My Parents’ Possessions: Where To Begin?

I sit alone in my parents’ home. Just me and their decorative belongings. Ornaments, paintings, furniture, silverware, rugs, bric-a-brac. My mother died nine years ago. My father, a year ago.

Since my father’s passing, I have gone through every drawer and cupboard. Each file, document, statement, receipt, newspaper article, card and letter has been read.

I didn’t unearth any hitherto unknown family secrets.

Most important family documents were already in my possession. My father had already handed those over to me. As my parents used to say when they gave us generous gifts, “with a warm hand.” When he was still alive. What I now found were photocopies of originals I already had. Occasionally, I found originals of the photocopies in my possession.

Reading through carefully cut-out newspaper articles, some annotated by my father, I was struck by the consistency between the themes of the articles and his set of values and interests. It was obvious why each article appealed to him. A person overcoming great disadvantage. An amazing invention created by scientists at an Israeli university. A significant milestone in Pharmacy practice. It was somewhat predictable but reliably reassuring. Yes, I knew my father.

In solitude, I read, categorised, recycled, discarded. Most enjoyable was finding cards that the grandchildren had written for their grandparents. For birthdays, Mother’s Days, Father’s Days, anniversaries. Large childish handwriting and cute drawings attested to the effort made by youngsters. I divided these into a pile of those made by my children and those made by my niece and nephew.

After completing the parental paper trail it is now time to begin figuring out what to do with their possessions. My brother preferred that I should be the one to begin. My parents, slowly and purposefully over many decades, collected paintings, furniture, silverware, rugs, and English ceramics. While sorting through their documents I found lay-by receipts attesting to the fact that most items were paid off in small instalments. Slowly and purposefully. It is a modest collection. To them, it was a treasure trove. Not of financial worth but of aesthetically elegant appeal.

As I walk from room to room, I look closely at each item. In a way I never have before.

I want to be respectful of the things that gave them pleasure. And I certainly know that they enjoyed the searching and sourcing, the authenticating and assessing. And then the ultimate reward of ownership and bringing home the latest ‘family member’. To join the others. To be admired. To be savoured. Then came the process of deciding how to best display a new treasure. Perhaps in this cabinet? Perhaps on that wall? Where will the light be best? Where will it match or complement other pieces? This exhibit was intended for their personal viewing only. They gazed lovingly. They admired the artistry, the shapes, the contours, the colours, the designs. And were thrilled by the fact that this was theirs.

I look tenderly at inanimate objects. As if they somehow embody my parents. By giving them my concentrated attention and gentle touch, I am giving my parents the same.

These are the material remnants of their lives. It’s not clutter. They weren’t hoarders. Each piece represents part of their careful curation of things of beauty that they valued. I never found these things beautiful. They didn’t appeal to my aesthetic. I prefer the rustic to the elegant. But now I look at these objects afresh and see their beauty. Not necessarily beauty that I want to live with, but a subjective type of beauty. The notion of beauty held by my parents.

What do I do with their paintings, furniture, silverware, rugs and ornaments? Where do I even start? As is my usual approach, information-gathering is a good starting point. I begin with the paintings. I burrow down into internet rabbit-holes to learn about the artists. To try to appreciate what caught my parents’ attention and admiration. Perhaps this is a subconscious act to atone for my less-than-appreciative attitude when my parents were alive.

They stipulated in their wills, that my brother and I should divide the contents of their home between ourselves. This is par for the course. What is a little unusual, is that they then explicitly stipulated that their four grandchildren get to choose what they want after that. It is what we would logically do anyway, what I assume everyone would do, but since this was their express wish, I find myself more purposeful in carrying it out.

So, my brother and I go through room by room, looking, examining, standing close and moving further away. We each come away with a short list of possibilities. Then, my brother brings his wife. I bring my husband. And we go through our ‘inspection’ again. And again. What influences our decision-making? Mainly the link of each painting to our parents and our family life with them. For example, my brother doesn’t hesitate to choose a painting that hung in his teenage bedroom. Through my newly appreciative lens, I find myself being drawn to some works that I never even glanced at previously. I imagine that a change in frames will go a long way in adapting paintings to a different home. Even though I don’t really have the room to hang these paintings, I find myself wanting to keep more and more paintings. If I let them go, it’s as if I am letting my parents go. Common sense prevails. Reluctantly, I do loosen my grip.

After my brother and I make our choices, I contact the four grandchildren. My brother’s two and my two. It is time to begin to act upon the second part of my parents’ testamentary provision. I want the grandchildren to come over to their grandparents’ home. Not all at once. That would be impossible anyway, since my two don’t live in Australia. I want each grandchild to either come on their own, or with their partner. I know I am making them uncomfortable. Merely entering Mum and Dad’s place, with neither alive, is most disconcerting to say the least. The garden is messy. Leaves abound by the front door. Inside, the house is frozen in time. The first grandchild to answer my summons expresses discomfort and awkwardness at the designated task. Each of the subsequent grandchildren do the same. They are disturbed by the situation. It is unnerving and eerie to merely be there. Let alone carry out what I am asking of them. To slowly go through each room and choose a painting or paintings they would like for their own home. A memento of their grandparents. I am at pains to point out that perhaps a reimagining with different frames might adapt some paintings to be more suitable for their own homes.

Each grandchild, in turn, squirms at the thought that I might interpret financial gain as a motivation for their choices. I reassure them that this isn’t so. Their grandparents expressly wanted them to choose some objet d’art. I find myself pushing them too hard. Being overenthusiastic. It is a symptom of my fear that what isn’t kept in the family will be lost. That a part of my parents will slip away.

I carefully note down who chooses what. They all do their perusing and choosing shyly. Over the next few months, my two overseas children, and their families, come to Melbourne to visit. They are taken through the same rigmarole. All grandchildren are concerned that if more than one of them wants the same painting, what will we do? Everyone wants to be fair. Fastidiously so. I tell them that we’ll figure that out if and when it arises. (There is one painting that my brother and I both wanted. We flipped a coin for it. It’s now mine.)

My focus begins with the paintings. My intent is to be slow and systematic. However, practicalities must be faced. My sons, who come at different times to Melbourne for their short visits, have only this opportunity to look at the whole kit and kaboodle, and choose things they might like. Sending photos by WhatsApp just isn’t adequate. So, once again, each grandchild is asked to return to peruse everything else remaining. No-one is to take possession of any item until everyone has indicated their preferences. I am painstakingly bending over backwards to ensure that not even a whiff of favouritism exists. This is my problem. Not theirs. They are all totally non-plussed by the financial value (or lack thereof) of an item and have no interest whatsoever in what the others choose. I am the one who creates a rod for myself. It is my suitcases that will be overburdened when I travel next overseas, lugging my sons’ choices.

With each item a grandchild chooses, I feel that some tangible memory of my parents will remain. There will be a hovering ancestral presence in each of their homes. Perhaps, the beginning of family heirlooms? I envisage scenarios like, “See this painting. See this candlestick/teapot/napkin holder/platter. It came from your great grandparents.” For Holocaust Survivors there were no family heirlooms. They had to create their own. They didn’t necessarily see that this was what they were doing. I am the one to imbue each item with a value way beyond any monetary worth.

I am feeling relatively buoyant as the grandchildren are perusing and choosing their newly minted heirlooms. I know how much pleasure this would’ve given my parents. And then it’s over. They have taken possession, or put aside, all that they want.

I sit alone, once again, in my parents’ home. Just me and their remaining decorative belongings. And my memories.