|photo via My Vintage Dollhouses|
So every once in a while I want to organize my life.
I end up doing a half-assed job; doing enough to make the frantic beeping in my head stop and then move on to other tasks.
I am easily distracted by my own "to-do" list.
About two weeks ago, the community fire alarm went off and I was home working so I went to see what it was. It ended up being a sprinkler that blew in a neighbors garage, flooding it and drenching the contents. No fire, thank goodness...but it took over 4 hours to turn off the water!
The renter had all his work tools in the garage and what wasn't in a plastic box, was soaked.
The fire dept, couldn't turn off the water, because it was managed by the fire sprinkler company who couldn't come out until later that day to reset the sprinklers and the alarm people needed to stop the alarm but couldn't do it until the water was turned off. You see how this turned out...the "best part" was that the alarm for the sprinkler is not connected to a central call center/dispatch place. So it is really up to fellow neighbors to call police or fire department people.
If I wasn't home who knows how much longer that water would have poured into the garage and street!
I felt horrible for the neighbor, but more so frightened for our homes well being in our absence, because we don't really have outgoing neighbors.
If something happened to our home, I fear no one would call the people needed.
Everyone would say " huh, why is that alarm going off? it is really bothering me" close their window and go about their business.
Sad but true. We live in a community of disconnected people.
(being the crazy lady I am, I am making a sheet of phone numbers of neighbors I say hello to on a regular basis and giving them our cell numbers too)
This of course set me into a personal tailspin of what ifs....
I started looking around our home and thinking of everything that would be destroyed by water, the cats would be traumatized but alive and wet. Then I went into our garage...ugh
We have collected many many many things. In fact when grandma's have passed we were delivered many boxes of "precious items" and "heirlooms" that we must have.
Plus my art exhibitions and framed work etc....
I went out and got a storage unit.
I spent this whole last weekend working through the boxes, and boxes of things...I have a hoarder living inside me apparently. We have boxes and boxes of things for the garage sale at the end of the month, and a pile of things that is going to the local thrift store.
But we also have several things in that new locker....mostly my things.
The biggest being my dollhouse.
My parents made me a doll house for my 7th birthday, it took several months to make. It was worked on every night in secret in their bedroom. They made it from discarded orange crates and found wood at the local market. My father created a wooden floor in the kitchen with a wood burning tool. The cupboards are made from butter dishes turned on their sides and scrap lace made the curtains. Each room has different carpet, as they are all scraps from the local carpet store. The roof is hinged as once the doll house was complete my parents realized it wouldn't fit through the bedroom door!
There is a picture of me next to the house on the day I got it, I am standing on a chair and doll house is next to me but still taller then I am.
Later, they made my brother a mechanics garage with fuel pumps and an attached home (kind of Sanford and Son-ish) using the same techniques.
Needless to say, I am deeply, emotionally attached to this doll house
and I imagined I would pass it on to my child.
I have kept all the items that had, for years, decorated the home
and it seems more of a time capsule then anything else now.
It is substantial and takes up a lot of floorspace.
When hubby causally mentioned getting rid of it I broke down and started sobbing.
How can I?!
(that question was never broached again)
We moved the doll house into the storage unit on Sunday, it has been entombed in many ways.
My brother is not sentimental with things, so I asked him how he can throw away/give away things that are so deeply linked to his childhood. Does he not have second guesses or regrets?
He simple said: they don't mean anything to anyone else but me. So why keep them?
I am left dumbfounded...
I can't think of a person who it would mean something to besides myself.
In fact, that is the impression I am getting about much of what I can't seem to let go of.
old love letters, stories I wrote in elementary school that sheds light on my mind and emotions then.
Who am I holding on to this for? Why do I still need to know that it is there?
I feel at times that I am making strides in coming to terms with not being able to be a mother, and then stuff like this sneak attacks me.
It was like, The Barreness turned on the fire sprinkler and drenched me in the memories and the what should have beens.
Until I can figure it out, I place them into plastic tubs and store them away.
At least I can keep them dry.