Stuff

right now, right this very minute it is 11.20 pm and I'm sitting up in bed at my dad's place. I should be trying to sleep but well lets just say sleep is not my strong point on occasion. I'm tired though. Tired of being tired actually. Mum and Dad bought this place about 12 years ago, way after me and my siblings had fled the nest (or ejected from the nest as in my case) so the house itself has no attachment nor do I feel the least bit emotional about its sale. With mum in the place with long hallways wondering who it is getting her dressed for bed, Dad is having his second downsizing and moving to a cute little hugely expensive retirement villa. It doesn't have room for any stuff. They will cook him dinner for $8 or deliver it to the villa for an extra 65 cents! Who does that costing? I want to know how they come up with 65 cents for someone to bring food to my dads table. My big sister and I are here for a week doing the move as dad is just not up to it any more. We are doing 3 thing; packing up what stuff he takes with him, sorting out stuff that has some sort of value and throwing out the rest of the stuff. It really makes you realise how much stuff we accumulate. There is the lawnmower he only bought last year and then the toy lead soldiers he played with as child in the late 1930's. I love those soldiers.
As a child visiting my dads parents (grandma and Grandpa)  in Seaforth Sydney, the tin with dads toy soldiers was always in the drawer under the bed in the back bedroom. It was the first place I always went. There were boats too so the scenario was usually me, the soldiers and boats staging a massive crash in the dirt and invariably one of the little metal men being fatally wounded. I'm not sure there are many kids allowed to play with toys made of lead these days! they were grey and dirty and bare metal and just what soldiers should be. They were works of art. Machine guns drawn or the soldier lying prostate with his finely detailed eye looking down the barrel of his gun.
That was until one visit I arrive and peered into the tin. Imagine my utter horror. Who ever heard of bright green and brown soldiers? the paint so thick their tiny tortured  facial features now just glacier smooth. Grandma had decided to brighten them up a bit. Soldiers! Metal soldiers with guns and mangled legs from impacts with tiny lead ships now would not look out of place on a good xmas tree. It literally took the shine off for me but like any good soldier, never left a man behind and we continued to wage war on the ships. These very same toys are now subject to a decision. Keep or throw?
Dad has heaps of shitty stuff, don't get me wrong. Mum's taste was so 'individual' 99% of the decisions were so easy, I heard myself repeating over and over, Bin It! I also heard dad say a lot "get rid of it". Its the tiny things that make life hard though. Not the big lounge chair or the fridge, its the 2 inch high soldier that stabs you in the heart. It stops you dead in your tracks and makes you think about where you are and how you got here. Would I be a different man if the soldiers weren't painted? probably not, but I would not be the same man without having known my wonderful grandparents and their love for me.
I sold Grandpas printing press and wood cut knives today too. That hurt. firstly because they were so very grandpa and secondly because I lifted it by myself and nearly broke my pooper valve. Dad hid the hurt well but we both knew. Its all stuff and has to go but we get attached to stuff or rather the memories the stuff elicits. I wont be able to look at the printing press and remember grandpa any more  Its not as if I even lived in the same state as the printing press but it helped make my heritage, stuff helps form us like it or not. I'm keeping the soldiers though. only because they are 2" high and because its the tiny things that can mend a wounded heart.