The Estate Sale

It has been more than ten days since my last post, and to the one or two persons who are following this blog I do apologize.  We have been very busy, perhaps as busy as when we were working full-time jobs.  Nearly every day we have been going to Hickory Street, moving furniture, carrying things up and down stairs, arranging belongings on display tables, and taking loads of trash to the landfill.  One day last week we even loaded up a full-size refrigerator and delivered it to Martha's brother's house.  As I was carrying our small lunch cooler out to the car yesterday, I felt a little like a construction worker must feel at the end of a long day carrying his lunch pail wearily to his truck.  Just as I do when I work in our yard all day, or on a construction project at our house, it makes me appreciate the millions of men and women who earn a living doing such work eight hours every day.

Last Saturday we had the first of four estate sales, and it was by far the most successful.  At 9:00 a.m., there were thirty or forty people in the driveway waiting for the garage doors to open.  In no time, we were deluged with sales.  One lady began to gather so many things that Martha devoted herself entirely to helping her stack it up on the front porch and totaling it all up.  She and her husband, plus another couple who had come with them, loaded up two pickup trucks that still did not hold it all - they arranged to come back the next day for what they could not carry away.

When we all compared notes at the end of the day, we agreed that we had worked well together – Angie and Scott stationed in the garage where the main sales point was, and Martha and I working as “floaters” answering questions and taking cash for small items.  Everyone was wearing a face mask and did not seem to mind at all.

The sale was not as well-attended on Sunday but still a success.  "There will be plenty of tools next week," we kept telling people, because we had not yet had time to sort through the basement, which was absolutely filled with tools, equipment, and auto parts.  There was a maze of drop cords and lights scattered across the area where Martha's Dad had tinkered on his Model T and Model A, as well as assorted other vehicles over the years.  A narrow, dark corridor off to the side led to what looked like an absolute mess, but from which I had learned over the years he could unfailingly pull a basin wrench or some other odd tool that I asked to borrow.

Upstairs, the tables emptied quickly, and the woman who had arranged to come back and pick up the balance of her things agreed to buy most of the rest of the small items.  The family room, by the end of the week, was completely empty, and we changed the advertisements in the paper from "household goods" to entirely tools.

We were glad that many of the grandchildren were interested in the more esoteric auto parts.  The two grandsons had bought the Model A and Model T after Martha's Dad died four years ago, and so they knew what, for example, a coil tester for a Model T Ford looked like.  

The tool sale took place this weekend, with light rain from the remnants of Hurricane Laura not deterring dozens of people, mostly men, waiting again for the garage door to open Saturday morning.  Angie and Scott were in the garage where half of the tools were located and Martha and I were downstairs in the shadowy basement, and while some items quickly sold, I watched many men look with puzzlement at some unique tool, like the long spoon-shaped lever for removing the tire on a T Model. 

 

One of my friends, who is an old car enthusiast and knew Martha's  Dad well, stopped by today and began pulling small parts out of a cabinet; I had seen them and had no idea what they were.  "See this?" he said.  "A distributor for a T-Model.   And look at this!  A starter switch."  He was pretty excited by it all.  He told me that Martha's Dad had often come over to his house and talked cars while he was working on an unusual old car.  "You know," he said, pointing to his head, "You can Google this or that, or look in a manual, but you can't replace what's up here!" 

The sale this morning cleaned out most of the rest of the tools, and we agreed that we were at a point where we could donate the balance to the local thrift shop, Mountain Findings, together with some other household furniture that had not sold.  We plan to list the property with a realtor this coming week, and are hopeful that it will sell quickly.  The real estate market in Highlands is absolutely exploding.  Everyone wants to escape the chaos wrought by the Covid-19 pandemic and come to this beautiful place, where the pandemic is pretty much under control for the moment.  We have heard that during the past two weeks, 110 homes sold in Highlands, all of them above the asking price.

Toward the end of the day, Martha spotted something tucked away under the stairs in the basement:  the original Highlands Variety Store sign that had once hung over the front door of that wonderful place on the Hill on Fourth Street where she and her sister and brother had grown up.  One of the grandson's immediately said he would like to have it.  

And so it goes, settling an estate like this, as we remember the wonderful father, the talented all-around mechanic and inveterate tinkerer, and the gentle and beautiful woman who married him.  Day by day we have sorted through the things that they collected together over the years in this big house, the rooms now emptied of furniture and auto parts and tools, but still filled with wonderful memories.

What Can I Do to Help?

What can I do to help?"  Are there words more welcome to the ears of a hard-working person?  It is far better to pose the offer this way rather than merely "Can I help?" which is likely to be met with, "Oh no, I'm fine, thanks."  It is saying:  I am here to help.  Tell me what to do.  I wrote this on our kitchen blackboard about a month ago, when the matter of "Settling the Estate" was starting to consume more and more time, especially for Martha. 

I don't mean to congratulate myself, because I have sometimes been a reluctant helper and, from time to time, out of sorts.  But if you write that on the blackboard, if you ask that question, then you have to be prepared to do whatever you are asked to do.  Martha made a wise decision a couple of weeks ago when, unable to sleep, she made a list of all the things that needed to be done to prepare for an estate sale this weekend and then place the house on Hickory Street on the market, ranging from cleaning the windows to gathering together all the yard art to moving the barbeque grill around to the front porch.  It was well received by her brothers and her sister, who quickly began checking off the things that they wanted to do and could do.

I was asked on Monday to set this tent up, which Martha had ordered from some (I thought) dubious company for less than a hundred dollars, a fraction of the cost of renting a tent for several days.  I say "dubious" because it appeared to have been manufactured in another country where labor is cheap and detailed instructions are shown on a single piece of paper entitled "Simple Assembly Directions" and only in pictures.  I probably would not have been as out of sorts had I not run four miles that morning and then found myself out in the front yard most of the time, in blazing hot sun, sorting through a hundred different tent poles and attempting to decipher the exact sequence in which this tent was to become a reality. 

It did come together, patiently and gradually, and I confess that I ended up feeling some admiration for the way in which the poles snapped firmly together and simple loops of Velcro were used to fasten the sides (with it's faux-pane windows).  All for less than a hundred dollars, and using pictures rather than a thousand words.  Certainly much to be preferred to the instructions for the battery-powered “tap light” which I installed in the pantry last week, which were written on a large piece of paper unfolded from a tiny square, in approximately sixteen different languages and in a font so tiny that I had to use my reading glasses and a magnifying glass. 

Yesterday Martha's brother Scott and I made another trip to the landfill with more things too worn or broken to be sold in the sale.  We must have made twenty trips to the landfill so far, and with the right attitude, it is very satisfying.  Scott was already skilled at backing a trailer attached to his truck when we began this work, but now he is an expert.  And we have all enjoyed spending time with one another, which in a way is part of the healing process.  We find ourselves chuckling over this or that tool or contraption that Scott's Dad, an inveterate tinkerer, had fabricated.  Or remembering something sweet about his Mom.  

Martha has been arriving early in the morning and is working very hard.  She has placed ads in both newspapers, priced nearly everything, and has displayed it all with the skill that can only have come from growing up working in her Mom and Dad's store as a child.  On the front porch, toys are on one table and antiques on another, and so on.

I completed my four-mile run up Bearpen Mountain this morning - we have been running on alternate days this week - and then came by just before lunch.  We enjoyed sandwiches that we had made and which we ate sitting in rocking chairs out on the front porch where we have visited with Martha's Mom and Dad over the years.  Then we moved some furniture downstairs, hung some pictures; I stopped in surprise to look at the family room, which definitely looks like it is ready for a sale this weekend.

It is a poignant time and a difficult thing to do, emptying out a house of a lifetime of things once held precious by those who lived there, distributing them among children and grandchildren, donating some to the local thrift store Mountain Findings, throwing some of it away, and selling the rest so that it can be enjoyed and put to use by others.  But in the end I think it will be therapeutic.  Now we are eager to see if the sale will be well-attended despite the forecast afternoon thundershowers and our demand that those who attend wear face masks and practice what social distancing they can.

Rainy August

This is one of the rainiest summers we have had in Highlands in several years.  Our garden, which does not receive much sunlight under the best of conditions, has finally been extinguished, I think.  I was surprised earlier in the week to find one perfect zucchini hiding under its huge leaves, about ten inches long, but I think that is the last we will see this year.  Alas, we consumed it so quickly that I neglected to take a photo of it.  

There are many ways to prepare zucchini, but this time we spiralized it.  We had been to a Center for Life Enrichment program at Lakeside Restaurant last summer - back in that bygone time when we could actually attend programs like that, packed tightly into a restaurant for a cooking class - where we were shown how to turn zucchini into long spaghetti-like strands by using this tool, and we immediately went to the Dry Sink and purchased our own.

It's a simple but clever little device, and the "spaghetti" that it produces can be boiled, pan sauteed in a little olive oil (as Martha did), or even mixed with pasta.

There will be no more zucchini or yellow squash or tomatoes or green beans, all of which we enjoyed from our little garden this year.  The three inches of rain on Thursday and two inches on Friday left the garden beds looking bedraggled, ready for the first frost to finish it off so I can pull up the stakes and cages and put everything to bed for the year.

Last night it rained again, waking us from time to time as it intensified, died away, and then roared back to life again all night.  The forecast did not look promising this Saturday morning for our long run of the week, but I arose at 6:00 a.m. in any case and went outside under the covered porch for my Tai Chi.  It was raining pretty steadily at that time, but in an hour or two it had tapered off, and by 8:00 a.m. it had stopped. 

We are sharing a vehicle until we pick up the vehicle we found in South Carolina to replace our Mini Cooper – a pre-owned Honda CR-V like the one we have but ten years newer and with low mileage – so I drove to Town for a quick run and promised to return before 10:00 a.m. so Martha, who likes to get started a little later, could also run.  I was surprised that the sun had come out by the time I started, but in a mile or two it disappeared behind Sunset Mountain and thick fog began drifting down across the road.  Fred and Karen joined me at 9:00 a.m. and I completed another two miles, but by the time I had finished it was lightly misting rain again.

Fortune sometimes favors runners, though, and when I returned to Town with Martha the sun was shining again.  While she was running I ran some errands, and then was able to complete two more miles myself.  Once again we congratulated ourselves on finding an open door of opportunity and going through it. 

After lunch, it began raining again.  And so this long wet August continues.

Moving Pianos

Work continues nearly every day in preparing the house on Hickory Street for an Estate Sale.  We are now planning on three weekends, beginning August 22.  We did not expect to be ready this soon and find ourselves a little surprised that it is just around the corner, ads to appear in the paper next week.

Martha has done such a good job organizing all the things to be sold and grouping them together - Christmas all on one table, silver and china on another, etc.  Angie, too, has found that she is very good at displaying the things for sale, and they have talked about how they grew up in the family "dime store" on the hill in Highlands - the Highlands Variety Store - where they learned these skills.  "That's the stool we used to take a break on," Angie told me the other day, pointing to a little wooden stool out on the front porch.  It has been a time of fond memories as these belongings have been sorted through.

Upstairs, the rooms have been mostly emptied of furniture, the mattresses and springs taken to the landfill because they cannot be sold, some of the bureaus and dressers already sold on Facebook Market Place.  I went upstairs to work on a headboard the other day, and was suddenly overcome by sadness at the silence and emptiness of these rooms.  Martha told me later that she had the same feeling, held at bay most of the time by staying so busy.

The nicest part about emptying out the house is that so many of the children and grandchildren have wanted things, ranging from small keepsakes to larger pieces of furniture; even though all of them have fully furnished houses, they have made room here and there for meaningful things.  Angie took home the pie safe that used to belong to her "Mamah," for example.  And we were so happy that our daughter Katy decided she wanted the Steinway piano that Mamah used to have in her home and on which she gave piano lessons.  

When we visited at Thanksgiving to enjoy the bountiful dinner Martha's aunt Lizette would prepare, we would stay at Mamah's big old house on Boylan Avenue and I enjoyed playing this piano, a 1951 Steinway with beautiful touch.  What wonderful memories I had, spinning out melodies in that cool house with its high ceilings.

"Did you know Mamah spent every summer in Highlands for years working on the needlepoint for the bench?" Martha told Katy.  "I think she only did it when she was visiting us.  I have always loved it."

Katy had arranged for a company called Two Men and a Truck - I have always loved that name! - to come to Highlands and pick up the piano, a cedar chest, and a freezer, and then come to our house to pick up a huge amount of her belongings that she had stored with us - her old desk and bed, a plant stand also once owned by Mamah, and boxes and bins of old books, National Geographics, stuffed animals - half a lifetime of possessions. 

The men (actually three men) showed up punctually and immediately went to work.  I have moved pianos before, including the Yamaha in our house that once belonged to my Dad, and it is not an easy task.  But in no time they had bundled it up and rolled it up the steep ramp into their truck.

I enjoy watching men work at jobs in which they excel, and this genial crew definitely knew what they were doing, from backing the truck in flawlessly at both places to expertly loading everything carefully between those thick padded moving blankets, strapping them to the walls so they would not slide around going around the switchbacks on the Walhalla Road.  I had been worried that the truck might not be large enough, but it proved to be plenty roomy enough.  "Sorry about the steps," I told one of them at our house as they were rolling big dollies from our back porch down the two steps to our narrow stone sidewalk.  "Oh, this is an easy day," he said.  "It could always be worse!"  That's a good attitude for someone in his profession.  From some dark recesses of my memory I dredged up a Laurel and Hardy short from nearly a hundred years ago.

Yes, it was an easy day, here on our flat driveway, despite two steps and a stone walkway that I built 30 years ago that should have been at least six inches wider than it is.  And in no time at all, we received a photo from Katy showing us how perfectly the piano fit in the nook of her dining room.

We have fewer possessions than many in our house, and we have always tried to live by that adage credited to William Morris: "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful."  (And, one might add, the memories that they hold.) Sorting through 60 years of memories has made us more conscious of our own home and possessions.  With more time at home because of the Covid-19 pandemic, we have re-evaluated a lot of them in light of our own mortality.  In the end, they mean nothing, except in their utility and their beauty.  What matters is the love we have for one another, our relationships, and our struggle to make things just a little better every day.

The Rose of Sharon

I have begun to noticed the first signs of fall, visible even in the midst of the heat and humidity of August.  On the local weather station's "Muggy Meter," the days this week are in the "Brutal" category, and I felt it today when I was running - three miles that felt like twice as far, with walking breaks on the hills.  

The petals have all fallen off the rhododendron now, and down our way, the fall flowers are becoming prominent, such as the Jewel Weed I wrote about in my post of last Friday.  Joe Pye Weed is also blooming, tall and leaning out over the road.

A week or two ago, we saw the first blossoms on our Rose of Sharon, which like Jewel Weed and Joe Pye Weed holds back its beauty until mid-August.  Now the tree is profuse with the blossoms.

For about as long as we have noticed the Rose of Sharon blossoms, we have been hearing the sound of the katydids.  (There may be a way that I can post a sound on this blog, but it is beyond my technical abilities.)  The age-old saying in these parts is that once you hear the rasping, rhythmic sound of the katydids, it will be six weeks until frost.  

It is hard to imagine during these dog days of summer awaking one morning to find a layer of frost on the windshield of the car!

A Sunday Afternoon

It has been six weeks since Martha's Mom died, and the family has stayed busy nearly every day in the daunting task of cleaning out the house, preparing for an estate sale, and preparing to place the house on the market next month.  The work has been all-consuming, especially for Martha as Executor of the estate, and although she has scheduled "rest" days, those days have often included stopping by that big brick house on Hickory Street for one reason or another.  Today, for example, she and I drove to Town to meet someone at 11:00 a.m. who had purchased a bedside table from the guest bedroom.  I sat on the porch for awhile waiting for the purchaser to arrive, enjoying the cool of the morning, looking out over the big front lawn, and listening to songbirds. 

Yesterday, Saturday, we both completed long runs - six miles for me, eight miles for Martha - and then in the afternoon I worked for awhile spreading more mulch out along the road until the heat, the gnats, and the fatigue from having run six miles drove me inside.  So it felt good to be simply sitting in a rocking chair, resting, as one should on the Sabbath.  I remember when I was training for marathons, which often consisted of six days of progressively harder weekly training runs, how much I looked forward to that "Rest Day" penciled in on the training schedule, usually a Sunday for me.  Those runners who do not take rest days usually suffer the consequences.  

A young man with a large, brand-new king cab pickup truck with a trailer on the back backed into the driveway, right on schedule, and I helped him load the little table, a nice one made of solid cherry.  He was a Latino and his name was Israel (which I thought was appropriate for the day).  After he left, Martha busied herself in the house and encouraged me to go for a walk, which I have found over the years is a better way to rest than to simply sit in a rocker all day.  So I walked down the steep hill on Hickory Street which locals called Monkey Hill, and then around the familiar block past Townsite Apartments and the Episcopal Church.  I spotted this unusual little piece of paper on Sixth Street and wondered what it meant:

Face masks are now requited in public buildings and on commercial sidewalks, so I felt a little uneasy when I turned west on Main Street, past the Episcopal Church, which although technically not a “commercial” sidewalk seemed to be filled with many mask-wearing people.  I crossed to the other side of the street; I had left my mask back in the car on Hickory Street and did not think I would be called upon to wear it.  But it was encouraging to see so much compliance.  

At a slower pace, I had the opportunity to view the beautiful flowers in front of the Episcopal Church, Shasta daisies and Black-eyed Susans leaning through the little fence as if struggling for freedom.

And this beautiful lily!  I don't know what it is called, but it looks like an Easter Lily, only much larger, flowering in profusion atop a tall stalk. 

When I returned from my walk, we finished up with some odds and ends projects and then drove home for lunch.  I wondered what we would be doing on a Sunday afternoon like this were it not for these two all-consuming events in out lives:  settling the estate, and dealing with the new reality of Covid-19.  We knew we would be settling the estate some day, although not as soon as this.  But we had never suspected how circumscribed our lives would become since this pandemic began.  And of course, we are so much more fortunate than many:  those who have contracted the virus, or suffered a loss among family and friends, or are among the 30 million unemployed.  Christopher Potts, a young healthy man just a year or two older than our daughter, has been posting some heartbreaking descriptions of his battle with Covid-19 on Facebook.  He and thousands of others may never fully recover from its devastating effects.

I try to keep this from becoming a political blog - there's plenty of that all around us on social media - but I can't help but continue to be amazed - and angered, at times - at the incompetence of the Trump administration, and the selfishness of those "anti-maskers," who have extended and worsened this pandemic far more than it should have been.  The European Union has nearly flattened that curve, while new cases keep spiking here.  It is very disheartening, and we wonder if there will ever be a time when we can have our lives back again, able to enjoy the simple pleasures of traveling and eating in restaurants and enjoying a church service in person.

But it is easy to fall into pessimism.  All we can do is struggle forward, hoping that this nation can heal itself, not just from this pandemic but from the divisiveness and hatred and hopelessness afflicting us all.  It helps to be able to take a walk on a Sunday afternoon and realize that birds are still joyfully singing, high in the trees, and that flowers are still bursting through churchyard fences.

Spreading Mulch

Several weeks ago, I asked my friend Lamar, who is the Public Works Director for the Town, if he could send a load of mulch my way.  The Trimming Crew in the Electric Department is continually trimming trees from around power lines and they create an abundance of mulch.  I remember that years ago a resident of the Town asked for some mulch, and when asked how much replied, "As much as you have."  He returned to his home from an absence of a week or two to find so much mulch that he had to call and say "Enough!"

That was not the problem this year.  Because of Covid-19, the Town crews were operating only partially earlier in the year, but a week or two ago I knew that they were fully operational again because this pile of mulch appeared below our property.  "Thanks!" I texted Lamar.  "That should keep me busy for awhile!"  

This was a good day to finally begin attacking the pile of mulch.  I was not needed to help on the project of cleaning out the house on Hickory Street today.  In fact, so much progress has been made that Martha now believes we can have an estate sale perhaps as soon as two weeks from now.  There had been a lull in the afternoon thunderstorms and I had mowed the yard thoroughly yesterday, in the heat of the afternoon.  I realized that I have finally become acclimated to the heat and humidity, and outdoor work is pleasant once again.  And when we ate lunch on the deck today, there was even a light breeze and intermittent cloud cover.  It will be even nicer to do this kind of work in September and October, but I am trying to enjoy the season we are actually in rather than looking forward to the next one.

The main purpose of the mulch is to build up the roadside along our property, which has over the course of a year or two been overtaken by weeds that have shaded out the daylilies and the hostas - that is, the hostas that have not been devoured by the deer.  I began pulling weeds and replacing them with mulch, one wheelbarrow-load at a time.  I should have counted how many wheelbarrow-loads of weeds I hauled down the road and how many loads of mulch I hauled up the road.  After all, I meticulously record how many miles I run each week.  I made slow, patient progress - stopping now and then to stretch, to listen to the birds singing - which is the only way to do yard work.

The large bushes along the road are burning bush, Euonymus alatus, which is popular in this area.  It has created a barrier between our house and the road which this time of year screens us when we sit on the deck.  Technically, it is an invasive species imported from China and not recommended for this area, according to one local landscaper we consulted, but we love its brilliant red color in the fall and thus far we have not noticed it spreading in the surrounding woods.

I realized that most of those "weeds" that I was removing was actually one of my favorite plants, Jewelweed, which starts to bloom this time of year.  I recalled that Ralph Waldo Emerson famously said, "What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered."  Jewelweed is also called "Touch-Me-Not" because touching the ripe seed pods make them explode.    

Part of me wanted to save these plants, already bearing some delicate spotted orange blossoms, but I decided I could enjoy them farther down the road where they were not shading the hostas and daylilies.

We both enjoy working in the yard, and Martha is planning on joining me tomorrow when she is taking a day off from Hickory Street.  At the end of the day, it is satisfying and often surprising how much progress has been made - a large pile of brush burned into a small mound of ash, an unkempt lawn mowed and trimmed, a pile of mulch growing smaller and smaller.  There is still a long way to go, but already the roadside is looking better.

Tomatoes and Mountains

Despite the nearly daily thunderstorms, which deposited three inches in an hour or two on Monday afternoon, our garden has produced a third picking of green beans.  We have had enough for several dinners - in fact, it's on the menu again tonight with grilled chicken - and we have even frozen two pints.  They always taste especially good on those cold days in November and December, a reminder of summer days and summer food.

We have also finally had some good luck with tomatoes this year, which seem to ripen overnight.  I will spot a green tomato from the deck that is starting to blush a little, pick it immediately, and line it up on the kitchen windowsill with the others.  Tomatoes have also been on the menu a lot lately:  BLTs for lunch, and our favorite summertime appetizer, fresh mozzarella and sliced tomatoes with basil from Martha's herb garden on the deck, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar - classic caprese.

I still vividly remember trading gardening tips with a coworker years and years ago, when another coworker scornfully told us that gardening was a waste of time; if you added up the time and cost, you would do just as well at the produce stand or the supermarket.  How true that is!  And all gardeners of course understand that.  But if we start down that road, what is to keep us from saying that one could just as easily drive the four miles that I ran on Monday, or visit the seafood stand instead of wasting all day surf fishing on the beach.  Of course it's a waste of time and money.  But those of us who proudly slice into that first misshapen, imperfect home grown tomato of the season do not need to explain.

The four miles I ran on Monday was, for the eighth week in a row, Bearpen Mountain.  I may have reached the point in my training when not running to the summit of this mountain every Monday would make me feel guilty.  It was foggy this Monday, and there was little traffic.  It began misting rain, and after awhile I could not tell the difference between the fog and fine mist, the humidity, and my own sweat.  It was not an unpleasant feeling, and on the descent it began raining, nice and cool, just for a half-mile or so.  Ahead of me, I could see a single headlight approaching in the fog, and it turned out to be a man on a bicycle.  I had seen him climbing this mountain once or twice before, and we greeted each other genially.  In a few minutes, I could hear him coming down the mountain behind me, and I thought I could slightly detect the acrid smell of his brakes as he whizzed past.

It's always worth the effort to climb a mountain, running or cycling.  Just as it is always worth the effort to grow a garden.