Thursday, December 1, 2011
December is Here
Yesterday I had on one of Dad's sweaters, and while putting Mom to bed she noticed it. She asked if it was one of his. Then she asked me where he was. I had to tell her again he was dead. She didn't cry this time, just asked about his funeral. I told her we had a graveside service and that he is in their plot at the Arlington Cemetery. That seemed to satisfy her.
Max and I have been discussing what to do now. For so long we believed we'd end up losing the house to Medicaid to care for Joe. With that looming, it seemed best to move Lola to Memphis with us and sell the house while we could. Since Joe didn't have to apply for Medicaid, and it's unlikely Lola will need to (please, please), we've come to the decision to stay here as long as we can.
Now that Joe isn't here to throw a fit, I can clean out the 40 years worth of crap in the basement. We can move some of my "crap" in there allowing Max to downsize in Memphis. He can get a studio or 1-bedroom apartment there and cut some of our expenses. He'll stay there until he can find a job in this area. If he can't, he'll still stay there during the week. That's the general plan for now, anyway.
I've been going through Dad's clothes and cleaning his closet out. He had some nice clothes. All of them are so very old, though. I hate to throw them out, yet they're so old I wonder if anyone would choose them if donated to a charity. Even the majority of needy people around here want to look up-to-date rather than wear something 10 years old - dress shirts and suits. I'm so out of it I have no clue what lapel size is in style now.
Well, Lola's been on a spell this week of getting up early and staying up late, so I haven't been able to sneak the suits out of the closet anyway. If I save them, it'll mean driving to Paducah to find a place to donate them. Aunt Agnes said there was a place in Clinton to donate them, but I don't know where it is. It's not like there'll be a sign pointing to it, and I don't know Clinton. The bad thing about being here is that you have to drive miles to get to most things.
Dad has 13 shelves of paperback espionage and suspense books. I've started going through them and pulling them, too. I've got a call into a local auction house to see if they sell them. Sheesh, throwing books away is like pulling teeth - it's something you just hate to do.