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<\/p>\nSo my dad had been diagnosed with Parkinson\u2019s, both my parents were aging, and my mom fell down steps constantly even when she was 30. It was time to move. Smaller, safer digs. I therefore spent most of 2019 helping my parents move from their house to an independent living apartment.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Let me rephrase that. I spent most of 2019 helping two hoarders, married to each other for 50 years, clear 48 years\u2019 worth of junk from their two-story colonial.<\/p>\n
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Yes. A lot of that junk is now stored at my house.<\/p>\n
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We decided to clear out one room a week. The first room would be my parents\u2019 bedroom.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When cleaning out a bedroom that is not yours, my personal belief is that any, um, marital aids should be removed prior to your arrival.<\/p>\n
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I shared this belief with my mom. To be blunt, I told her to clear out any sex stuff she and my dad had stashed in their bedroom.<\/p>\n
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She was pretty appalled at the suggestion. She was actually downright haughty. She and my dad don\u2019t now, nor did they ever, own any sex stuff. And that was the end of that conversation.<\/p>\n
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So one sunny day last January, my mom and I set about emptying my parents\u2019 bedroom. We combed through pictures of my dad in the Marines and brochures from Singapore, acid-washed jean shorts and ancient nursing uniforms. I found a sparkly black scarf, unused in a closet and appropriated as my fee for a day\u2019s worth of work.<\/p>\n
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My parents are what I like to call low-level hoarders. So I was not surprised at the random artifacts stashed around their bedroom like so many unwitting Easter eggs. Two sets of dental molds – one for each of my parents. A wooden pole, propped against the (broken) TV. A piece of metal I couldn\u2019t identify, jammed with coins. A metal ammunition box, sealed shut.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n <\/p>\n As I pulled 50 years of paraphernalia from closets and drawers, nightstands and shelves, I instructed my mom to make piles on the bed. Money in one. Greeting cards in another. Clothing that should have been ushered out with the \u201980s in yet another. And so on.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Periodically, my dad would appear, pretending to check our progress. \u00a0In actuality, he was checking to see what we were throwing away. My dad is fundamentally against throwing anything away. My grandmother told me she had once watched him drink sour milk, wincing as it went down. He had consumed the fetid milk rather than dump it down the drain.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n During one of my dad\u2019s evaluations of the Great Bedroom Cleanout, my mom handed him a stack of his old greeting cards. Those cards represented dozens of years. Cards presented to him by me, my siblings. Grandchildren. Each card held his heart\u2019s weight in sentiment.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cTake these,\u201d my mom told him, \u201cand sort through them. When you\u2019re done throw them away.\u00a0 We won\u2019t have room for your cards and mine, and I\u2019m keeping all of mine.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOK,\u201d my dad said, shrugging his shoulders as he ambled down the hallway.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I turned on my mom, horrified. How could she keep all of her cards while dictating that my dad rid himself of his? That hardly seemed fair. Also, why did he have to sort through them before tossing them? What difference did it make? If they were all destined for the trash anyway, why not just throw away the whole stack?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Patiently, as if I was hopelessly confused, she explained that my dad is a hoarder. It was time he stopped. He can\u2019t keep everything<\/em>! Their apartment is only two bedrooms!<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I know. I was pretty appalled too. Does she not realize that I am the only person allowed to dictate what gets thrown away, what is kept? This was anarchy, and I wouldn\u2019t tolerate it. I slipped downstairs and told my dad to give me the cards he wanted to keep. I\u2019d store them at my house.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Returning to my mom, she and I continued our arc around the bedroom, closet to closet, nightstand to dresser. I found a picture of my dad, so young he still had puppy fat in his cheeks. The gray hair he\u2019s had my whole life wasn\u2019t even a hint in his dark crew cut. His arms were wrapped around a pretty girl in a chiffon dress.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A pretty girl who was not my mother.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s this?\u201d I asked, flipping the picture so my mom could see. I figured I wasn\u2019t stirring up any trouble. My parents didn\u2019t meet and marry until my dad was 30 years old \u2013 clearly a long way off from this picture. He was practically a baby.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cBetty Ann,\u201d my mom huffed, snatching the photo from my fingertips.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Betty Ann was my dad\u2019s first fianc\u00e9e. They met when their parents owned neighboring houses in Maryland. I don\u2019t know why the engagement ended. What I do know is that Betty Ann\u2019s brother, Bob, remained friends with my dad. Such good friends that I called him Uncle Bob. Uncle Bob\u2019s family was so enamored of my dad that, when Uncle Bob died, his remaining family were not only thrilled to see my dad at the funeral, they were thrilled to meet me, his daughter, just because I\u2019m, well, his daughter. People just love my dad.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n People love my dad so much, in fact, that when we had a car accident in Virginia in 1980 \u2013 we had hooked a collapsible camper onto the back of a Datsun hatchback then driven it through the rain \u2013 one of Uncle Bob\u2019s Virginia relatives drove out to get us and put up my dad, my mom, and us three kids for a few days. Days<\/em>.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I know what you\u2019re thinking. Betty Ann must have been a grade-A bitch, right? Like, the kind of person who maybe wouldn\u2019t even let <\/em>my dad look at his old cards. She would have just thrown them away. No sorting allowed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Actually, you\u2019re probably thinking \u201cWho hooks a collapsible camper onto the back of a Datsun hatchback then drives it through the rain?\u201d Well, not Betty Ann\u2019s husband. For starters.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Clearly, Betty Ann and my dad weren\u2019t meant to be. And my parents have been married for about ten US presidents. I don\u2019t want to jinx anything, but I think this is a marriage that\u2019s going to survive.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n None of this mattered to my mom. When my dad arrived for his next Great Bedroom Cleanout check, my mom held out the picture and demanded verification. Was this Betty Ann?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My dad shrugged. He wasn\u2019t sure.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you mean \u2018I\u2019m not sure\u2019?! It\u2019s Betty Ann!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOk,\u201d my dad shrugged.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWell, why was this picture in your closet?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Now, I could answer this. I\u2019d found the picture between sheets of United States Marine Corps records. Records from the 1950s. Obviously untouched for decades. Clearly, this picture and those records had come into my dad\u2019s possession contemporaneously. They\u2019d been shoved together for whatever random record-keeping system my dad had in place, never touched until I pulled them from that shelf.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My mom was having none of it. \u201cDon\u2019t you defend him!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My dad didn\u2019t explain himself. My mom did that for him. She stalked around their bedroom, lecturing my dad about having a 60-year-old picture stashed in a 50-year-old pile of papers discovered by their 40-year-old daughter.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWell?!\u201d she exclaimed, her rant over.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOk,\u201d my dad said with a shrug, wandering off down the hall.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cPut this in the trash,\u201d she ordered, shoving the picture toward me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Yeah. I kept it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Lunchtime approached and the room emptied. I hauled the garbage to the trash cans, then stuffed my car with donations for the local thrift shop. I had a pile of goods that my mom let me keep. A few things I outright stole. Let\u2019s be honest. I\u2019ll be more responsible with that box of my grandmother\u2019s belongings than they will.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We had whittled everything down to two boxes. My mom and I, tired and hungry, decided to each take a box and sort the contents. I saved mine for the evening. While the kids ate dinner, I hauled the box to the kitchen table. It was a treasure trove of memories.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Don, ever the practical one, cleared his throat behind me. \u201cDo you know what is in that box?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cNo!\u201d I replied, excited. Each item I withdrew held its own little story. The kids, trapped at the table by their hunger, were forced to listen to each tale.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cMaybe you should stop,\u201d he suggested, \u201cor at least not do this in front of the kids.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d I asked, gently folding an ancient linen and placing it in the growing pile on the table.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhere was that box?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThe bedroom closet,\u201d I answered. What the hell?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cExactly. You don\u2019t know how long that\u2019s been there. You don\u2019t know what\u2019s in it. Your parents don\u2019t know what\u2019s in it. Please stop.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n His point dawned on me. \u201cWe\u2019re good,\u201d I told him. \u201cI took care of that before we went through the bedroom,\u201d I was so confident. So stupidly confident.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The universe hates hubris.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I won\u2019t specify what I found. Sorry. Let\u2019s just say that I found irrefutable evidence that my parents, at least at one point, had a healthy, robust and thriving sex life. With each other.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I mean, listen. Obviously they did. I\u2019m one of three kids. But there is a world of difference between assuming your parents had sex three times and three times only and knowing \u2013 knowing<\/em> \u2013 that your parents got it on for the sheer hell of it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Don, to his credit, never hit me with \u201cI told you so\u201d. He did offer to hit me with a frying pan, to erase the memory.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The kids continued with their meal, oblivious to my horror.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I called my mom. \u201cHey lady,\u201d I said. \u201cI found your sex stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My mom insisted, again, that she and my dad didn\u2019t have any sex stuff. Which was a fair statement. They didn\u2019t<\/em> have any sex stuff. I<\/em> had their sex stuff.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Exasperated, I explained what I had found. How it unequivocally belonged to my parents.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWell, it\u2019s not ours,\u201d she replied, moving onto the latest thing my dad had done that she didn\u2019t think he should have done.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I know the feeling.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Who stashes their sex stuff with other relics of their life? Hoarders. That\u2019s who. I feel like this wouldn\u2019t happen if I was Marie Kondo.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I even confronted my dad. \u201cOk,\u201d he shrugged, and wandered off.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My parents\u2019 fiftieth wedding anniversary was that week. I carefully wrapped my discovery in festive wrapping paper and gifted my find to them.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n They were not amused.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My mom pointed out that there are worse things than having two parents who love each other.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLike finding their sex stuff?\u201d I shot back.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She then very kindly reassured me that my dad was \u201cthe most satisfied 80-year-old man out there.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And here I was thinking things couldn\u2019t get any worse.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n On the last night my parents ever spent in our house, my brother texted me. \u201cWhat do you think they\u2019re doing? Haha.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I told him what I\u2019d found. I shouldn\u2019t be alone in my suffering. That\u2019s why siblings exist.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n But I knew what they were doing. They were going through each room, saying good-bye. Our house was just as much a part of our family as any one of us kids. They were thanking our house for their years of happiness. For giving my grandmother a home when she needed one. For keeping their grandchildren safe as each one took a turn sleeping under that roof. For raising three kids to have loving homes of their own.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And yes. They probably had sex.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" So my dad had been diagnosed with Parkinson\u2019s, both my parents were aging, and my mom fell down steps constantly even when she was 30. It was time to move. Smaller, safer digs. I therefore spent most of 2019 helping my parents move from their house to an independent living apartment. Let me rephrase…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":84,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[5,3,6,7,4],"yoast_head":"\n![\"\"](\"http:\/\/wendirank.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/Screen-Shot-2021-02-25-at-5.48.45-AM-251x300.png\")
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