Feeling great about navigating through the impossible conversation, sister and I began the process of sorting through Dad’s stuff in the house on the mountain at the lake. My heart ached realizing that all of his years of living were reduced to stuff on shelves, in closets, drawers and boxes. My dread was renewed at the sheer volume of stuff. Dad never threw anything away.
I am not sure what compelled him to hang on to everything, and I mean everything. Like the American Kennel Club registration papers for the dog we had when I was a child, our sweet family dog who died when I was 13. Or the auto insurance policies to the Dodge station wagon (yes, the large green “Brady Bunch” wagon with the wood panel down the side) from 1972 through 1977. There were things like his childhood stuffed bear to every letter, birthday card and father’s day card I had ever sent him. Read Full Article →