Do All Elderly People Keep All the Crap They've Ever Come Across in Life?

Elderly people are hoarders.  I'm convinced that while many may not seem so on the surface, if you dig deep enough, you'll find a hoarder.

The other day, my mom and I went through my grandmother's craft room.  She was an extremely talented woman, particularly with ceramics, and most of our Christmas decorations are handmade by her.  She has been gone for two years.  Why hasn't the room been cleaned out?  According to my mom, "Every time we walked out here we had no clue where to even start.  It was just too overwhelming."

I now understand why.  We found bags upon bags filled with plastic grocery bags.  You know, a funny thing happens to plastic bags when they've been cooped up in triple-digit summer heat and no ventilation for years upon years.  They sort of just fall apart when touched.  Hundreds of tiny pieces of plastic confetti littered the floor.  Neat.  Empty boxes piled upon empty boxes, concealing even more empty boxes.  Hundreds of bottles of paint, some of which, amazingly, were still good.  The funniest thing was that she had five bottles of the same color paint, by the same manufacturer, all next to each other so she knew she had them...and they were all open.  What the heck was she thinking?  I inhaled more dust that day than any man should.  I've got the black lung, Pop.  Paper towels.  Empty butter tubs.  Popsicle sticks.  Newspaper.  Granted it all had it's use back in the day, but when you're trying to organize a room, those sorts of things are ridiculous.

Then there were boxes of completed ceramic pieces, all hand-painted.  I took a few, you know, for next Christmas.  She had a few pieces of ceramic that she didn't quite get to before she got sick.  I took those too.  Before she passed away, I went into that very room to learn a craft that was dear to her heart.  I knew she was sick, and ceramics is a dying industry.  You don't see much hand-painted stuff anymore.  Something just didn't seem right about letting that go with her.  Growing up, most of our Christmas decorations were made by her.  Heck, most of what Heather and I had in our apartment this year were made by her.  Maybe someday our kids and grandkids will look around their homes and see a bunch of decorations made by me.  I just didn't want a tradition that meant so much to me fade away.  So she taught.  I listened, and I learned.  I could see the pride on her face as we talked.  She gave me pointers, and I followed them.  In the end, I hand-painted three different pieces.

After going through her craft room, I now have a few more blank pieces to work on.  Sure, they'll be painted by me, but a piece of Grandma will be in them too.  I don't quite know what appeals to me about the craft.  Perhaps it is watching something blank turn into something not.  Perhaps it is knowing that this craft is a family tradition that I was lucky enough to grasp by my fingertips before it was too late.  I think I like the latter explanation.

I miss you, Grandma.  No matter who I may paint a piece for, in my heart I will paint it for you.