kitchen. “Can you believe that dreadful woman is twelve years younger than I am?”
“I thought you said eight.”
I wave my hand. “Eight, twelve, what’s the difference?”
“Worse than that, could you believe what she was wearing?” He begins to make coffee. “And in public?”
“Welcome to Silverton.” I sit in a vinyl covered kitchen chair and let out a big sigh. I still cannot believe I’m here. Or that I intend to stay.
“And imagine,” continues Michael, “wearing white shoes after Labor Day!”
“Oh,” I groan. “However will I manage here?”
“We’ve got a lot to do today,” he tells me as we sit down atthe little plastic-top table. Michael has made toast to go with our coffee. “I want you to begin by going through your mother’s things and setting aside anything you want to keep before the boys from Goodwill come to cart it all away.”
“I’m sure that I don’t want to save a single thing.”
“What about family photos and memorabilia, Claudette? Surely, you want to set those things aside.”
“I don’t see why. Besides, I can’t imagine there’s much left here. Mother never had much when we were growing up. And it’s likely that Violet and her girls already took anything worth keeping.”
He nods. “I’m sure that’s possible. But have a look around… just in case.”
So I get dressed and then putter around the house, but for the most part, I seem to be right in my assessment. It appears that Violet and her girls have already removed some things, or there just never was much to begin with.
“I found something of interest,” says Michael. He’s been working on the kitchen for me, dear man. He holds out a cardboard box full of what appear to be old letters. “The postmark on most of these is Beverly Hills, darling. It looks as if your dear mother saved all your letters.”
I look down at the box. “But I didn’t write her many. Oh, birthday and Christmas cards. The occasional postcard from a faraway place.”
“Well, do you want them or not?”
I take the box from him. “I’ll look at them. But they’ll probably just end up in the trash.”
“You can’t look at them today.” Michael wags his forefinger at me. “There’s too much to be done. Simply set them aside for later.”
I nod as if taking orders. “Yes sir, Mr. Director, sir.”
He grins. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
Naturally, I start in Mother’s room. Anything worth saving would probably be in here. And being a fashion-conscious woman, I begin with her closet. I’m shocked at how small her closet is, but even more shocked that she still had plenty of room in there. Although her wardrobe is more extensive than when I was child, it is still extremely sparse. I cannot imagine getting by with so little.
Thankfully the dreadful, old “day” dresses are nowhere to be seen. In their place I find several dark-colored polyester dresses that appear to date back to the eighties. They are what I would call “grandmotherly” dresses, but my mother was elderly back then.
My mother was about the same age then as I am now. How is that even possible?
I take out one of the dreary dresses, holding it up to myself as if I’m wearing it, although I would not be caught dead in something like this. It’s a stiff synthetic fabric that I’m certain would never breathe, in a somber shade of yellowy gray that would do nothing for anyone’s complexion. Still holding up the pitiful dress, I peer at myself in Mother’s foggy dressing tablemirror and grimace. So sad, so very, very sad. I toss the pathetic dress down onto the bed, along with the others. Goodwill or no Goodwill, I can’t imagine how anyone could possibly want any of these clothes. Still,
this is Silverton.
And if “little” Bea’s ensemble is any forecast for what’s to come, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Mother’s old wardrobe parading itself down Main Street by next weekend. Perhaps I should have mercy on
“I thought you said eight.”
I wave my hand. “Eight, twelve, what’s the difference?”
“Worse than that, could you believe what she was wearing?” He begins to make coffee. “And in public?”
“Welcome to Silverton.” I sit in a vinyl covered kitchen chair and let out a big sigh. I still cannot believe I’m here. Or that I intend to stay.
“And imagine,” continues Michael, “wearing white shoes after Labor Day!”
“Oh,” I groan. “However will I manage here?”
“We’ve got a lot to do today,” he tells me as we sit down atthe little plastic-top table. Michael has made toast to go with our coffee. “I want you to begin by going through your mother’s things and setting aside anything you want to keep before the boys from Goodwill come to cart it all away.”
“I’m sure that I don’t want to save a single thing.”
“What about family photos and memorabilia, Claudette? Surely, you want to set those things aside.”
“I don’t see why. Besides, I can’t imagine there’s much left here. Mother never had much when we were growing up. And it’s likely that Violet and her girls already took anything worth keeping.”
He nods. “I’m sure that’s possible. But have a look around… just in case.”
So I get dressed and then putter around the house, but for the most part, I seem to be right in my assessment. It appears that Violet and her girls have already removed some things, or there just never was much to begin with.
“I found something of interest,” says Michael. He’s been working on the kitchen for me, dear man. He holds out a cardboard box full of what appear to be old letters. “The postmark on most of these is Beverly Hills, darling. It looks as if your dear mother saved all your letters.”
I look down at the box. “But I didn’t write her many. Oh, birthday and Christmas cards. The occasional postcard from a faraway place.”
“Well, do you want them or not?”
I take the box from him. “I’ll look at them. But they’ll probably just end up in the trash.”
“You can’t look at them today.” Michael wags his forefinger at me. “There’s too much to be done. Simply set them aside for later.”
I nod as if taking orders. “Yes sir, Mr. Director, sir.”
He grins. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
Naturally, I start in Mother’s room. Anything worth saving would probably be in here. And being a fashion-conscious woman, I begin with her closet. I’m shocked at how small her closet is, but even more shocked that she still had plenty of room in there. Although her wardrobe is more extensive than when I was child, it is still extremely sparse. I cannot imagine getting by with so little.
Thankfully the dreadful, old “day” dresses are nowhere to be seen. In their place I find several dark-colored polyester dresses that appear to date back to the eighties. They are what I would call “grandmotherly” dresses, but my mother was elderly back then.
My mother was about the same age then as I am now. How is that even possible?
I take out one of the dreary dresses, holding it up to myself as if I’m wearing it, although I would not be caught dead in something like this. It’s a stiff synthetic fabric that I’m certain would never breathe, in a somber shade of yellowy gray that would do nothing for anyone’s complexion. Still holding up the pitiful dress, I peer at myself in Mother’s foggy dressing tablemirror and grimace. So sad, so very, very sad. I toss the pathetic dress down onto the bed, along with the others. Goodwill or no Goodwill, I can’t imagine how anyone could possibly want any of these clothes. Still,
this is Silverton.
And if “little” Bea’s ensemble is any forecast for what’s to come, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Mother’s old wardrobe parading itself down Main Street by next weekend. Perhaps I should have mercy on
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