Yesterday's garage sale was harder on me emotionally than I expected it to be. I managed to deflect much of the impact by playing with Mirabelle, but the fundamental issue was still there. Non-eloquently speaking, the garage sale was about selling off an old woman's lifetime of cruft. She had children and grandchildren who could manage to do the actual work, which is good. I can't imagine the emotional weight of disposing a lifetime's worth of memories in a weekend.
Which is not to say that's what really happened, but in some way it was. Beth's grandmother was the original owner of the house, it having been built by Beth's grandfather. Every detail of the house was an imprint from their actions, each nook and cranny and built-in. So was all of the stuff we piled on tables, or hauled out of boxes, or rummaged through in the garage. It was years and years, decades rather, of stuff accumulated into a big pile, to be disposed by strangers, bought by strangers, taken away by strangers.
I came home and looked at all of my stuff. I've been following the William Morris quote with my crap: "Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful." Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Much has memories attached to it.
I tried to clean out some of the stuff, but wasn't completely successful. I'm more motivated now, after the garage sale. I'd rather be the one to throw out, give away, sell or otherwise divest myself of my stuff, than to know 30, 50, 80 years from now some stranger is going to do it, some stranger is going to look at my possessions and think, what crap.
P.S. Andy's home. Arrived today.