Changing things around the apartment is a tricky business for me. Leaving things as they were when Ken was alive offers some kind of security–or maybe a kind of certainty that he was here–especially if it was something he’d placed himself. So, finding myself sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor at 11 pm on Tuesday night, going through all the lower kitchen cabinets was a surprise. But it was one of the several household projects I swore to get done before I return to work after Labor Day. But as I contemplated it–and obviously kept putting off, probably a little afraid at what might result from doing it–I was compelled–like a divining rod to water–to do it. I think of all the rooms in the apartment, the kitchen is the one I most associate with Ken. He was a master improvisational chef. He loved cooking for our friends and family and for me–and even more–with me as he encouraged my own improvisation and boldness in the kitchen. I knew the cabinets were need of a “sifting”, but never felt up to it…until this week.

The flip side to such a productive endeavor has traditionally resulted in a “grief burst” within the ensuing days. Not this time. It felt a bit different than it had before–though there are more shades of grief than there are of gray and there is always the chance the burst is just taking its sweet time to settle upon me. Yet it still feels like a milestone that I’m grateful for. I had to work pretty hard to not touch everything and relive all the memories attached to each and every one. (His coffee grinder that I remember him using the morning after my first overnight, the set of clear juice glasses we got for his 39th birthday–Birthday Improvable–that he colored the bottoms of each with crayon so people could tell their drinks apart.) And I though did hesitate when I decided something should go into the “donate” box (wait…should it?), it was around midnight, and I had miles to go before I slept.

Ken was a loving packrat…er…collector, and would have begrudgingly admitted as much. He saw the potential in almost anything–probably even in me, so it’s not a trail I can balk at. So, I have an apartment full of stuff that needs to be sifted through. There is no rush. But a part of me I haven’t felt for a long time is nudging me toward order and simplicity. There are things that are still “off limits”; that will remain untouched until I feel differently. I’ve learned I can look at something, or touch it, and know that it has to be put back. No questions or judgement.

But a constant reminder of this (sort of?) new chapter is an ancient ice box Ken had discovered years before we met. I thought it was so cool until we had to move it to Los Angeles. (Then I just thought it was heavy as $(%&!) Ken loved it so I did too, and treated it with the familiarity of an old friend. Somewhat of a chameleon, it’s been a food pantry, a liquor cabinet, a linen closet, and a paper storage cabinet. It moved to LA and back with us. When we learned of Ken’s cancer diagnosis in late 2009 and were prepping for his ensuing surgery, I had to move the icebox out of the kitchen to allow for wheelchair access and into what had been Ken’s office–which slowly became more like a storage room. I still kept canned goods in it, but just never remembered what was in there and would usually forget to go look.

After I’d gone through the cabinets, I had a little “why not?” nudge to move it back into the kitchen. And though I said I don’t like changing things from the way they were when Ken was here, the ice box had been in the kitchen for years before I moved it out. Seeing it back where it sat during countless holiday and birthday parties and gatherings with friends (which all ultimately wind up in the kitchen) makes me smile.

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(It’s pretty beat up, and I considered painting it to freshen it up. But for now, I like it just the way it is–the way it’s always been. And I love that it’s standing at attention in the spot where it stood for so many happy years.)

After getting the kitchen done, I found my wheels spinning. What could I do next? (As a lazy person by nature, I was surprised, but went with it.) In cleaning out a back closet I found a disassembled table that I loved. It had been present in Craig and Katie’s guest house when Ken and I lived there our first year in LA. Then, later after we moved out I was sad to see it up for sale at their yard sale. But true to form, a few weeks later (maybe for my birthday?) Ken surprised me with this little gem. And it sat on our covered patio at the apartment where we met some life-long friends. It was sort of like a “Melrose Place” building, but no pool.

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(Ken and Quantum snuggled up next to “the” table on our patio in Valley Village – Feb. 2005)

For whatever reason we needed to make space for something here in our Chicago apartment. I honestly and frustratingly can’t remember if it was related to preparing for his surgery or before. But I couldn’t bear to part with it–to which he obliged by lovingly taking it apart so we could store it for future use. When I ran across it yesterday, I couldn’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t put it together (another “why not?”) and move it back into the living room. And, in a surprising move, that’s exactly what I did!

It sort of felt like opening a gift Ken left for me that had been locked in a time capsule. All similar pieces were tethered together and the bag of hardware was taped to the underside of the table. I couldn’t help but feel connected to him while I worked on putting it together. It’s hard to explain, but I’m short on patience (I almost shot myself in the face while putting together a “Real Simple”–ironic name, by the way–organizer last week), but this was not a destination-driven exercise. It was all journey as I was lost in memories, counting screws and washers to see if I could figure out which went where. It was almost “zen”, and most certainly very “Ken”. I grabbed the Ryobi electric screw driver thingie like I was a pro! I’d never used any of those power tools before. (Well, I didn’t have to. Ken loved that kind of thing.)

From this:
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To this:
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Without a single curse word uttered.

I’m still in shock myself.

0 thoughts on “The Sweet and Surprising Rewards of Fighting Entropy”

  1. I thought about that icebox this week while watching American Pickers. I can understand you not wanting to part with it.

  2. Both items are lovely. I wouldn’t paint the ice box. It has character exactly the way it is.

    For what it’s worth–I still have boxes of my mother’s letters in the top of my bedroom closet. She’s been gone ten years. I get misty whenever I open the lid. You’ve got a lot of courage.

  3. Thanks, Elisabeth. I appreciate your kindness…as always. And you’re right. That icebox might just say the way it is forever. And I’m okay with it.

    Loss is such a maze–not the same path for anyone. But I’m a firm believer in trusting your gut. As long as you know your mom’s letters are where they are and it gives you comfort just knowing where they are…don’t touch ’em.

    And, courage is subjective. Ken was a graceful example of it. I can’t help do my best to follow his example–within my limits.

    Thanks, E. Wishing you the very best!

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