Nostalgia – a feeling of pleasure and also slight sadness when you think about things that happened in the past. (Cambridge Dictionary)

It’s hard not to feel nostalgic when cleaning out your childhood home. Everywhere I turn, there is a trigger for a forgotten event. Many make me smile as I recollect that period in time, and some make me sad as I’m surrounded by loss.

My parents built that house in the early ‘60s, and the land was from my Dad’s side of the family. Keeping it in the family has been discussed, but none of us want it. The brother who passed in February was the only one who had a strong familial feel for it. The house completed its use of housing our family for many years, and it shows. My first instinct when he passed was to donate it to the fire department for a practice burn, knowing what lay ahead of us.

My mother and brother were collectors, a nicer word than hoarders. My mother visited yard sales every summer, buying stuff she saw value in for a quarter here, a dollar there. I understood why she felt the need to have things as her father passed when she was seven, and her mother never worked due to a cleft palate, making her speech hard to understand. My mother had two older siblings and two younger siblings. They had little and pinched pennies almost into dust. Her collecting made sense as she was making up for not having much of anything growing up, and she couldn’t pass up a deal. 

I can’t find an excuse for my brother other than he liked working on cars. We grew up pinching pennies, but we never went without. I believe he revered my mother and picked it up from her. He was born on her birthday, and they had a special connection. He got away with things we couldn’t. I’m not saying that in an angry way, although I broached the subject in my younger years.  Unfortunately, that special treatment ended up hurting him more than helping him. 

We are taught never to speak ill of the dead. I loved my mother so much and miss her; the same goes for my brother. But every time I’m at that house, sorting through the endless piles, I get angry at them for leaving us such a mess to deal with. Then guilt follows because I know they didn’t do it intentionally. But they proved that no amount of things makes any difference in the end. Someone will just throw it out when you are gone. 

It’s frustrating to have those mixed emotions, seeing the amount of work ahead of us and finding so many memories that were lost amongst the piles. It made me vow never to leave that kind of mess when I pass. 

That thought led me to finally set up an appointment to have a proper will completed for us. My cerebral angiogram a few weeks ago did not produce the greatest news. My mind has shifted to planning for what I’m going to leave behind, what my endgame is, and how I can make the most of my remaining years, however many they turn out to be. 

I plan to keep writing and producing more books, do more art for enjoyment, travel, and live the life that makes me happy. Currently, I am making some upgrades around our house to create my own oasis. 

I want to learn to have confidence and not worry about what others might think. I want to smile at the good memories and use the bad as learning experiences. And most of all, to not sweat the small stuff. 

The following is the last paragraph of the first book I wrote,  Alice’s Ashes. I keep the passage up so I can look at it daily to remind me of the message.

“Life isn’t perfect. Life isn’t easy. But once you figure that out and not attach yourself to specific outcomes, opening yourself up to dreams and surprises along the way, life becomes an adventure. Alice had the best advice: Be free. Be brave. Be bold. Be proud. Dream big and believe in yourself. Imperfections are the seasonings of life. And most of all, share your fabulous self with the world.”