Remnants

I attended an estate sale this weekend. My husband will graciously disagree and say that I staked out and hovered over an estate sale this weekend. But that is merely a difference of opinion. Regardless, it stands that my elderly neighbor recently moved to an assisted living facility and with no family nearby, her distant relatives opted to sell everything in the house.

Wow.

My neighbor and her husband moved into their home in 1972 and I'm pretty sure everything looked exactly the same Saturday as it had for the last 30 years. A complete museum of life.

And while I will certainly admit to making a few purchases (namely a sweet retro-modern white leather rocking chair a 1940's typewriter), it was incredibly odd to wander around a neighbor's home and pick over her things.

In one sense, it reminded me of cleaning out my Grandfather's house last year after he passed away. But, then again, my neighbor is still very much alive. She took her most valuable possessions to her new home, and yet her house was still full. Full of memories and the stuff that accompanies those memories. So much stuff. Postcards of vacations, china and silver, political buttons, books, clothes, knick-knacks, paintings. Her house wasn't cluttered, in fact it was exceptionally tidy, but it was full. Full of things that transform a house into a home, but things that were no longer needed.

By the end of the sale yesterday, I took one last walk through the house. At this point, I wasn't looking for any more bargains, I just felt the need to see what was left of her life. What didn't sell; what wasn't determined to be useful. Kitchen goods, old Christmas decor, a few pieces of furniture, lots of books, clippings of newspaper obituaries stashed in a desk; some of these would go on to the next estate sale, most would just go in the trash.

I freely admit to being overly-sentimental. I wasn't saddened by what I saw left behind, and I certainly wasn't too sad to make a few purchases. But it was worth reflecting upon. What do we really need in our life? What is beautiful and worth having? What will be left for our loved ones to clean up? Could I ever just walk away from my life and my stuff to let others rummage through it?

Even as I lugged the 30 pound typewriter into my dining room, I felt the need to clean out the basement, to purge and get rid of the excess. I remember hearing about nuns living their senior years in a room with only a few books and their bed. I'm not sure I would want a life that austere, but I certainly don't want to leave everything to the highest bidder. Somewhere in the middle lies beauty and simplicity. Somewhere there is balance between the typewriter and the trash can.