Summer's End, New Beginnings

We're back in Montreal after two weeks in central New York working on the lake house. It needs a new roof -- this time I went up there with J. to take a look, after we peered into the attic crawlspace and saw some water damage, which we had suspected -- so we arranged for that to happen next month. The main task was to finish sorting many of my parents' collections and other possessions. At the end of last week an antique dealer's crew and truck arrived, and we all packed and carried what had been designated to leave. At the end of that long day, I was proud of myself for not getting emotional; I was exhausted; and, as much as I had liked many of those things, I was stunned to see how good the house looked and felt in a much simpler and less crowded state.

If any of you have done this, for yourselves or for your family or friends, you will probably recognize these feelings. For us, it was the third major move/downsizing in 14 months, and we're certainly not done with the work on that house. But as we sat on the front porch that evening, we had a real sense of accomplishment, both for the sheer physical work we'd done, and because, a year ago, I couldn't imagined being able to handle the emotional demands of the task.

I don't know if it's a curse or a blessing, but I am able to remember a lot of my past in detail. Nearly every object in that house and every inch of space is weighted with specific memories of the people who once handled those things, or moved through those rooms, or used the same objects in different houses that I also remember vividly. Because I loved all of those people, and miss them now that they are gone, and because they were all collectors and storytellers who liked history, as well as being makers who restored or created many of the things in the house, there are a lot of complex layers.

Today is the first anniversary of my father's death. Although I dealt with the clothes and personal items shortly after he died, it took a full year for me to get to the point where I could say, all right, it's time for many of these things carefully collected by my parents, grandparents, great aunt and even great-grandparents to move on to new people who will also appreciate them. It finally feels ok for us to change the house and make it more our own, for the time in which we have it, and to do so without guilt. Part of getting there is the process of mourning and letting go, but I think it's also difficult and complicated to accept, and then acknowledge, the fact that we are now the elders: we have taken our parents' place.

My father had a clear conception of what he wanted the house to be when he designed and built it, with my mother's help. It's a real mid-century aesthetic, but for all these years, I don't think that could really be sensed during the several decades it took to finish the house. Later, there were so many interesting things in the house competing for visual attention that you didn't really see the space itself. When the shelves and surfaces were cleared, and some of the furniture removed, we could suddenly see and appreciate the integrity of what my parents had planned. I wondered if maybe they would have liked it too, in some sort of alternate universe. All in all, I'm grateful for the memories I have, and during these recent days I was glad to be able to talk about all them with my cousin next door, and to friends whose relationship with our family goes back three generations. 

As I wrote last winter, in a long essay that will be published this year along with my series of winter landscape drawings, the land and nature of central New York are also a consolation for me. The fields that had been covered with snow were now filled with towering rows of bright green, tasseled corn, or with freshly mown hay; the skies were't grey but bright blue with lazy summer clouds; deer grazed all over the countryside, along with turkeys and rabbits and other small mammals; hawks swept over the meadows; rising fish made circles on the water and swallows skimmed over the surface chasing insects; and a noisy flock of Canada geese arrived each evening to sleep on the lake, leaving again after the sun had chased away the wispy morning fog. The rhythm of rural life continued, both on the farms, and independently in nature, and there was comfort in that in spite of the changes in the climate.

During the past four weeks, I haven't touched my sketchbook, haven't read or written much at all, and certainly haven't written here - this may be the longest period I've gone without writing on the blog.  Today felt like a time to try to put some of this into words, and I also spent the afternoon doing an oil pastel of Chenango County hills -- the first work in color that has come out of this time.

I'd rather not see this moment as an ending, because so much of what has been remains inside of me. Let's call it a continuation that's also morphing into something new.

Comments

[Robb]

Perhaps you have arrived at one of those Gates e hoa..a really big one! Tender thoughts and hugs to you and may the smiles and laughs be in a better proportion to your tears. Kia Kaha e hoa.
Arohanui
Robb

[Michael Webster]

I have so many memories of Martha and Howard showing me artifacts and collections. Each item came with a story to frame its place in history and the present. They were always keen for me to handle each thing. This physical experience tied them and me and the item. Thank you for the reminder.

[Betty Ann Natoli Andrews]

Thank you for this reflection Beth. As you know Howard and my Mom were distant cousins, which bestows that title on us at an even more distant connection. I share much of your emotion about letting go of things. We were raised to appreciate and touch these items with respect for the family who handled them before us. The stories of their lives seem to be held in such vessels, but in truth they aren’t. It’s we as storytellers who keep that memory alive to pass on. May the stories never end.

[Liz Nestler]

I so identify with all you've been and are doing! Thanks for sharing.

[Marilyn McCabe]

So glad to hear an essay and winter drawings will be published. You have a fine eye and a warm voice, and I love your winter drawings.

[Edward Yankie]

I very much appreciate this reflection. Thinking of you, and sending love and hugs while you mark a year since your father's death. Three major moves/downsizing is a lot in one short period of time! I hope you are gentle with yourself and take things slow. Looking forward to seeing and reading your new work in due season.

[Roderick Robinson]

I started learning French seriously in 1972. Weekly private lessons which lasted the rest of my working life and 15 years into retirement. All my teachers were, quite coincidentally, women and you have already made a cogent observation on that. The hardest part came comparatively late. My then teacher, Aida, recorded broadcasts from the radio station, France Inter, and all I had to do was listen and simply transcribe what I heard - accurately – in French. It was fiendishly difficult and lead to a fatalistic conclusion that true, idiomatic French would always be beyond me. Still I continued.

Which is by the way. One session stayed with me. The taped interviewee was the former French president, Valery Giscard-d’Estaing (And there’s a true Frenchy name for you) who made great play with the noun/verb “purge”. Same spelling in English but a world of difference in the pronunciation. More like “poo-ooer-erge”. In fact, if I may distort the grammatical association somewhat the “onomatopoeia” became stronger: the French word seemed to exemplify, aurally, the unpleasant extremes of meaning, both medical and – in your case – the mental disturbances of severing oneself from the past. Less so, but still similar, in my case when I purged my mancave of a study to make it more useful to those who will eventually apply power of attorney.

No immediate reason for this but no doubt about the stress. Those things one accumulated on the grounds that they might “come in”. Taking the decision that now they would not “come in”. The future somewhat truncated.

A good thoughtful piece. That’s yours, not mine.