23.05.2022 Finally letting go?

 ~~

 

 Monday 23rd 48F. Up at 3am. Things were going round and round in my head again. I had to get up to put a stop to it. I also have a "pulsing" form of tinnitus in my left ear. It sounds like blood being pumped through my ear and is far too loud to ignore.

 I keep thinking about the secondhand furniture and all the other items in the house. How best to implement them. What to dispose of. I know one piece of furniture in the living room/lounge has severe woodworm in the plywood backboard. 

 The contents of the cupboard and drawers were obviously important to my wife. She kept them for over 50 years in some cases. Completely unknown to me. She kept them locked and I knew better than to delve!

 What importance does a lifetime of letters and papers have for me? Probably nil and they would only stir up old wounds. Particularly anything from her "difficult" mother. However tempting, I should not read any of them. What would I possibly gain? I would not have my wife's responses, if any.

 I am reaching an inevitable tipping point. Where I really must let go of the mundane. Ignore simple ownership and retention. This is not reason enough for me to to cling onto all of her past possessions. I should pass on anything with modest resale value to the charity shop system where appropriate. Recycle items through the yards, where not. Save only what is worth saving. For its beauty or value.

 Use the charity shipping containers at the yards. Where I want to give them the choice. Where I simply cannot make that choice for myself. I am too heavily biased as to its value simply because it was Hers.  It all feels so utterly impersonal. Leaving me with a heavy sense of melancholy. It is quite a wrench to let anything go into the melting pot of totally anonymous recycling.

 Talking of which: Her huge, enamelled, metal [plant] pots were scattered around the front door for years. Others around the garden were in rather less favourable condition. I asked the staff at the recycling yard for their advice. As I hovered undecided near the charity container. 

 "Scrap metal!" Came the reply. Without the least hesitation. Not one microsecond of doubt. Impassionate but so obviously true. Personal history adds no value to old cooking pots. No matter how many plants they once raised. The same holds true for so many other things she clung onto. For whatever reason.

 This problem must be faced by every surviving partner in a close relationship. The awful sense that I am chipping away at her memory. By disposing of her goods. Was she the sum of my own, countless but invisible memories? Or only the sum of her myriad, innocent possessions?

 I must repeatedly remind myself that a house fire would instantly  eradicate everything except my memories. Just as my own death would eradicate any bias as to the value of my own things. Or hers.

 We place such enormous value on obtaining possessions. We become the [supposed] status they provide. The car, the phone, the house, the boat, the TV, the audio system, the furniture and the art. Each item must be updated and upgraded to constantly maintain social status. He who dies with the most toys wins.

 6.am 50F. Went back to bed at 4.30 and woke at 6.00. Bright and breezy outside now. Instead of dark. Sunny periods and 19C are promised for later. That's 66F. Better to stay out of the sun.

 I feel my own wardrobe should go out of the bedroom window. There is no easy way for me to get it downstairs. Over the banister and take the sharp bend out through the narrow hall. I am not that strong any more. The clothing I kept in the wardrobe is on the exposed rail now. Or in tubs on the floor behind it all. Easily accessed by parting the clothes on their hangers.

 What need have I of a wardrobe? Because I never needed really needed one before. The occasional item was stored between seasons. Little else. With no social life, for decades, there was no need of finery. Much of what the wardrobe once contained is now in circulation in the charity shop system. 

 What is left is no longer hampered by an over-wide door in a narrow corridor. Competing with my computer chair for free space. I "borrowed" the wardrobe door to act as a tall headboard against the roughly rendered chimney. I might even add a screw and Rawl plug for security one day. Though the weight of the bed and my bod, keeps it safely in place.

 I could drag one of my wife's chests of drawers up here. If I really felt the need. Better access to my dozens of worn out, farmer's, loop pile, woollen socks. Or the fifty pairs of mostly battered, boxer shorts. Or I could just cut down and simply launder more often. 

 Perhaps I need somewhere smarter to store "vital" papers? Somewhere other than a knee high, filing drawer cabinet on the bedroom floor? Where we would grovel on both knees to retrieve some meaningless bit of paper. Usually from a British High St. bank. Which dumped us [after 50 years] at the first whiff of Broxit. They obviously didn't care for our countless prostrations to their remote altar. Perhaps our prayers were answered when they finally let us go? The Money Gods move in mysterious ways. That bunch of crooks certainly did.

 6.45. I could have an early walk. Clear some of the cobwebs before launching into.. whatever.

 9.00 62F. Returning from longer walk to the far woods. About 35 minutes to reach the entry portal. Then along the winding tracks to the far exit. Which took me another half hour to reach the road. The tree harvesting had changed the appearance considerably since my last visit. 

 Finally, the long walk home against the traffic. Another three quarters of an  hour. The sun shone warmly and continuously. I had the birds and flowers for company. 

 The farmer's were taking an early cut of grass. With remarkably high efficiency, up on the hill. Several very large tractors and trailers were following the harvester. Then racing down to the yard once filled. Where the grass was tipped onto concrete. Thence loaded into a vast lorry via a "digger" with a telescopic arm. Then the huge tractors hauled the empty trailers back up the hill in a cloud of dust. The entire cycle taking only a few minutes per trailer load.

 10.30. 71F!  Five rails and a load of slats are now re-installed in the airing cupboard. This provided shelf space for three medium [transparent] tubs of towels [Small, hand and bath] at a perfect level. Plus assorted, electric mixers, grinders and blenders. Formerly taking up room on the open, tinned food shelves.

 Such shelving displays may be considered rather old fashioned these days. They do however provide instant visual confirmation of diminished stocks. Or valid options for the next meal. No ducking and diving to peer into dark cupboards! 

 Talking of which: My superfluous wardrobe decided it was a couple of inches too wide for the only, openable window. So it was summarily executed with a flat crowbar and sent on its way [out of the window] in pieces. 

 On top of the same wardrobe was a box of assorted mains, vintage mantle clocks. Another hoarded lot for the charity container. Another box contained dead [computer] mice and satellite TV paraphernalia. A third box contained not one, but two, Schatz Royal Marine clocks in brass. Plus a matching barometer. Worth enough to advertise online? Possibly...

 My piece of clear, UV polycarbonate for the kitchen window, extractor fan has arrived. Now I have to make a large hole, somewhere in the middle, for the airflow. I am aiming for minimum visual obstruction. So off to the left I think.

12.30 68F.  I am making up a trailer load for the recycling yard. The wardrobe panels, scrap metal and various, long forgotten collections are going. I feel absolutely no emotional attachment to my old barometers and clocks. The charity container will benefit if they don't discard it all. I shan't be there to see it happen. Vital food shopping on the way back. Lunch first though.

 15.00 Returned from the more distant yard and shopping. It is hot, brightly sunny and blowing a gale. 

 17.00 68F. I just enjoyed an afternoon nap to catch up on my sleep.

 Checking online suggests that Horse chestnut isn't a great firewood. Now I'm wondering if it will e worth the effort to process the logs into firewood. I have a feeling that the usual compressed wood briquettes may no longer be available. They may be coming from Russia. They have RU pressed into one end. Prices rocketed and then there was no stock this year. This was blamed on the high price og gas. With owners of gas central heating going over to solid fuel in their wood stoves. They will receive a taxpayer handout but those who rely on briquettes will get nothing. At all.

 18.45 64F. I have reduced the last of the branches, over on the left, to manageable proportions. Then stacked it all in a big heap for further reduction to trailer fodder and logs. 

 After that I strimmed the grass where it was getting too long for the mower. The latter has not seen the light of day this year. Because the door to the shed is blocked with Rockwool. Bought for completion of the balcony insulation. I am trying to keep the insulation dry under the roof overhang. To avoid bringing the Rockwool indoors prematurely.

 Then I rescued a white conifer. Which had been dug in and forgotten. It was now buried by the front hedge. It was in very deep shade and they need light to remain white. How it survived I have no idea. There are still a few traces of green and white foliage clinging on in places. So there is still hope despite the overall appearance of dryness.

 So I dug out a big root ball about 2' across around the base. Then placed it in one of Shirley's largest, enamel pots. Which already had some compost in it. I gave it a thorough soaking and then packed more compost around the edges to stabilise the root ball in the pot. Followed by more water. It is now placed out in the open for maximum light and [hopefully] rain. There is some rain promised for tomorrow after a long drought.

 Then I went round removing all the dead straw from last year's plants. I hadn't dared to do it until the plants showed themselves. Thinking I might do more damage than good. I just bent the dead stalks until they snapped and then lifted them clear. Disturbing the plants as little as possible. It makes the garden look tidier. Though I wonder whether there isn't some natural support offered by last season's growth.

  Next, I should start removing dandelions.

 ~~