I started another ‘death’ related thread on Cremains a day or so ago. This stuff is still fresh in my mind, and I wanted other opinions.
God I hate going through my father’s stuff. It’s such a melange of sadness, memory, desire, guilt.
My Dad valued good tools. He’d always say that the better tool was ‘only a dollar more’ and would return better service over it’s life. So here I am, at (now) my Mother’s house, looking at the workshop he built to entertain himself in retirement. I’m 1200 miles from home, and anything I REALLY want, has to be prefaced with that which will fit comfortably in my luggage.
Tools are heavy, and I’ve had my own workshop for years, so I’m pretty well stocked as it is. I don’t need the drill-press, or the chopsaw, or the air compressor. I tend to automobiles and he tended to woodwork, so there’s stuff here I don’t want. Of the things I DO want, a lot of it is too heavy to ship. It’d be cheaper to buy the ball-bearing heavy-duty casters at the local Harbor Freight than to ship these home.
Making a spot on the workbench for a milk crate, I move a pair of reading glasses. I move them carefully out of habit, then note that, crap. Nobody will need them anymore. I see tools that remind me of him, and lots of other bits and pieces, but the things that really affect me, are the scraps of paper in his handwriting. Little notations, measurements, pencil-sketches of projects started, half-complete, or never to be built.
It’s a rotten rotten feeling looking at his camera equipment. He just reciently bought a digital SLR. He’s always had good film equipment and the DSLR is no exception. I’ve always followed the back side of the curve, buying the good value, but cheap equipment and living with its shortcomings. His DV setup is a camera that for years was used by professional videographers. I remember him paying a good two and a half times more for his video camera that I did for mine.
And now they’re both mine. In my short visit here, I’ve already taken better pictures of the kids.
I see in the equipment my father. I remember him using them to record memories, his commentary always ending a scene with ‘more later!’…but there isn’t going to be any more later. The last video cassette was made less than a month ago, and it contains the voice I won’t ever get to talk to again. There are three or four DV tapes I’ll go through and edit down to a DVD for Mom. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing to do or not, but it seems like an easy way to reduce the guilt at taking the equipment.
Taking the equipment.
I’m not really taking anything as Mom’s given me permission, but there’s always been a part of my mental fabric that fears Dad’s stuff. Don’t touch Dad’s stuff. Don’t BREAK Dad’s stuff. It’s Dad’s stuff, not yours. Only now…it’s mine, and it’s a crappy pill to swallow.