Black Cows and Green Grass

 

The Gaviota coast is green and vibrant after last month’s record rainfall. Black cows graze on miles of emerald grass. It’s a lovely sight, and brightens my mood despite the task ahead. My wife is listening to a podcast. We’re meeting her sister and brother-in-law at the storage place in Santa Maria at 10. We’ll go through boxes, plastic crates, sort through documents, cards, letters, and other physical remains of my wife’s older sister, Nancy, who died last November after two years of heart and kidney problems. Some stuff will go to the dump, some donated at Goodwill, and a few items, inevitably, will come home. 

Black cows on grass as green as we’ve seen in years. Highway 101 North, past vineyards that snake up humped hillsides, and gnarled oaks that might now stand a chance of survival. In some places the deluge of rain carved clefts in the soil. Scattered clouds scuttle across the sky. 

Nancy and I were in the same high school graduating class. In a box we find her red graduation cap, red and blue tassel, graduation day program, senior activities card, and a copy of the school newspaper, the King’s Page. This stuff elicits little feeling in me, though it obviously meant a lot to Nancy. The things people keep reveal something about what matters to them. She enjoyed high school far more than I did. I scan the King’s Page, look at the photographs that accompany the stories, but only recognize a face or two. 

We find many photographs of our children and niece, Mia. Nancy was proud of them, loved to talk about them. A box of hardback books, Anne Rice and Stephen King, a book about the Beatles. A stack of concert ticket stubs, most for Rod Stewart performances, as Nancy saw the singer more than a hundred times. Rings and bracelets and necklaces. Wall sconces and crucifixes. A carton of record albums. A Mickey Mouse cap. The wedding dress from Nancy’s second wedding. A deflated soccer ball signed by Rod Stewart. An 1888 silver dollar coin.  

It feels weird to go through this stuff, all of which we packed when we emptied Nancy’s little house on Fesler Street two summers ago. My wife and sister-in-law keep it together when they find things that remind them of their childhood. With the passage of a few months, their loss still aches, but isn’t as raw. 

I can’t help thinking that one day my wife or children will be sorting through my stuff, considering what to keep and what to toss. What can we leave that makes a difference? Money is useful, but there won’t be much of that. A lot of books. Dozens of notebooks filled with my scribblings. My wife’s stuff will be more complicated. There’s more of it for one thing. Jewelry. Many boxes of photographs. 

The lesson of the day for me: Don’t be a burden, purge, cull, consolidate, shred and burn.