My dad died on December 4, 2014 and in January and February I visited Water St. in Perth Amboy, NJ, to sort books and organize the household items. I arranged for the Salvation Army truck to pick up most of the furniture.
They took the large mahogany dining room set that’s older than me, and the loveseats I lay on as a baby. The pineapple-motif upholstery, installed 40 years ago, still looks brand-new, with crisp pleats along the floor. As dusk fell, I sat at the only furniture the Salvation Army wouldn’t take: an old grammar school desk and resin chair, and watched Staten Island fade beyond the placid Arthur Kill. I gazed for the last time at a view Mom and Dad loved for 29 years.
February 2017
Nothing much to report. I don’t find myself in emotional pain as often. On Saturday, Jim pulled out a book of the world-class architecture in Columbus, Indiana. We moved to southern Indiana in 1981 and I became a bus tour guide. We reminisced about those days, when we had just one baby and Jim was starting his career. Every page of the book has photos of buildings very familiar to us: the public library plaza where R’el took her first steps, the churches, schools, and even firehouses designed by world-class architects.
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