2006
Today was, I think, the last of the family post-mortem get togethers. This one was to physically divvy up my Grandpa’s possessions. In my Dad’s family there are five siblings (my Dad is the second eldest) and their spouses, and 37 grandchildren and great-grandchildren. That’s the small side of my family (Mom is the youngest of 10). 
The way estate dispersal has been handled on both sides of the family, due to sheer numbers is by modified auction. Things are dug out, cleaned, sorted, and laid out, and then gone through lot by lot. People bid, generally not large amounts (the most expensive thing auctioned today was $30, and prices are definitely tied to nostalgia), and if it’s a number of similar items, a winning bid buys you an item and the right to first choice of which one of the lot you want. If there’s something you gave Gramps, then you don’t have to bid on it, you can just take it. Beyond that, it’s a matter of passive aggressive politeness to try and make sure everyone gets at least some of what they want and no one’s toes are stepped on. Mom recorded who bought what and how much the winning bids were, then at the end of things, she’ll tally up the total amount paid for things. I’m not sure what happens to all of the money. Probably put into the general inheritance to be divided up amongst the five children.
I didn’t think Gramps could have that much stuff anymore (we had an auction and sold the family farm around a decade ago), but of course I wasn’t thinking and underestimated the capabilities of the World’s Biggest Packrat. So, yeah… there was a lot of stuff. Much of it, in my estimation, could have gone straight to the bin, but whatever. My aunt and uncle, with whom Grandpa lived from the time the farm was sold until he moved into the home two years ago, are both fastidious and utterly scrupulous, so every last thing, down to old envelopes of rubber bands, was out on the tables.
There were some antiques – fountain pens, pocket watches, books. Nothing that would set an Antiques Roadshow appraiser’s heart aflutter, and most of it requiring some TLC. Dad and I found an old mounted photo in Grandpa’s spare room that after some perusal we determined to have been a church portrait. (It was in pretty bad shape, but could, for enough of an investment, be reasonably restored.) It would have been taken in the mid-1920s, and Grandpa’s family were all there – his parents, six elder sisters, and him. We couldn’t figure out who or what the photo was of until I caught sight of my Grandpa’s face in the middle row on the right side. He was about 12 or 13 and looking quite dapper in a suit, and his expression, as always, was unmistakable. He was always a good-looking guy, and was never without a twinkle in his blue eyes and a cocky, confident smile. I’m sure the ladies never had a chance. It amazed me to see how much my cousin’s three boys (my favourites amongst all my cousins’ kids) all look like him. I also recognized Grandpa’s sister Ethel, who is the only remaining member of the family still alive. She’s 95 now, and would have been 14 or 15 in the photo. Some faces never change.
My brother had to work, but I called him to see what he might be interested in, and I got him a few things. A pocket knife, a harmonica, a pair of rad gold-framed sunglasses that were mostly for amusement’s sake (though, oddly, they actually look pretty good on him). Mom got him a pocket watch, too, but it needs to be repaired and cleaned, and she said she’d get him some tools and whatnot. I have the harmonica back that I bought him a few years ago. I’d forgotten about it. I can’t play it. Don’t need to. I also have two fountain pens, another pocket knife, an entertainingly archaic book about “the Hindu Lands”, a “Magic Wrap” (one of those bean bag things you heat up and wrap around your neck), a teddy bear Grandpa brought Grandma when she was in the hospital, and something with pure nostalgia value: the ownership card from my Grandpa’s first snowmobile, which he bought when he was 78 years old. (Shortly after he bought an ATV, and when he was 80 he bought a second snowmobile.) Mom also told me I could take something from Grandma’s jewelry box, which was up in the kitchen. I picked out a necklace that matches one Mom has. It’s not fancy or expensive, but I’ve always liked it and have borrowed Mom’s several times. The best keepsake of my Grandma’s that I have I got from the first auction when the farm was sold: an original hardcover copy of the Mennonite Community Cookbook. They’re still sold, but they’re ring-bound and soft cover.
My aunt called Mom yesterday and asked for some help getting ready for today. There was a lot of stuff to go through, but harder was that I think it was really starting to hit her that Grandpa was gone. She’d taken care of him and managed things for him for so long, and was so busy when he died with those arrangements that she’s never just… stopped. And with my cousin getting married this year and Grandpa being gone, for the first time in over 40 years she and my uncle are going to be alone in that big house. So Mom and Dad came down last evening to help out, and will stay tonight as well to get things sorted out.
I kind of understand where my aunt is at. I cried the night Gramps died, and at the funeral and whatnot, though never very much. I was happy for him not having to be a sick and tired old man anymore. But today I missed him. There were things set out today that my cousins and I all remember from when we were kids. Hell, there were things that my Dad and his siblings remember from when they were kids. And there were pictures of my grandparents from when we were growing up. And there he was. There was the Grandpa I remember, that we all remember. And he’s been gone for a very long time. Long enough that natural memory erosion has taken place to a degree, except on days like today when you steep for a while in the memories and the nostalgia and the minutiae of someone else’s life.
The physical items we will all take home and find room for on our shelves and in drawers are essentially meaningless. The only thing among the items I have that I have an actual memory of my Grandpa using is the harmonica. The others are just neat things. But the more nostalgic items are stakes in the ground, something we can tether our memories to to try and avert, or at least slow down their erosion. Because I think that’s the real reason for the tears. Not for what is, but for what was, and most especially, what has been lost.
Memento mori.
