“Sweet-ish” Death Cleaning ~ Part 1 ~ Inheriting a Forklift

          When our dad died, my sister and I were left to clean out what had been our family home—a very full 2-story house with equally full attic and basement, plus garage (which I’ll comment on a bit later). My husband held down our home and family a great distance away in another state to free me to work with my sister for the 3 weeks she had left in the USA (having come from overseas).

          Our mother died first almost 4 years earlier. Before she passed, she apologized for “the mess I’ve left for you to deal with.” Over the next years whenever we offered to help weed down piles in the house, Dad expressed that he didn’t want us “to touch anything. You can do it when I’m gone.” So it was, when Dad passed, we were stuck touching everything.

          To complicate life just a bit more, our grandparents had owned this home before they could no longer stay there, and they left family treasures dating back more than a century.

         Our parents weren’t sloppy nor dirty. They weren’t hoarders, but they kept a lot of stuff that “might be useful one day.” Yes, they were depression-era graduates, and many in that class didn’t throw anything away.

          Dad went to Heaven in the month of July—one of the hottest New Jersey summers in a long time. After we said our “see you later” to Dad at the graveside in Pennsylvania, my husband and kids drove north to our home. My sister and I headed east to tackle the task before us.

          The house had 2 window air conditioners only. But we determined to honor our parents and do the best we could—until we were weeks into it, taking a couple showers a day to survive, and so exhausted that everything seemed funny when it really wasn’t.

          Example: When we headed down to the basement where it was slightly cooler, I climbed onto a stool to empty shelves. “Hey, these look old!” I said handing cans and bottles down to my sister and turning some around to read the labels. “They’re so old they don’t even have zip codes on them!” We laughed so hard we nearly wet our pants!

          Then we tackled Dad’s workbench and the piles of parts he kept “in case,” lots of antiques he picked up from the Englishtown Flea Market, and everything else imaginable hanging from the joists with hooks made from old phone wires (which, when I was growing up, I used to create little animals—so, of course, not junk).

          Mom saved a lot of magazines and booklets with Biblical themes. She kept every Radio Bible Class Our Daily Bread devotional book for scores of years “in case” she needed an inspirational piece for speaking or teaching opportunities. There were Our Daily Breads upstairs and downstairs, in cabinets and on table tops.

          When I finally decided to tackle the garage (my sister opting not to step foot in there—smart girl), we dubbed me with a super-hero name before I charged forward! No one had been in there for years, I don’t think, because the only way in was to walk sideways between all the stuff that Dad accumulated, and Dad, in his later years, was wider than “sideways.”

          I started moving one item at a time out the big double doors, until I could get in far enough and discovered…

          …IT!

          Sweaty, dirty me ran back into the house. “Carolyn, you’re not gonna believe what’s out there!”

          “There can’t be anything worse than what we’ve already uncovered. Can there?”

          I wiped the sweat from my forehead to keep my eyeballs from drowning. “A forklift! We’ve inherited a forklift!”

          We were stymied! Again, we broke out in laughter along with banter about how much our dad must’ve loved us to leave us…

          …a forklift!

          I could barely spit out my next words. “W….we…ha-ha-ha…can…ha-ha-ha…use it to move all the Our Daily Breads!”

          Yup, Dad left us a forklift. (How many people can make that claim!)

          When my sister needed to return to her employment overseas, I asked a few friends if they’d like to help me with an estate sale. They gladly agreed. We spent several days preparing what was left for the sale, and God honored all efforts with amazingly good results.

          My sister and I were able to honor our parents after all. They wished for us to make sure the missionaries they supported were taken care of for quite some time. The results of the estate sale made that possible.

          As for the friends who came and helped, when all was said and done, they returned home and started giving away, throwing away, repurposing contents of their homes.

          Why?

          They mutually said, “We don’t want our kids to go through what you girls did!”

          And that’s why I’m writing this post and the ones that will follow. Because we, too, don’t want our kids to have to go through that. It just doesn’t seem fair.

          Because the diagnosis I have doesn’t necessarily promise me a long life, I’ve decided (and hubby’s on board) to do what some call death cleaning. I don’t have to do this now, but I may not be able to do it down the road, even if I’m still on this side of the grass.

          So, I purchased a book which intrigued me and offered helpful suggestions—The Art of Swedish Death Cleaning: How to Free Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter by Margareta Magnusson—a small, easy-to-read book written by a Scandinavian woman in her 80s. You see, in her country, death cleaning is something most the population does as part of life because…

          …well, because everyone dies. Period.

          In Part 2 I’ll share with you benefits of death cleaning. I’ll also try to give you some tips from the book I read to help get you (who are older) started.

          Now, the term “death cleaning” may upset some. Don’t let that deter you. Just call it down-sizing, eliminating clutter, whatever you wish. The helpful hints apply to whatever you call it. I’ve chosen to name our process “sweet-ish” death cleaning—the reason for that title I’ll also explain in Part 2.

          Need help? I’d lend you our forklift if I could, but my sister and I decided that was something we wouldn’t keep…

          …after moving the Our Daily Bread devotionals, that is! Sorry, Dad…and Mom.

          I always include a song with my blog posts. Often songs I add just “pop” into my head and heart. This time I was stumped, so I explained to hubby what this post would be about and asked, “What song or hymn would go with something as crazy as death and a forklift?”

          Without hesitation he replied, “Burdens Are Lifted at Calvary!”

          “Why didn’t I think of that one! Not only forklift apropos but also one of Dad’s favorites. Talk about fitting!”

Burdens Are Lifted at Calvary by John M. Moore, 1952

—Gaither Homecoming Friends—

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwXz5Mx7ZWE&list=RDfwXz5Mx7ZWE&start_radio=1

 

P.S.—Although this blog post centers on the theme of death cleaning and the humorous times my sister and I experienced while emptying our parents’ estate, we truly loved them and grieved their passing. Inasmuch as the death cleaning “nearly killed us,” in hindsight the comic relief may’ve been a blessing in disguise. Mom’s been gone almost 35 years, and Dad 30. It hardly seems possible this was so long ago yet “just yesterday.”

 

#Swedishdeathcleaning #parentsdying #clutter #cleaningoutestate #estatesale

#forklift #inheritance

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