1838 Jay's Stuff

Friday, June 6, 2008

While I was in Rochester, the eldest sister kept asking me if there was anything in the house that I wanted.

There wasn't a lot left except large pieces of furniture, and trash, and most of the furniture had pieces of tape on it with the names of the younger sisters and their daughters. The younger sisters and their husbands had gone through the house earlier, filled several dumpsters, and took home a few truckloads of the more portable good stuff. (Legal note - all of it is part of the estate, I'm entitled to a portion of that estate or the value thereof, and I'm thoroughly pissed that none of it had been appraised.)

There were only a few things that I wanted. One is a beautiful genuine Irish blackthorn walking stick I had given to the FIL a few years ago. The other was a few things that Jay had mentioned before he died: projects he had worked on, experimental photographs he had taken, his scouting badges, a carved wooden French Revolution chess set, stuff like that. He would have picked them up during an earlier visit to Rochester, but the FIL was a pack rat, and had no idea where any of Jay's stuff might be. I thought that perhaps the sisters would set Jay's things aside for me. But I didn't realize they were purging the house so soon, and I didn't get my word in before they filled the dumpsters.

The caregiver said she had seen the blackthorn before the FIL died. Now, of course, it's nowhere to be found, and everyone claims they didn't see it. Either someone has it and won't admit it, or several hundred dollars of blackthorn went into the dumpster. The caregiver brought me a box she spotted that had my name and "Jay's stuff" written on it. It contained a battered felt cowboy hat that would have been too small for him (I already have his good hats), a cheap chess set, and a six-inch stack of paper. That's all.

So Wednesday night in the hotel room I spent about three hours reading through the papers. It looks like they just found a file labeled "Jay" and threw the contents into a box without looking at it. It was all materials having to do with Jay's application for math summer enrichment programs when he was in high school. That's all.

He had to write essays for the applications. I read all of the typed essays, and thought, "This isn't Jay. He didn't write these." The style was his father's, not his, including the overuse of exclamation points! Like on sentences like this! That habit of his father used to drive Jay crazy!

And then I found one of the typed essays written in longhand. His father's longhand. Jay had always said that nothing he ever did was good enough for his father, that his father had always taken over on everything. This was almost like a haunting. I was reminded of when my daughter was writing essays for college applications. She would not allow me to so much as suggest anything. In fact, I never saw any of the essays she wrote. I have to contrast that with Jay's father's controlling everything. It was one of the reasons Jay had so much difficulty making decisions.

The stack happened to include a few letters Jay had written home from Paris (in longhand), when he had college summer internships there. Those I kept. All the rest of the contents of the box I threw out.

On Thursday I happened to notice a file cabinet in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I opened a drawer, and it was still full of paper. One file was labeled "Jay". I pulled the contents, and found all the letters I had written to his father during Jay's illness, detailing the diagnosis, the treatments, what was happening with Jay, right up to the end, when I had to warn his father about things he should avoid mentioning in phone calls, since Jay had no short term memory and it would just upset him.

I took those letters downstairs and put them in my tote bag, and didn't mention them to anyone.
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