Imperfect Timing
Why I decided to unpack fourteen boxes and bins just before the 2020 holidays, I do not know. It would have made more sense to wait for somewhat more consistently warm weather and make a plan. I did neither. With snow on the ground and no holiday gathering plans, I hauled everything into my home office fulling expecting an afternoon of unpacking surprises.
The Ohio house and barn in which everything had “lived” before landing in the New Boston temperature-controlled storage unit had been subject to high humidity. Half of the metal barn roof had blown off in a thunderstorm and the house roof had several leaks. A foundation to garage door gap functioned as a stream bed through which water does what water does. Finding a low spot under the wall between the attached one-car garage jammed with everything but a car and the laundry room, it waited, then transformed.
Mildew (powdery), thankfully not mold (slimy or fuzzy), was growing up both sides of the wall by the time we arrived in May after Dad died, two months after Arlene. Each of us cleaned as we sorted. Every few hours one of us stopped the action for a consult. Keep? Donate? Trash? That inevitably led to memories: Dad’s candle-making hobby, Arlene’s crafting, Dad’s hours on the lawn mower at the slowest speeds possible, Arlene’s visits to Germany.
Fire
We threw away or burned what was unsalvageable, starting with the couch on which Dad slept for years in front of a blaring tv that matched his world-class snoring. I don’t recall a debate about whether we’d burn it. It seemed we were all thinking the same thing as soon as we arrived: pyre the couch.
Dad had a thing with burning rubbish. Once, I remember he and his tomato-farmer friend Rick, raked all the leaves into the street gutter and set it afire. Both feigned surprise when the fire department showed up.
“We do this all the time in the country,” I recall them explaining to the fire crew.
“Mr. Cooke, you can’t do this in town.”
Or something like that. No one called the fire department on us up the “holler” (see definition 2) in rural southern Ohio.
Surprises from the Storage Unit
I opened the Frye boot box first. I didn’t recall packing two pieces of turquoise jewelry. The ring was too big and the bracelet embraced my wrist. Perhaps Dad bought both pieces while in New Mexico temporarily one summer. He needed work during a 1970’s Piketon A-plant union strike. I remembered the day he left. I stood in the driveway crying as we hugged and he promised to return.
Next, I found the receipt for Dad’s boots, a delightful surprise. I would have been 11 years old in 1978 when he bought them for $46. In Ohio, I thought they fit. But, in Colorado, I clomped around the house. Even though two sizes too big, I wore them to the dentist anyway. The hygienist took some footage of me sporting a 2020 fashion statement: running tights, puffy vest, well-worn cowboy boots, and a coronavirus mask. Next up: Vogue cover.
Opening plastic bins led to an hour of sneezing. This would continue. Several bins contained musty vintage clothing and a few pieces of silver, none of which I’d remembered. I set things aside in piles in case I found more of the same.
Unpacking surprises continued. I returned to a large box with multiple conflicting descriptions and struggled to open it with scissors instead of returning to the garage for a box cutter. Mostly full of vintage clothes, I hung them outside on a relatively warm winter day in Boulder. Several bins contained linens, dish towels, scarves with a little man to match, and a little red pouch with Helen’s initials HC for Helen Cooke. I set them outside too as they smelled as bad.
Air Force Officers Spouse’s Club
On indulging my first wild goose chase while opening the picture bin, I found pictures of my grandmother, Helen. Noted as the Director of Publicity for the Air Forces Officers’ Spouses Club in 1951, she and other officers presented General Hoyt Vandenberg, Chief of Staff for the U.S. Air Force with a box that would hold the swearing in bible for the Chiefs of Staff. I wondered whether the box still existed and if the Club would be interested in the picture I’d found.
Opening the Letters Bin
I’d both looked forward to and had been intimidated by unpacking surprises from the box of letters. But, the letters had been in the barn. Not only were they fragrant, they also had a layer of dust and leaves from the ample oak and acorn trees on the property. I also found evidence of mice, including some letters they apparently harvested, possibly for nests. Unfortunately I didn’t get my reaction on camera. I moved the letters outside to air out, I hoped, with the winter sun aided by baking soda.
Other Things
The remainder of the boxes included miscellaneous things like a brass candelabra and candles I don’t remember packing either. One box contained everything that was in the Korean chest: more linens, candles, pictures, and mementos, two tall glass containers with lids, and a single Coca Cola glass. The tall glass containers excited me for the possibility to store chive blossoms with my upcoming summer harvest. At that point, I hadn’t found the photos I’d find in Episode 3 of the containers in Helen’s Arlington, Virginia home in which I spent summers as a young girl.
Perhaps buried deep in a memory was running through her living room as opened lids to discover all the things emerging from unpacking surprises.
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