Life in a Box

You know, some things are just troubling.  And those same things can drive one crazy if dwelled upon for long periods of time.  

Yes, it is not yet 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday.  Yes, I should be sleeping in my own bed for the first time in many days.  But this has been on my mind, and I find the best way for me to erase it out of my mind is to write about it.  So here I am.  Sitting in the dark, waiting for the sunrise, listening to my husband make sleepy noises in the next room.

Through the cleaning out process at Mom and Dad's house, we have come across so many items that are baffling, along with the memory-triggers that bring laughter and tears.  Those baffling items have been the focus of my sleeplessness tonight/ this morning.  Here goes...

Mom spent her last few years living alone in the house in Wooster.  The house is a ranch style, built in the 1960s probably, and they moved into it when Dad took a position at Diamonite in Shreve in 1973.  Through the years there was painting of a few rooms, new carpet in the living room and dining area, the addition of a walk-in closet in the basement, a patio added at the downstairs outside entrance, a storage barn and relaxation area built at the left property line, and more.  But since Dad died in 2009, and even a couple of years before that, the house became more of a prison, an enclosure, a dungeon rather than a bright airy comfortable home.  What happened?

If one walked into that house six months ago, one would have felt stifled and enclosed.  All of the drapes were drawn, the blinds closed, and there was a black trash bag over the windows on the front door which was always shut and dead-bolted. Because it was so closed up, the house smelled musty and old.  Because Mom was limited in her capacity to move about, cobwebs, dust, and debris took up residence in the corners, on the floors, and around the light fixtures.  The house was not a pleasant place to visit - physically.

Since Mom entered the hospital for the valve replacement in December 2016, and since Gary and I have been staying at the house frequently, the first thing I always do when we arrive is open the drapes, raise the blinds, and open the doors.  Lights are on.  Windows are opened to allow fresh air to enter.  Cobwebs are swatted down.  The sweeper is run across the floors and a new package of Pledge wipes is on the table as a reminder to dust the furniture frequently.  Slowly the house has become 'normal' again, smells fresher, and is quite comfortable, even with the boxes of auction items stacked everywhere now.

So why was the house like that?  From reading some of the notes and a few journal entries, looking at the stacks of newspapers and magazines, sifting through countless clippings of recipes, obituaries, wedding announcements, and human interest articles, I have come to several conclusions.

First, Mom did not like people.  She like to know ABOUT people, which is why she read the newspaper from front to back, several times, why she watched the Cleveland news, and why she read magazines. Sharing all of the pertinent information she knew about houses that were sold and the amount paid for them, marriages and divorces, people who had been picked up for DUIs, news personalities and their personal lives - those were important topics of conversation for her to share---and dominate in a conversation with others---and give an air of inside knowledge that elevated her status (in her mind). 

On Wednesday evening when we visited with The Four, both Maxine and Marleen mentioned talking for hours to Mom on the phone.  I have experienced those phone conversations.  And the person doing the talking has always been Mom.  The topics?  See the above paragraph.  Nothing was ever asked about me, Gary, the girls, the extended family.  No.  In fact, anything I mentioned about one of us was a springboard for her more important sharing of information she had read in the paper or had seen on television which was presented as first-hand knowledge.  Since Mom didn't actually know these people or actually go anywhere to experience this things - by her choice of course - she could still give the impression of being 'in the know' and 'close to the source' by everything she read and saw.  And she could only do that by sequestering herself in the house and reading newspapers and watching television. She took some basic information and created her own stories to share. 

Second, Mom liked to control.  She was in charge.  Everything had to be on her terms.  She didn't like to share.  She had a schedule to follow and no one could suggest that she change it.  People cannot be controlled, but possessions can.  All of the plates in the china cabinet were stacked with the designs matching, one on top of the other.  Everything was organized in the cabinets.  Sets of necklaces, earrings, and bracelets were in zip lock baggies in the drawers.  Used panty hose were in small bags.  Boxes of plastic containers were stacked up in orderly columns.  Every nook and cranny had an organized box or bag.  File boxes with hanging folders included more folders with clippings which were paper clipped together.  Bundles of scrap paper were rubber-banded and stacked under the desk and behind the dining room chair. Stacks of books.  Packs of greeting cards.  Aprons hanging on those multiple space saving hangers.  And everything shoved into every available spot in the dark house.  She could control the possessions.  She couldn't control people.  One of the things she yelled at me a few years ago when she was furious with Gary and me was that she couldn't control me anymore, that I was so uncontrollable.  She needed to be able to control---and her possessions were the only thing where she felt success.

Third, Mom felt inferior to others.  I said that.  She would never say that.  But from things that I have read and noticed as I have worked through all of the papers in her 'office' and notes I have found tucked in drawers, she felt inferior.  She always mentioned that she was salutatorian of her graduating class---and she was.  And that is an accomplishment.  But her class had under 20 people in it. Plus when we found her report cards, the grades would put her in the middle of a graduating class today.  Nothing stellar---not even good grades in home ec.  She often mentioned that Dad wouldn't allow her to take classes, but since she graduated in 1944, the war was going on, money was tight, and her grades were not scholarship worthy, plus the fact that many women just didn't go to college then, I think the blame was ill-placed.  No college education for Mom, but Dad completed many college level classes, and both Greta and I have degrees.  Because she didn't, she felt inferior.  Her way to compensate for that was first to not associate with others who might be smarter than she was and she could not keep up with the conversations or to mock those who had the education which she didn't. In the journal she kept during the Marriage Encounter she and Dad attended in 1979, she wrote that she was writing about nothing, just writing, because everyone else was and she didn't want to appear that she wasn't as smart as they were.  She didn't understand the terminology, the purpose of the encounter, what they were supposed to be doing, plus Dad was resisting participation, so she felt beneath the others and was trying to mask that.  She also wrote about a woman who came to Hair Benders at the same time Mom did.  This woman always gave the impression that she was smarter, had more money, and was socially above others, including Mom.  Mom heard later that most of the woman's 'presence' was just a show, and Mom was upset that she was made to feel inferior to her.  I also read a letter that Dad wrote about Mom keeping herself at home, refusing to meet other people when we moved to Mt. Vernon, and choosing to isolate herself.  That is what she did often in Wooster as well.  Isolation suited her.  No one could make her feel inferior.  No one could question her.  No one could talk about something of which she had no knowledge and couldn't participate in the conversation, so she just stayed at home.  By herself. With her things. She also felt threatened by education. One paper that I found tucked in a drawer including her frustration with those college educated people who think they now have all the answers to everything - which she wrote after a phone conversation with me.

Mom spent the last eight years of her life in a box.  The curtains were drawn.  The blinds were closed.  There was a black trash bag taped over the windows on the front door.  The only lights on were by the ugly chair where she sat and slept.  Stacks of old newspapers were next to that chair---and by the table---and in the middle bedroom.  She read--and re-read.  She watched the Cleveland news so she knew what was going on in the city--and with the newscasters' lives.  She had topics of conversations for the many phone calls with Maxine and Marleen and she could dominate because they were not as knowledgable as she was.

What a sad way to live.  Not for me.  But it worked for her.  Life in a Box.