Packrat

For the second winter in a row, mice launched an all-out war on the cottage. Last year my sister-in-law found the mess and had a fit, but Mom said, "Mice are a fact of cottage life. No use getting exciting about it." But cleaning up was a big job. We had to clear cupboards, clean them, and haul linens and towels to the laundromat in Huntsville. My bed had to be stripped down. The mouse seed Dad had left had been virtually useless, in fact the mice had just carted and scattered it everywhere. A bizarre, ritualistic disc of seeds had been neatly arranged in the middle of the livingroom rug. The only dead mice we found were three or four caught in traps and one that apparently fell into the bathtub and starved there.

While cleaning the large cupboard under the bathroom sink, I was bewildered by a vast and ancient collection of bottles.

"Dad, can I throw out some shampoo? There are bottles and bottles and bottles...."

"Yes. I already threw out some hairspray. Mom was such a packrat. It was just as bad at Poplar Bluff. I never saw her clean up anything like that."

"Well she kept it all spotlessly clean, but she never got rid of anything. She must have kept every bottle of shampoo and sunblock that anyone ever brought to the cottage and left here. I suppose she thought they would use it when they came back, but nobody remembers things like that from one summer to the next."

It didn't end with hair product. While loading clean towels back into the cupboards, I noticed we had enough to keep the entire family (including seven grandchildren and significant others) dry for an indeterminate period. Dad says Mom was just as bad with clothes and shoes. She never threw out anything. Her other obsession seems to have been turkey breast. When Dad cleaned out the full-size freezer and two refrigerators at home, he came across dozens of packages, some dating back several years.

But Mom kept the cleanest house of anyone I've ever known. To walk into it, you would never realize she was such a packrat. During the last few months of her illness, she managed to maintain this standard, apparently by extension through Dad, whose energy is practically boundless. Whatever demands she pressed upon him helped prepare him for an independent life.

It's odd how I'm coming to see a more complete picture of Mom now that she is gone. Odd too, because I lived with her for many years. I experienced the cleanliness, and the clutter, but never recognized the contrast as peculiar. As a child, it was what I knew. Now it seems funny, hearing Dad put it into words.

I inherited clutter. Unfortunately the other part doesn't come naturally. But while Dad simplifies the remains of their shared life, I too have been simplifying mine.

This voluptuous lady's-slipper orchid, Cypripedium acaule grows on our property, and a huge clump of them blooms next door. The peculiar violet with lance-shaped leaves, Viola lanceolata, shows up in wet places along the roadside; the flower is less than 5 mm across. There is an additional photo of each flower in this Wildflowers set.