Wednesday, April 7, 2010

End of Auburn

Our big red pickup truck rolls westward over the bridge crossing the Chattahoochee River near the state borders of Georgia and Alabama. We drive on towards the town of Auburn, where you earned your living as a university librarian for twenty five years. As we pull into town, Jack suggests that we go straight to the storage facility before checking into our hotel. All of your worldly goods have been kept in storage there ever since you died a little over two years ago.

This is our second trip to the storage unit. Jack and I came to Auburn last May with Uncle Jim and Aunt Gale. We brought home your desk and some paintings, and Aunt Gale kept a couple of dolls from your collection. I was too overwhelmed to deal with the rest of it during that trip. I remembered the storage unit as being about the size of a two car garage, with furniture and boxes of personal effects stacked up to the ceiling. Upon our arrival this trip, I was relieved to see that the volume of stuff that had filled your old Victorian house in Opelika for almost twenty years was a little less than I had thought.

We begin loading the lighter pieces of furniture into the back of the truck, including your wicker arch shelves, Danish modern dinette, and a night stand or two. When our truck is full, we make the first of what will be many trips over the next couple of days to Goodwill. Their workers help us unload the goods. We check into the Holiday Inn, freshen up a bit, and then go out to a Mexican place for burritos and a glass of wine. After dinner, we head back to the hotel and relax in the jacuzzi tub.

The next morning we get up early, and put on t-shirts and jeans. At the storage facility, I start sorting through dozens of boxes filled with towels and tablecloths, pots and pans, Christmas ornaments, stainless flatware, and paperback novels. I glance around the storage unit and realize that this room contains all that is left of your existence. It makes me a little sad.

Jack works on arranging the heavier pieces of furniture to make them more accessible for the thrift store workers who are coming for pick-up. Two guys arrive in a large truck with a hydraulic lift. They are happy to receive your floral upholstered sofa sleeper, the mahogany 1980's style coffee table, and that blue velvet arm chair you loved so much. Into their truck goes the oak bed frame Uncle Jim bought you when you moved to Lexington to work on your masters degree at the University of Kentucky, and a large chest of drawers. A dining room table and matching chairs also go into the truck. I'm a little sad to part with your beloved Lane cedar chest, but there's no space for it in our house, so off to the thrift store it goes. I hope it finds a good home.

After the thrift store truck has gone, Jack and I continue to sort through the storage unit. Your sewing machine, an old typewriter, luggage, and several large bags of clothing all go into our pickup. I unfold your favorite pairs of jeans, dresses, and pretty sweaters. I decide to save only a scarf for myself. Your old patent leather clutch purse that was all the rage in 1971 makes me smile. I decide to pass it all along to others who may need clothing and a vintage handbag more than I do.

I look, a little wistfully, through a box filled with some of your favorite childhood books. I remember how you loved Pipi Longstocking and On the Banks of Plum Creek. I'm tempted to keep the books, but then decide pass them along to Goodwill so that other children can enjoy them as much as you did.

I unwrap the colorful folk art paintings of Aunt Jemima Self-Rising Flour and Planters Roasted Peanuts that you liked so much. They adorned your kitchen walls and made you happy, but they also absorbed so much negative karma over the years of your marriage that it hurts me to look at them. Seeing those pictures brings back memories of the two of you standing in the kitchen screaming at one another. I decide to give them to Goodwill so that they can find their way to new homes where they will make other people happy.

We work all day, sorting through seemingly endless boxes of papers, tossing out old bank statements, tax returns, and correspondence. I save some of your birthday cards and old letters from friends and family. Jack and I decide to bring home your beautiful Blue Willow wedding china. I save your photo albums, high school yearbooks, and several pieces of art. I keep your Bible and an unabridged dictionary. We find a blender and several other items we can use at our house. I find one very special treasure, the little white satin ring pillow from our parents wedding. It has the words "Iris and Charles, August 21, 1947" embroidered on it. I am so happy to have it. I find a 1960s modern style lamp, from our house in Myrtle Grove, and I load it into the truck. It has good vibes.

There is not enough room in our truck to bring home the big white wooden bookcase that was in the bedroom we shared as little girls in our house on St. Regis Drive. Sadly, we also have no room for our Grandaddy's rocking chair. I call the minister at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Auburn. She says we can drop those items off at the church and promises to give them a good home. I also give her your flower pot decorated with pretty painted irises, your little ceramic dog bank for her grandson, and your Robert Frost poetry book for the church library.

I look around at familiar landmarks as we drive through this quaint little college town. I wave goodbye to the library. At the cemetery, I place a bouquet of silk tulips on your grave, as well as two little ceramic angels I found carefully wrapped in tissue paper in a box with some other figurines.

I will miss traveling the long peaceful country roads across west Georgia, seeing signs along the way for towns with amusing names like "Ty Ty" and "Cussetta". I'll also miss stopping at the Merritt Pecan Company in Weston, Georgia for pecan divinity and cashew brittle. I'll miss the miles of crop fields, farm houses, pecan groves, and red clay hills. I will miss stopping for coffee at the Starbucks in Tifton, just off I-75.

The storage unit is empty and our goal accomplished. We begin our trip back home to Florida. You named me as the executor of your estate in an unsigned Will, written before your marriage, that I found in your safe deposit box right after you died. I'll never know whether you still wanted me to take care of your belongings after all those years since you never updated the Will, but your almost ex-husband agreed to drop off the key to the storage unit for me at a lawyer's office. You were my sister, and I am happy to do this in honor of your memory. I traveled to Auburn so many times over the years to spend Thanksgivings, Christmases, and summer vacations with you. I don't know when I will come to Auburn again, as you are no longer there and your soul is somewhere else in the universe. So this is the end of my travels to Auburn for awhile, as I no longer have ties to the area. But I promise you that someday I'll come back and put flowers on your grave again.