Selling Memories for Nickels and Dimes

Last weekend strangers entered my garage and carried away bits and pieces of my life with Barry, husband for forty-five years.

Golf clubs and a bag of practice balls, a thing to pick up balls, sold for pocket change because that is what we do at garage sales. Of course I could not put a price on those things. To me they were priceless because they had been his, because I pictured him swinging the clubs and hitting the balls. I saw a green course on a quiet summer eve and heard the crack when the club met the ball. I saw it soar over the grass, the hills, and I saw the smile on his face. He loved to play golf. Barry had many hobbies, but golf and music were there right up to the end.

Someone walked out with my rod and reel, the one thing I had kept when I sold our boat in 2010. That man did not know what stories he would hear if only that fishing pole could talk to him. It talked to me. It reminded me of the happy hours spent on the Majors Pond or the Magic Pond we came to call it. That little rod pulled in a twelve pound catfish on a cold, windy day when we fished from the bank. The fish wrapped my line around a branch in the water and Barry had to pull the limb out to reach the catfish. With that little rod and reel, I caught  many fine bream that made fine eating. It was the perfect weight and had the perfect feel in my hand.

When Barry and I fell in love with fishing, it was hook, line and sinker. In summer as the days grew longer, we headed to the pond as soon as Barry came home. We stayed until the moon came up and threw shadows on the pasture where the soft sound of horses' muffled grazing carried over the still water. A quiet I have not known since.

Barry and Glenda fishing on Majors Pond

Rocky, an unexpected gift

 

All of my large dog paraphernalia is gone now. I will not have another dog, certainly not a Kodi or Rocky. The large wire crate where the Samoyed puppy learned to live alone at night. The same crate where Rocky made his home until he quickly learned to use the pet door. The first rate ramp we bought for Kodi when, at thirteen, he could no longer jump into the car. They all left home along with two large beds for big dogs. Rocky often gave up his bed to our cat, Tiger or Smokie, the small Schnauzer pup who visited with my sister. Rock was the gentle fellow who never put up a fight. His food bowls are gone, too. He was generous to those he loved and he loved Tiger and Smokie. If they wanted his food, he let them have it. We don't need big dog food bowls now. Lexie has her own petite ones in the kitchen.

Smokie. Who could resist this face? Not Rocky.

My garage is much cleaner, more empty and open for me to find things I really need now. I can finally reach the boxes we put on the high shelves when we moved here in 1995. What will I find in them? Mostly papers that need to be shredded. I don't want to read what is on the papers, in the files and folders. They will just provoke more memories of when we were a unit, when we were a family, Barry and me and our beloved pets.

Clearing out and discarding the past is like picking at a healing sore. We uncover the raw and red beneath the scab. It hurts.