I was thrilled to have the art supplies. They are all either unused or barely used. The Duchess bought them for various art classes over the years and then didn't enjoy the media. The sweatshirt fits me perfectly and is a deep, rich shade of green. I wore it several times while in New York and I wore it today in Sevilla. It will get great use. The silver spoon is charming. The Duchess suggested I could sell it (as if I could find someone to buy it). The keychain is interesting. I'm sure someone in Sevilla will enjoy having it.
My mother doesn't easily get rid of things. Her apartment is loaded with stuff, more stuff than Jerry and I ever had. Art supplies; fabrics; yarns; books; stitchery and creativity magazines; projects from art classes; stacks of paintings and sketch pads; polished and unpolished rocks (my parents were rock hounds); polished rocks mounted in jewelry settings; sea shells (buckets and buckets of seashells); photos (in albums and loose, dozens and dozens of loose photos propped up on shelves); a mortar and pestle collection. It makes me a little crazy. So, now when she offers me things, I usually accept — if only to get them out of her house.
Around 1999, I was sitting with The Duchess in the bedroom that is basically her crafts and projects room. She looked around and said, "Oh, I really have to start getting rid of things."
|DREAMCATCHERS ORIGINATED IN THE OJIBWE (CHIPPEWA) CULTURE (BEFORE THE KITSCH VERSIONS).|
Ten years earlier, in 1989, a couple of years after my father died, Jerry and I took The Duchess and my brother to South Dakota with us to visit Jerry's family. In Mitchell, South Dakota, at the Corn Palace, my mother bought a burlap sack filled with individual bags of microwave popcorn. She gave each of her sisters and her brother one bag of microwave popcorn. She kept the empty burlap sack for herself.
In response to The Duchess's comment that she needed to start getting rid of things, I grabbed the burlap sack from where it lay on the desk and, tossing it into the little garbage pail, said, "Well, you can start with this."
The Duchess flew out of her chair, pulled the sack from the trash, crushed it to her chest as if she had just saved its life, and gasped, "No!"
I looked at her incredulously and asked, "Why not?"
She said calmly, "I might be able to use it for a project."
|SLIGHTLY USED. FROM THE DOWAGER DUCHESS THRIFT SHOP.|
So, I gave up. Until a little over three years ago. The Duchess was in the hospital having been hit by a car when she was crossing the street to catch a bus (her sisters were furious with her for taking the bus and not using her car service, but I suggested that she could just as easily have been hit crossing the street to meet the car service). It was a frightening time but she was an amazing patient and was also fortunate to recover after two months of hospital and rehab. While she was at her worst, and before and after visiting hours, I spent a lot of time alone in her apartment. The only thing that kept me sane were phone calls with Jerry, until he joined me — and obsessively cleaning and organizing her apartment. I cleaned closets and cabinets, I dumped musty old linens and army blankets, and expired medicines and canned goods. But I did not throw out that burlap bag until she was well enough to give me permission. She did, and she also gave me permission to get rid of a lot more, although not as much as I would have liked.
Since the early '70s, The Dowager Duchess has been saving tins of all sizes (from candies, from chocolates, from teas, from cookies and shortbread). Some of the tins are quite nice. Others look like, well, tins that held candies and chocolates and teas and cookies and shortbread. Most of the tins line the upper shelves of two hutches in the bedroom I use when I visit. The remainder are atop the hutch in the "crafts room" (the room Jerry uses) or scattered here and there around the house.
|SOME MORE TINS.|
A few years ago, I counted the tins — I suppose just to be a bit of a smart ass. There were 87. There may be more now; she may have added some without telling me. Those tins make me crazy. She has gotten better about getting rid of things, but (admirably, I suppose) she insists on donating everything to local charities rather than just taking things down to the trash in the back hall and letting the neighbors who like to pick have at them. Out of respect, I behave myself and do not sneak any away with me to discreetly toss. It's tempting. I always feel like they're going to hurl themselves down on me while I sleep.
|A FEW MORE ATTACK TINS. SEE THE VICIOUS LOOK IN THE EYES OF THE SHEEPDOG?|