Today is an anxious day. My son and father are coming to clear out one of Himself’s workshops. Himself’s brother and father are coming to clear out the other workshop. It needs to be done and they were both a source of real stress, as I had no idea what to do with either of them, and didn’t want to trust someone not family with the contents.
Himself was a very creative person. It is the first thing I noticed about him 30-odd years ago. My family is very creative, and finding a man who didn’t think it was strange, and for him to find a woman who thought the same, was a lovely thing indeed.
But, those workshops are a real part of who he was. They scream of his personality, which, to the outside observer, was incredibly disorganized (all you have to do is look at those shops!) but he had his own System, and it worked for him. I stayed away, and said nothing, because those were his territory, and he didn’t say anything about my compulsively tidy kitchen and sewing studio.
But all that is leaving today. Not entirely, the contents of one workshop is going to my son, the personal parts- the funky workbench he made out of a cast iron table base and a butcherblock top, all the fine tuned equipment. The personal parts of the wood working shop are going to our youngest son, the extra tall workbench he made, the fancy cabinet for his fine hand tools, those will go to #4, who is on track to be as tall as Himself, with his long legs.
Many parts of both workshops will be sold. Uncle Farmer Dude (Formerly Uncle Navy Dude but new and improved with tomatoes and a tractor) lives near Atlanta and believes there is a good market for the stuff in Himself’s woodshop, and has offered to handle all the stuff, sale and such. Himself’s family is like that, the kind of stand back until there’s a crisis then they’re all over it with practical help and not too much sympathy, which is lovely and wonderful beyond words. The stuff Himself worked on in his other workshop will be sold off as well, as there is always a good market for those, especially in a town with so many golfers.
All this has me feeling very anxious, just the idea of Himself’s stuff going away, even though the important parts are staying. The set of Japanese handsaws I gave him for Christmas, all those pipe clamps he used to hold the pieces of furniture he made for this house, all those associations over the years.
I refuse to be the widow who won’t get rid of his 1/2 empty bottle of aftershave. I won’t do it. It’s pathetic. That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard to get rid of his pipe clamps and hand saws, just as that other widow has trouble getting rid of aftershave. It does hurt to think of it, but I am trying to compare it to the ripping off a bandaid. It isn’t getting rid of HIM, it’s just shedding excess weight so I can quit fretting about it.