the smithsonian of my childhood

My mother is a saver, a pack-rat, and an archivist of my childhood. She has never met a knickknack or some bit of tchotchke that she didn't think deserved a place of honor in her home. In the bathroom, an old painted shadow box I made in grade school graces the shelf and childish drawings of snoopy encased in frames adorn the walls. Nearly every last kitschy gift she has received over the years is displayed somewhere. Her home is large enough that it doesn't appear too overwhelmingly cluttered, but such habits would never suit me.

As something of an odd aside, my mother was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. Thankfully, it is of the slower growing variety and it does not appear to have invaded her lymph nodes, nor does she carry the scary cancer gene that would doom both me and my sister. In other words, for being something so bad, she's got it pretty good. She had the requisite lumpectomy as soon as she could and she seems to be healing quite quickly.

My father, on the other hand, couldn't be handling the situation worse than he is. When she broke the news to him of her cancer, the first words out of his mouth were "oh no! -I wanted to be the one to die first." He is selfish to the core, thinking only of himself as a widower and wasting not a minute to consider how terrified she must be to face such a scary disease -and almost scarier treatment. My mother was so disappointed. One afternoon shortly after the diagnosis, they sat outside enjoying the evening light and discussing where they would plant the locust tree they had long desired. My father, in a moment of utter unthinking, said something like: "well, it doesn't really matter since you're not gonna be around much longer anyways." My poor mother. She chatted me up that very afternoon on gmail and was in a sad and terrible rage. She told him later that he needed to change his attitude or move out. She was not going to be able to face down this disease with someone so horribly pessimistic at her back.

Anyhow -I bring all this up only to explain the following interchange: We sat over dinner during our visit and discussed my mother's health, all the while surrounded by the trinkets and plaques and plates and dishes and bells and baubles that my mother has collected over the years. My father gestured around hopelessly and exclaimed: "if she dies, what am I gonna do with all this stuff?? -Are you gonna come and help me deal with it, L?" I demurred, after boldly scolding him for yet another example of his bad attitude, and suggested that perhaps my sister might be better suited to the task (she being of an equally sentimental personality type). And honestly, I can't imagine facing the enormity of the task and I can't help but understand his worry. Hopefully we won't have to deal with "all this stuff" for a long, long time.