T is for Toys—A Road Back to Childhood

Toys was an easy pick for my letter T in the A to Z Blogger Challenge. I did consider writing about the tornado that wiped out my husband’s entire family farm when he was a teenager, but those memories are documented in a past post. That tornado—his family’s second—killed 24 people, injured over two hundred, stayed on the ground for 39 minutes, and carved a 14‑mile path of destruction. It was also the reason my husband spent his entire adult life trying to buy back the toys of his youth. And then some.

If you’ve ever seen the TV series Hoarders, you already know that most hoarders have major losses in their lives coupled with untreated depression. Their common thread is loss—loss that drives them to surround themselves with whatever they collect, be it trash or treasures. Another contributing factor is insecurity so deep most of us can’t understand how they can live that way.

Don was not a hoarder like you see on that show. But he could have been—would have been—if he hadn’t had years of treatment for depression. His thing was collecting: road maps, coins and currency, gas and oil memorabilia. And his gateway “drug” was buying back the antique toys similar to what he and his brothers once owned, the ones that flew over the fields and woods the day of the tornado.

By the time we met, I was collecting antiques too. I started with furniture I restored and used, then I moved on to smaller things—like filling in the missing pieces of the dish set my folks used at their cottage. I also had (and still have) marbles, Cracker Jack toys and wooden nickels. By the time I moved out of the house after Don died, we had a library room full of well‑organized “smalls” in showcases and collector boxes. Some might have called it hoarding; most people labeled us collectors because everything was clean, researched, and neatly displayed. Visitors often said coming to our house was like going to a museum. A friend once gave Don a retractable pointer as a joke because he loved giving tours of our “museum.”

After Don died, it took me two years to downsize—two years of selling things on eBay, hauling boxes to an auction house and selling through an antique mall where we’d been vendors for years.

But I will say this: we never met another vendor who didn’t have at least a few hoarder tendencies. Don’s basement and garage before we married were stuffed, but never as bad as the hoarding situations you see on TV. Don had a method to his madness, and I can already hear someone in the cheap seats of Bloggerland saying, “Sure. All hoarders say that.” But not many hoarders can say their widows sold one bread‑box‑sized item for $19,000 and a half dozen more for $4,000 to $7,000. He studied the collectibles he loved and had the disposable income to buy what he knew would go up in value.

Not everything did go up, of course. As kids we both collected stamps, and it was hard to even get face value out of those. I ended up donating a box of newer commemorative sheets to a place that uses them to teach kids about history. The moral of that story: never, ever buy anything sold as a collectible. No one lives long enough for those “investments” to pay off.

All collectors have a backstory—whether it’s the good stuff with actual value or they have houses overtaken by plastic recycling, rotten food and human waste. I’m grateful my obsessed collector was the former (sentiment‑driven) and not the latter (insecurity‑driven). If he hadn’t stood watching old license plates, pedal cars, live chickens, and ten‑gallon milk cans spinning upward, Don probably wouldn’t have spent his adult life trying to buy back his childhood toys and the family pieces handed down through generations. His grandfather’s pocket watch, for example, was lost to the tornado but after Don died he had a dozen I had to sell.

He couldn’t pass an estate sale, garage sale, auction or antique store without stopping. And we had fun doing it. We even managed to find most of the toys he’d gotten out of cereal boxes in the ’40s. And I still have his Captain Midnight decoder ring, signal‑mirror ring and bomb rings. Small trinkets, but they come with a large box of memories. ©

 

 

Photos: At the top of the post is one of the showcases in our library for our smalls. The photo here at the bottom is of one wall in our garage for Don's signs. The center picture is of Don showing his friends his gas & oil smaller items. Another wall had 1920s, fully restored gas pumps with the glass globes---can't find a photo of those. But you get the idea. Don was a hoarder but I was an organizer so it all worked out. 

Hoarder Widows

Time is flying by so fast. It’s almost August and there are so many things I haven’t done, yet, this summer. I haven’t even taken the dog to the dog park or walked him on the nature trail. What kind of a dog mother does that make me? Neglectful might apply, although in my defense there's been some serious swarms of bees attacking dogs at the park and I'm allergic to bees. I did buy him one of those interactive brain stimulating treat dispensers but I took it back. Levi couldn't figure it out. He’s smart enough to remember which window to sit by, at what time of the day to see the rabbits go about their daily routine but flipping a series of switches with his nose to get a treat was like rocket science to him.

This summer I also haven’t gotten my windows washed or sat on the deck drawing. Most of my unscheduled time is spent either debating on my favorite political forum, watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory or getting things sorted to haul off to the Salvation Army or the auction house. I’m doing some serious purging in the garage but it’s mentally hard. Yesterday I went through a box labeled, “Sort Later.” It’s been waiting for ‘later’ for 14 years and it turned out to be paperwork that came out of Don’s desk before we moved. I was tempted to just dump it all sight unseen but I’m glad I didn’t. Some of those papers had social security numbers on them of people who worked for him, not something you want blowing around the landfill. I also found a folder of things I had given to Don---greeting cards, letters and a Mickey Mouse poster with these words written in pencil on the back: “To Don, Fifty years from now this poster will be worth a lot more than I paid for it and since I’ve been listening to Bruce Williams, I’m turning on to investing. So, I’ve decided to buy this instead of a regular Valentine’s Day card. I expect to still be in your life 50 years from now to help reap the profits. Love, Jean” Those words were written 35 years ago and they are a perfect example of why this kind of ‘widow’s work’ is hard on your emotions.

I got a call from the-son-I-wish-I-had last night who wanted to use me as a sounding board. He’d given his business card to an 85 year old lady along with an estimate to tear down her garage that was in bad repair. When he left this stranger with the estimate he said, “Call if I can help.” A few months went by and she called him yesterday. She needed help and could he come right over. It seemed she was having a health issue and wanted a ride to the hospital! Turned out she lived in a hoarder’s style house with pathways everywhere. (Her water was shut off six years ago and she’s been carrying water to flush her toilet, etc.) She didn’t have any family or friends and she didn’t want him to call an ambulance. Long story short, he took her to the hospital and now she wants him to help her get her legal, medical and housing affairs in order. She claims to have money in the bank and seemed, to him, to be talking rational as opposed to having dementia. I know one thing for sure, she’s rational enough to pick out a good, honest and caring stranger to ask to help her. Can you imagine having that problem/moral dilemma dropped in your lap? Can you imagine what a dishonest scammer could do to an elderly woman like that? When my friend left the woman at the hospital he asked her if he could give her a hug. She beamed and said, “Yes, I haven’t had one since my husband died eight years ago.” 

After that conversation I went back out to the garage to work on my purging but with a pit in my stomach. I do not have a hoarder’s house. I could get two cars in my garage, you could put a couple of bowling lanes in my basement and the inside of my house is clutter-free. But that conversation brought it home how important it is to keep on downsizing before I move to a smaller place. I have another childless friend who is dangerously on the edge of ending up like that woman described above. Since his mother died 4-5 years ago and he moved her stuff into his house “to sort” he’s had a hoarder’s house and his health is failing fast.

Being too attached to material things can become a mental sickness that can also turn into a source of physical illness the longer ‘the stuff’ sits in the way of house cleaning and maintenance. I’m not that attached to material things by any stretch of the imagination, though I do struggle to get rid of things with sentimental value like that poster I found. Widows know what that’s like. Things like that are triggers for the memories we fear will be gone if we give up "the stuff." For others who fear more loss in the future, things become like security blankets—value to sell or use if needed---and for still others, hoarding is a way to fill the empty places in their hearts. It’s scary knowing how easy it would be for any one of us to go off the edge and become a hoarder after someone we love dies. I have firsthand knowledge of three post-widowhood, dangerous hoarding situations and I'm so glad I'm not included in that group. Levi can roll his newly exchanged treat dispenser across the floor to his heart and belly's content. ©

Levi watching the action at the bird feeders. I gave that 1940s motel radio on the left to the-son-I-wish-I-had.

The Funeral Parlor and the Widower I Never Met

Monday and Tuesday I worked my tail off helping the son-I-wish-I-had price stuff for an estate sale he’s conducting this coming weekend. I’m not used to working like that anymore---seven hours on one day, and four and a half the other. The estate belonged to a widower and the consensus in his family is that he died of grief and a broken heart. His wife died 8-10 years ago and after that he lost interest in everything. A man with teenagers still at home, the widower pushed people away and he lost his job because he quit going in. Eventually he started drinking and abusing drugs. Fast forward, his house that was new when his wife passed away got filled up to the berm---hoarder style---of stuff bought off the home shopping channel. I have never seen so many Santa Clauses, angels, dolls, eagles, tin signs, sports collectibles, religious plaques, clocks and garden statues all in one place in my life. There were easily 500 Santa Clauses alone, taking up an entire bay in the garage.. So let that be a cautionary tale for CVQ shoppers with dead spouses. You can fill a house up with junk but that empty place in your heart will still be there. So save yourself the trouble. Just turn the damn channel!

Tuesday I also went on a tour of the back rooms at a mortuary with 49 others from the senior hall. It wasn’t morbid, scary, creepy or any other negative adjective in your bag of words. And we laughed. We started laughing on the bus ride when we speculated on what they’d serve us for lunch. I guessed liver or Rocky Mountain oysters. (If you’ve never seen the latter on a menu they are fried testicles.) And we didn’t stop laughing until after the tour and luncheon was almost over when a woman asked, “When I die in Florida who should I call first?” and before the mortician could answer someone shouted out, “Call 1-800 Hello God.”

We were taken to various rooms at the mortuary in groups of ten for talks given by different people: 1) a man who teaches embalming and is on the state licensing board to certify morticians, 2) a man from a crematorium, 3) a monument company representative, and 4) a funeral director who took us in the casket room. The latter guy showed us how the rental caskets work when transferring a body in and out and what the actually burial box looks like. And did you know you can get a casket built by Saunders/Ikea? That was good for a laugh and I mistook an ashes casket for a speaker’s podium which was good for another laugh.

The guy from a monument company told me how to keep the Snoopy charm on my husband’s marble tombstone. Double faced heavy duty tape, not glue. He also told us about Monu Marks. Have you heard of these little QR codes you can put on tombstones? Neatest things I’ve seen in ages. They allow people to use their smart phones to read whatever you upload to Monu Marks…pictures, the obituary, the eulogy, genealogy, GPS, stories, whatever you want to upload---unlimited. Can you imagine that? The monument company sells them for $50 installed (on a new or old stone) and they will replace them free of charge if they ever get damaged. If you have family coming in from out of town, they can use the GPS app to find the plot in the cemetery.

The guy from the crematorium had photos of the inside of their facility and he walked us through the whole procedure in detail. (Their gas bill is usually $6,000 a month to do two bodies at a time 24/7. In separate chambers in case you're wondering and they never see the body.) One question I had was about getting DNA from ashes and as you might guess, they can’t. But a numbered tag that won't burn goes into the crematorium chamber with the body and it is sifted out later and tied on the plastic bag they put the ashes in.

I had an opportunity to talk to cremation guy and the funeral director without the others from my group in earshot, so I asked about how the unburned twigs and leaves could have gotten in my husband’s box of ashes. They had no explanation and the guy from the crematorium was visibly shaken by the question and he sought me out later on to ask for more details. He shot down my theory that they could have been in the plastic bag before the ashes were added. He says, the bags come inside the ash boxes and are fastened with the metal tag mentioned above. He mentioned another theory about the twigs maybe being broken rush broom bristles instead. Some places use rush brooms during the sifting process but we agreed those two little leaves shoots that theory down. I was mistaken about there only being one crematorium in town. We have four and Don was not cremated at his place. The funeral home I used is not one of his contracts. The bottom line, I’ll never know the answer to my unburned-twigs-and-leaves-in-the-box question but I am sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that it will be the talk of the local industry...and who to blame. I shouldn't have even been able to pick out bone fragments.

The embalming room we toured, which looked like a low budget surgical room but just as sterile, white and bright---we even had to wear coverings over our shoes---was the most interesting part of the tour and it was surprising how much we laughed and learned in that room. No two bodies are embalmed the same way. What the person died from, how long they have to keep the body before burial, how long a person was dead before discovery, if the body is going on an airplane where pressure effects the body fluids all factor into which chemicals are used. There are roughly a dozen to choose from. Different limbs can even get different chemicals from one another. There’s a lot of science, tools and filters involved in the process and it’s easier, now, to understand why it cost so much to prepare a body. Did you know some countries use a chemical that makes the body and bones completely disappear after the funeral? Poof. Nothing left, not even the chemical.

I’ve never been to a funeral home that had a banquet room---a concept new to this area. That's where they served us their typical after-the-funeral lunch. (No eating off the caskets and no liver or Rocky Mountain oysters as we had speculated on the way over.)  On the bus ride home, there wasn’t a single person, by a show of no hands, who was sorry they took this tour. Quite the opposite. It was a roaring success. I wouldn't recommend it to newly minted widows but a few years out like I am....? Well let's just say the tour left me with an elevated impression of people in the business of dealing with the after death necessities of saying good-bye. ©