Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Recently my father downsized from the house he grew up in, to a granny flat-style arrangement at the bottom of the garden. There is no singular doubt which of my parents passed on the You Never Know When It’ll Come In Handy gene. Mountains of conclusive proof was unearthed when Dad required help with the downsizing of his stuff. Which included my grandparents’ stuff: stuff that stayed in the house after they died. The whole experience hasn’t helped with the rationalisation of stuff at my place.
Amongst the stuff I now house, is one typewriter:
Nana Eunice’s recipe books:
Sets of picnic ware:
And a number of objects that I am not at all sure what to do with, but nonetheless feel a great sense of responsibility towards.
This is a vase:
I’m at a floral loss.
What I did not feel compelled to rescue, was still-packaged, soap-on-a-rope, found at the back of Dad’s bathroom cabinet. Said soap-on-a-rope was purchased for ten cents in 1979, by eight year old me, at the school Father’s Day Stall. After thirty one years of pretended gratitude, Dad seemed relieved to see it go. Evil, thirty nine year old me, (encouraged by Mr Cosby), has since whipped up Dad’s Father’s Day Card:
You can find cards for other soap-on-a-rope traumatised Dads here.