My task list had been taunting me all week. I’d managed to get some writing done, in addition to enjoying and caring for me new puppy, but I’ve had some organization projects I’ve been wanting to tackle on my time off. Since Kallie doesn’t yet have full access to the entire apartment (we’ve tried twice…unsuccessfully) and I feel guilty leaving her alone to tend to my business unless she’s napping–which though unpredictably timed can offer ample “away” time around the house for me.
There is a storage bin in the mud room that I’ve never been able to get through before. I can’t even remember where it came from or when we got it, but it’s filled mostly with utility stuff that Ken used for various home projects. The first drawer is considered a “junk drawer” filled with pencils and odds and ends–much of them little mementos I supposed Ken picked up throughout his life. Nothing of value or particularly useful, but just the sort of things we all collect whether we mean to or not. That drawer remained mostly untouched. I’m not interested in going through and sorting. There’s something innately unappealing about deciding what to do with things whose purpose is unknown to me. Were they treasured lucky charms? Found items he was so good at finding? Remnants of an art piece he was so adept at creating?
I was able to go through the remaining drawers–relatively well–able to get rid of a few things and categorize ones that remained. I knew the camping percolator was in there, along with our two cups. I couldn’t face them for months and months, in knowing that I’d never go camping with him again and recalling the amazing times when we did. Since I looked in that drawer last–almost a year ago–I’ve started to think that maybe my camping days aren’t over. They don’t have to be. So I plucked out the treasured camping items and will dig out the camping gear and put them there…someday. I’ve opened the lid of the camping gear when I organized the front closet around Christmas, but not ready to face it. The last time we used it was for our iconic trip to Ojai in 2005. And I have no doubt Ken was the one who packed it. Touching things he touched last is sacred and heart dropping for me…still.
(The percolator and cups were separated from the rest of the camping gear because we took them the beach with us on Christmas Eve 2005 for the family breakfast in Malibu. My memory about such minutiae can feel like a real burden sometimes.)
Oddly, in the last drawer I found a visor of Ken’s. I have no idea what a clothing item was doing in there, but as soon as I saw it I remember buying it with him at Target when we first moved to LA. I still have the green one I bought the same day. I’d actually thought about his visor recently and even looked for it because I kept all of Ken’s hats, and even have a few hanging on the wall in the bedroom. (No one could rock a hat as hard as Ken did, and I love seeing them and being reminded of his flair.) Anyway, it was quite a surprise to find it buried in the bottom drawer like a little gem. It brought back a deluge of memories as I pulled it out and held it in my hands. Moments like this are surreal and feel very “out of space and time.” Finding something so tangible and so identified with Ken make it hard to believe he’s gone–especially something I haven’t seen since before he died.
(Back in 2003 at Malibu Beach, Ken, wearing the visor, and me, wearing a lot of hair.)
After a break from organizing and trip outside with Kallie for some pup-foolerie, I was able jump back in with the help of my trusty label and accomplish what I set out to do. Making changes around the apartment to the way things were with Ken is always difficult. Again, it’s another (necessary, though I know) step away from my old, beloved life. I probably didn’t need to keep some of the stuff I kept, but at least I labeled the drawers to know what is in them.
My goodness, Ron, you have an incredible knack of putting into words exactly what I was feeling at a certain place in time. While reading about how you found Ken’s visor and how it impacted you, I was taken back a few years myself.
Four years ago when I lost my dear father to cancer, I assumed the lion’s share of my 86 year old mother’s care. (A gift I didn’t know I’d received until I lost my mother too last Christmas.) Anyway, mom and dad had a set of wooden TV trays that were kept on a wooden stand. While cleaning one day, I noticed that the stand was a little wonky feeling and I thought I’d best tighten up the bolts before mom walked by and had the heavy trays tumble onto her. I was down on my hands and knees wonder how the heck I was going to tighten the damn stand, which required an allen key that I didn’t have, when I moved my hand up the stand while standing up and sun of a gun if there wasn’t a little allen key taped to the inside of the wooden frame. I absolutely lost it. I plunked down onto the floor and cried and cried. My sweet dad always had a knack for taking care of us without us even knowing he’d done it and here he was taking care of us again. As you said Ron, “it was quite a surprise to find it … like a little gem.” (Even though I cried, it was wonderful to feel that close to my dad again.)
Couldn’t have said it better myself, Ron. Thank you for your wonderful words.
Also, I’m so glad to read that you and your “girl” are getting into the puppy/daddy rhythm of training and enjoying each other. Take good care of yourself, Ron. (I promise, the next time I comment, it won’t be a book!!)
Thank you so much, Brenda, I loved this! I got chills and teared up a little myself. It’s an odd feeling to describe, and though maybe slightly painful, mostly joyful. I’m glad you were able to embrace that moment and take it in the way you did. I think so often, we’re just trained to keep moving forward. Luckily (or unluckily) I’m far too sentimental for that. Thank you for sharing this! And your books are always welcoe here!!
Ron, I so love reading about your experiences with Ken. The pic of you two — can I just say the both of you — GORGEOUS. I love the fact that you journal this, this discovery of something tangible from someone you loved and he loved you so deeply. I’m so glad Kallie is a part of your life. The house-breaking thing will get better over time and I so wish you well. Your writing is always so beautiful — I mean that friend and know that your memories, your love and what you write matters. It matters and I wish you the very best, as always. I pretty certain if I ever met you, I would adore you. :). I already do for your bravery and these poignant dedications.
Oh, Brigitte. I know we would be great friends in person. I’m already grateful to have “met” you via our blogs. I’m always so humbled by your compliments because I admire you and your gift of writing. Kallie is surely a blast way more than anything else. Thank you again for your kind words, friend. Who knows? Maybe some day our paths will cross…and the dancing will commence!!! xoxo
Labeling is the first step to organization! So you’ve got that down. But all flippant remarks aside, I deeply admire your will and courage to keep moving forward, no matter how painful some of the memories can be. I feel like any other words would seem superficial and lame compared to Brenda and Brigitte’s comments up above so I’ll just end this by saying how touched I am to read such beautifully sincere and honest words.
Thanks so much for your kind words. I really appreciate them!