Garbage?

In November and December of 2015, I set about cleaning out the inside of the house while some repairs were going on outside.  I didn't know this prior to this experience, but if the power has been off for more than 90 days, you have to pay an electrician to come inspect the electrical system before they will turn the electricity back on.  You also have to have a plumber come out and inspect the gas lines.  It makes sense, don't blow up the house on day 1.

So for the first several weeks while trying to coordinate the various workers and inspections and repairs that had to be completed prior to approval, I was working in a house with no power and no water.  Not that I would have used the facilities in the house anyways (considering the state of the toilets - no thanks).  I basically tried not to drink too much and went to the McDonald's down the street to use the bathroom.  I went through a lot of masks, gloves, trash bags and paper towels.

I ended up having an estate sale in late December for some things that could be washed and salvaged.  But the couches and bedding and basically anything soft that was not hanging in a closet had to go to the curb.  I was shocked that someone took home whatever I put out there... including the couches full of poop, the mattresses (OMG), the 300 pound washing machine, and even the walker.  At one point, the curb was full of bags, and people ripped open the trash bags to go through what was inside those as well.  I am sure you can imagine how happy I was about bagging up all the crap on the curb that I had just bagged up in the house.  I was wishing the plague on whomever had made that mess. 

There was also some wood rot around the eaves that needed repair (according to code enforcement) and the front steps had to be re-done.  They were terra cotta tile, like the den floor and the front porch, but tree roots had grown into the steps and broken up all of the tile.  I had new concrete stairs poured, and the wood rot repaired by someone else.  Neither of those tasks were something I was ready to tackle myself.  Although now I feel like I could do this too with all of the experience I have gained in the last 18 months or so.

By far the most exciting thing that happened around this time was ripping out the green shag carpet that had been there since the 60s (I found the receipt).  I found the receipt for everything Marguerite had, the receipts and owner's manuals for all of the avocado appliances that were purchased in 1964, and every card or letter she had received in the 50 years she lived there.  Marguerite was born in 1922, and much like my nana, was a product of the depression.  She didn't throw away anything.

In addition to every piece of paper that ever found its way into her house, she apparently couldn't do away with containers.  There were at least 40 2-liter bottles stashed in various closets and in the kitchen that were full of water.  I guess this was in case the water was ever shut off, she would still have some.  There were 25 old school, wide mouth, plastic milk jugs that I would guess were from the early 80s.  She had random screws and bolts in some, some were empty, one was full of pencils, one had a few coins, one had ketchup packets, you get the point.  She was also a hoarder of Kroger bags.  I will say this, the plastic Kroger bags from the 80s were far thicker and sturdier than the ones they use today.

But back to the floors.  I was pretty sure that when I ripped up that carpet, there would be stains everywhere at the very least.  I also assumed there would be patched holes where floor furnaces used to be installed.  The original house was built in 1950, with the addition constructed in the early 60s.  Floor furnaces were the norm in houses without radiators.  So, it was with some trepidation that I started pulling up carpet.  I was waiting on the plumber one day and I hadn't even brought over the many, many tools that would eventually wind up over there.  But I went into the kitchen and found a butcher knife with a serrated blade.  "That'll do," I thought.

The shock of a lifetime was under that carpet.  No holes to repair.  And by far, no real damage at all.  The green shag carpet that was in the dining room, main hall, and all three bedrooms had basically preserved the floors for 50 years.  It was the first real win and I was super excited.  I've never been so happy about ripping out disgusting carpet in my life.  Of course, this was not the case for the carpet that was in the kitchen and the breakfast room, but that is a story for another day.  Nobody took the carpet from the curb.  I can't imagine why.

It was also during this time that I found out who Marguerite was... what she looked like, what her life was like, what happened to her that resulted in her family abandoning the house.  I hadn't yet spoken to her son, so I was searching through everything to try to put together the information my attorney would need for the title.  To be honest, reading through her papers was a pretty depressing time for me.  

Reading letter after letter from her daughter about how she (again) couldn't come visit and how (again) she was sorry that she didn't have the money to travel to see her for Christmas, or Mother's Day or Marguerite's birthday or (insert holiday here).  There were no letters from her oldest son, only from his wife, always apologizing for his lies and for not being able to pay back the money they owed to Marguerite.  Her other daughter sent letters and cards from all over the world, being married to a navy man.  She lamented over all of the beautiful things she got to see and how she wished that Marguerite could have been able to see them too.  

Her middle son sent letters from the road while he was a musician trying to make a go of it in bars playing his guitar.  Then a letter about his girlfriend being pregnant and how he wished she would just have an abortion.  Then the letters that came from rehab facilities where he was trying to kick his addiction to alcohol (again) and how maybe his new meds for his depression would be different.  There were no letters from her youngest son since he remained in Memphis, but the sense you got from all of them was just overall disfunction.  I later found the divorce decree and learned that Marguerite's ex-husband was an abusive, alcoholic, sheriff's deputy who left her with 5 kids to raise on her own.

Amid all of this chaos of her life, I found Marguerite to be a spirited person.  She worked hard, had red hair and a turquoise Plymouth that used to sit in the (now dilapidated) garage.  And she was a plus sized woman who left behind three closets full of dresses from the 60s and 70s that she made herself in my size (would you believe).  There was a letter from a lawyer requesting she return some check that had been inadvertently sent to her instead of her ex-husband.  On it, she had written in red ink, "bastard can rot in hell."  LOL  She did the best she could with what she had.  She left behind a house of things she kept "just in case" and although they clearly took advantage of her again and again, she did what she could for kids who didn't appreciate her.

One of Marguerite's dresses

I found a hand written will to her children where she laid everything out in black and white.  I don't think they ever found it.  It wasn't out in the open and they abandoned her house before ever cleaning up enough to see it.  I wonder if it was better they didn't see it, or if it was her wish that they would find it after she was gone and would know her truth.  I struggled with whether to send them all a copy or not, particularly when one of her daughters called my attorney to basically complain about her siblings stealing all of the "good stuff" out of the house because she couldn't afford to come to the FUNERAL.  She wanted to know if I had found a recipe book that belonged to her grandmother, or the quilts her grandmother had made.  She didn't even ask about anything that belonged to Marguerite.

I hung up the phone from speaking to my attorney livid over the mistreatment of a woman I never met.  You're looking for quilts that belonged to your grandmother?  Your mom stuffed them inside of the couch she slept on because it was falling in.  But if you had bothered to attend her FUNERAL and swing by her house for a few minutes, maybe you would have known that for yourself.  I went to Marguerite's that day on my lunch hour.  And although a lot of people would call me crazy, she and I had a talk.

I told her I was sorry that her family disrespected her and her things by allowing her house to get into the state it was currently.  I told her I was sorry that she never got to see all of the beautiful places her daughter did.  I told her I would do my best to respect her things and her legacy.  And I promised her that I would bring her house back to life and make it the prettiest little house on the block.  And I would do it for her.  And I would do it in her memory.  And if she had a way to ask my nana about it, she would tell her I wasn't lying.  That when I set my mind to do something, I did it.

It was almost like a fog lifted from the house that day.  Whatever heaviness that was there as a result of the sadness or guilt that remained from Marguerite dissipated.  In my mind, she and nana are sitting there talking and laughing and watching over me as I work on stuff.  Like I said... some people would call me crazy...