i dragged twenty five contractor bags filled to the brim out of the attic and the play room yesterday. we started in the playroom - the reclaimed garage space that was once my daughter meg's and then my son jamie's bedrooms. now it's evolving into a kind of catch-all for books and the treadmill. the futon for guests is evolving into a dog bed - buddy and sam claimed it when they were chased out of their pen by the renovations.
brace yourself, i told my mother.
this is hopeless, my mother moaned, not once but periodically.
finally, she took charge. nan, she said, in the tone i remember so clearly from my childhood, the one she uses to draw the boundaries one crosses at one's peril, JUST THROW STUFF AWAY.
then i tackled the attic.
while my mother dandled baby jake, swept the floor, vacuumed and shook her head, i filled twenty contractor bags - a whole box - of old clothes, dusty curtains, shoes and bedspreads. now they're piled outside the garage, gleaming in the gray pewter dawn, my own mini-landfill.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.