It's been 6 1/2 years for me. I tried to clean house, the basement most especially, when I first arrived back to this house where I grew up. After my mother died. After my husband died. But, since most of what I brought out to the curb somehow managed to find its way back inside, I decided it must be too stressful for my father (who most people call Opa these days). After all, who was I to decide that some changes were in order? It's not my house. So I abandoned the idea. Until recently.
One dumpster later, there is finally some maneuvering room in the basement. Today I am cleaning out my dad's tool room. But cleaning this house is never easy. Everything I touch triggers some memory. His tools. All the motors he saved. Not too long ago Opa could fix anything. I linger for a while over his fishing equipment, unused for a decade at least.
How I loved to fish with him! Every summer, my parents would rent a lakeside cottage somewhere in Ontario. There would always be a dock out front and a small boat with motor for me, my sister and Opa. Oma only learned to appreciate the joy of fishing much later in life...
Suddenly basement lights go out, and the chain of memories breaks. I am left standing in the dark, shouting "DAD, I'M IN THE BASEMENT!" Shouting because my dad's hearing has diminished along with his memory. Lights come back on, followed by "Sorry, I didn't know you were down there." And so it goes, once every ten minutes or so.
Opa is my teacher. Patience.
After yet another light outage, but just when his tool room is functional again, Opa comes down to have a look at what I am doing. At first he's speechless. He eyes his row of tools and runs his hand across the decluttered work bench. "It makes me want to start a project!" he finally says, which makes it all worthwhile.
Before we head upstairs, Opa opens the door to the cold cellar. "Wow, there is too much stuff in here!" he says. No worries, Papa, it's on my list.
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