In the weeks before we moved into our new home in Passaic, N.J., we were busy sorting receipts from the 1960s, packing up vintage black coats that smelled like mothballs, and giving away antique furniture. Packing up an apartment in an orderly manner and managing two toddlers lost out to bleaching the 80-year-old bathtub and digging up the dirt hidden behind the dull-brown couches. Our new home was 90 years old and still inhabited — not by people, but by things. An armoire full of nightgowns, a closet full of suits, and a cold concrete basement replete with a 50-year-old collection of someone else’s junk.
Nonetheless, we were starry-eyed, first-time home buyers.
The owner, a 90-year-old widower, had died a few months before, and his son, Jeffrey, who lived in Nevada, took over management of the house. Jeffrey’s wife would be undergoing brain surgery around our move-in date, and he kindly requested that we hire cheap labor to remove what was left in the house. Which was almost everything.
No problem. Of course, we would help. We couldn’t expect him to fly out to New Jersey during such a traumatic time in his life.
But how does one sift through the belongings of a complete stranger? Gosh, I could barely part with my report on the Eiffel Tower from seventh-grade French class.
“Honey, do you think this necklace is real gold, or is it costume?’’ I asked my husband.
“Better hold on to it. What about this picture? The frame is nice. Oh, do you want these pens and pencils? It seems a shame to throw them out.’’
Garbage bags lined the front hall.
“Hi, Salvation Army?’’ I said with confidence, knowing that someone in need would soon benefit from our kindness. “We’ve got a beautiful bedroom set to give away — for free! Can you come pick it up?’’
Oh, they didn’t do pickups. Neither did the three other organizations we called. We finally paid someone to remove it just a day before the workers came to sand and shine the pine floors.
“Wheee!’’ The children jumped on the antique beds as I tried to quickly strip the sheets in time for the movers, and then for fun, they emptied the black garbage bags in the hallway with the clothing we had folded. After surveying the basement covered wall to wall with boxes of rusty old appliances, waterlogged books, and broken furniture, we called in the cheap labor. We closed our eyes and refused to watch what was being lugged up the stairs and out to the curb. Then the garbage truck finally came, and within 15 minutes departed, leaving behind pieces of cardboard boxes and broken glass. Just like that.
But by then, I was too tired to be sentimental about the loss of someone else’s belongings, and suddenly felt that I should be paid for my kindness. In our young naivete, we didn’t put the cost into the contract because of our desire to please, our fear of making waves, and our eagerness to do a good deed.
So, as we schlepped away the life and dreams of another, we soothed ourselves with the knowledge that we would continue our journey in this home, in pursuit of our own dreams. And one day, when we parted from this home, we would do another good deed.
We would clean it out again down to the bare pine floors.
Miriam Eliwatt is a freelance writer. Send comments to tara@eliwatt.com and a 550-word essay on your first home to Address@globe.com. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.
