grey areas.
One thing that will help is that when she comes to you
with a question—give her the reasons for your answer. “Because I said so” is not
a reason and will only create frustration in her already confused mind.
I’m writing all of this because I want you to know that
I’m concerned about what is going on there. I also want you to understand me a
little better. I also want you to feel that you have been a success with me.
You’ve taken me to this point in my life where I’m willing to take the
responsibilities of what I make of my life. Whether I make it or break it will
come mostly from myself from now on. Thanks for helping me get to this point.
Your loving daughter,
Debbie
What strikes me, beyond the absurdity of me giving my mother
parental advise, not to mention dramatic references such as “harsh traumas of
adolescence,” or now hilarious references such as describing my sister as
having an “already confused mind,” is that at 20 years old, I had already
formed the basis of my own parenting style. I had no idea until reading this
letter. And I would never have known this had Mom and Dad not been . . . okay,
I’ll say it . . . horders. Organized, to be sure. But horders, just the same.
And so, despite the enormous task still left to be done
(Does any body want a 48"x24"x10" plastic roll away bin filled
with decorative house flags? One for each holiday and season!), I am grateful
for the opportunity to view this life saved—detritus though it may be—that
explains some of me . . . to me.
Copyright DJ Anderson 2012
Copyright DJ Anderson 2012
