Saying Goodbye to Bintliff Drive: 1-800-GOT-JUNK? (Part 3)

SOLD

The day I've been both dreading and anticipating finally came on "May Day." Before my last round of goodbyes, I'll review some of last week's logistics and our sweaty days of emptying the house for its new owners.

Goodbye Attic

Last visit, my older sister and I completed the sorting process she and my younger sister had faithfully fulfilled in my absence. What was left to claim or toss was now in the garage on folding tables. After packing up seven boxes and mailing them to myself, we inventoried the alledged "just a few things" left in the attic. Dad strongly warned us that at least one worker's foot already ripped through their ceiling when moving things up there. Arachnaphobe that I am,I donned pink rubber gloves before climbing the rickety ladder.

Sure enough, there was WAY more than Dad remembered, so we spent hours throwing down piles of decrepit, disintegrated memorabilia through the 48" X 48" hole he once cut in the garage ceiling to place a man sized attic fan and to raise and lower large items on rigged up pulleys. We already knew our great grandmother's huge old Brunswick Victrola (early wind-up record player) would probably still be sitting on the eaves on the other side of the attic fan until Jesus returns. We had big fun shouting, "Gone!" "Bye bye!!" "Gross!!!" as we filled and refilled the City of Houston trash and recycle cans and made trips back and forth to Goodwill.

Abridged Inventory : Dozens of door wreaths that “Patsy Cleaver” changed out every season—made of everything from Texas Barbed wire to old Sunhats; an all weather cemetery wreath; carefully labeled but unusable "Christmas Crap" from decades past (note to self: nobody wants it); old luggage and one stroller, sealed up in black trash bags; green and gold pom poms and cheerleading megaphones; two unidentified beds; a toy box from our early childhood; some broken down tables and a hideously upholstered chair were in corners we couldn't safely reach; a giant scarecrow mounted on a bamboo pole (rejected by Goodwill, then stealthily left in McDonald’s dumpster)—no tears here, just a hearty buh-bye! 

Junior High and High School Megaphones

Goodbye Junk!

It has been exhausting for three chicks in their fifties to do all the physical work required over the last several months, so it didn't take much research to convince us to divide the cost for 1-800-GOT-JUNK to haul off the things none of our family members or the yard man, Marcos, had claimed. The way this wonderful company works is that you pay by volume not time (i.e. how much of their truck is filled)--they look at what you want hauled away, give you an estimate, then load it up on the spot (and sweep up too).We were nervous about all the stuff in the attic, but they claim that it doesn't matter where it is or what it is . . . so without consulting our dad, we made an appointment.

They were great!  Friendly, efficient, and fast--worth every penny (3/4 of a truckload of pennies) and we didn't have to lift a finger--but we couldn't keep from joining in.

Still, we were nervous when Nat and Javier  were about to tip the giant attic fan on its hinges and attempt to lower the solid wood Victrola still wrapped with the original ropes it had been lifted with. They didn't bat an eyelash, balancing themselves on the eaves to resurrect the old piece from its precarious place. "Sweet!" we giggled when it plopped softly on an old white bedspread. 

"What was it for?" they asked about the 1920-something box.  

"Oh a music machine that doesn't use electricity"! Silly young things. 

We uncovered a few other unexpected treasures: a little hand-painted rocking chair with a music box; Papa Stallworth's custom-made fishing rod, carefully bagged within a long metal cylinder; an old railroad lantern; dozens of love letters and telegrams Dad sent to Mom before they married (we never thought of him as "mushy" until we read them); a big wooden paddle my Mom made when she taught Jr. High English--one side has two nails sticking out of it with red paint that's supposed to look like blood--"Heat for the Seat." The flip side says, "Mr. Thompson's Board of Education (the assistant principal). Today we'd be arrested for even joking about corporal punishment.

In one last sweet, due to my nephew's persistence and a good Mag Lite, we uncovered my dad's Navy boot camp picture and a bag of old drafting sketches of homes he dreamed of building.  That was worth every bit of sweat and grime we wore from head to toe!

My sister: "Are we the only crazy people who want to take pictures of you?" 
Javier: "No . . . every now and then somebody wants to, like maybe a mystery shopper."

Goodbye Garage

Our garage wasn't the kind of  place three daughters are interested in hanging out, but ours was once a great place to play school, jump rope or play ping pong on a rainy afternoon. Just outside the kitchen door we kept a small table and chairs my sister won at Sacco's Grocery for  messy art projects. In addition, each of us spent at least one meal out there for breaking table rules ("Mabel Mabel strong and able, get your elbows off the table.") Saturday, I took my dad by the house to show him that it was now virtually empty. He said he hasn't seen it that clean since 1958 when they moved in. I didn't consider how hard it would hit him to see that every last one of his screws and nails and nuts and tools and turpentine and screens and jars and brushes were GONE--everything he had ever used to build, fix, rig  and remodel . . . 

The empty attic

We went out back to view the equally bare shed, and I think it finally sunk in for both of us that this is it. We both fought to stay composed as we went to separate bathrooms to blow our noses and wipe our eyes, but as we left we both lost it. Dad whispered, "The happiest years of my life were spent here." 

We wiped away our tears, lowered the garage doors and drove away in silence. By the time we got to their new apartment, we were smiling again about our outing to see an old friend, to buy new socks at J.C. Penney, to have a burger and chocolate shake AND and a Creme Swirl lollipop. Our current motto for those kind of outings is "Don't ask, don't tell".  On Sunday I offered to take my mom when we loaded up my antique door, lawnmower and Victrola, but she said she'd rather remember the house as it was for her--always full of people and good memories. 

My parents on their last morning on Bintliff Drive