Throwing a life away…

It’s taken me awhile, but I really am throwing a life away – my dad’s. I’ve done some cleaning already. The clothes were easy to donate, with a few things kept for sentimental value. Most of the nicknacks have been thrown and puzzled over (plastic milk caps with a small hole cut in the middle??! Many, many rubber bands?) After far too long, though, I’ve now finally gotten to the nitty gritty, his essence – the books.

I have been avoiding the books like the plague. They defined my father. A lot of them are cheap 1950s paperbacks that fall apart when you turn a page, but they were his books. He obviously spent most of his early railroad salary (pre-marriage, of course) on a ton of 35 cent books. They surrounded him in the basement. They were probably his security blanket against the world. Row after row of the cheap paperbacks, scarfed hardcovers from book sales and library discards, and better-quality paperbacks with good covers and paper for a lot of his reference books.

Pop had it all. He had pretty much had books covering every topic. I do remember telling him he should catalog his collection, but even when I was in school, the paperbacks were falling apart. The cheap paperbacks are finally getting thrown out. Before, I would have felt guilty, even though he wasn’t here. These were his books and I didn’t want to start making decisions about them. Going through the cheap paperbacks, I’m seeing cheap bookmarks (lotto tickets, used-up transit cards, the occasional newspaper article) and that tells me he really was looking at most of his books most of the time.

I used to go down there if I needed my own security blanket. I’d look at all the books in wonder and usually find at least one to distract me from the problem of the moment. After awhile, I’d forgotten what the problem was and was engrossed in the book or books. The book sanctum was a refuge for me, too, because I valued it and I felt closer to my father there than anywhere else – that was important for someone who didn’t feel close to her father.

It is amazing to see the variety. Books predicting the future from a 1950s perspective (nothing too right); poetry books; books about Freud; novels by Graham Greene; Plato’s Republic; a book about how to play chess; Mark Twain; medical and law books; lots of books about Chicago; etiquette books; Strunk and White; books about weather, trees, and wildflowers; etc., etc. 

Weeding through them has been tough, and I’ve been trying to be brutal about what gets kept. There’s way too many to keep, obviously, and the cheap paperbacks are in bad condition. The hardcovers may have more options than the trash. But that’s the next hurdle.

It was hard to start trashing the books - it is the final goodbye. He isn’t here anymore to need to be surrounded by and refer to them. I’m not interested in cheap paperbacks about poetry or science or quotations. I’m not him, but I can appreciate what he had and on occasion, be surprised what I find (the Warren commission report on Kennedy’s death?)

It’s separation and unity all at once. A parent’s death certainly is a reflective experience…