"Her dad's belongings"

She was grieving as they cleaned out her dad's belongings. The workshop was full of boxes: rusty hinges, light sockets, outlets, and old paint cans. There was even a wall of vintage license plates. There were hand tools, jars of nails, and screws. Decades worth of things her dad saw value in. They found his pipes and tobacco. The hall closet was full of his sweatshirts and sweaters with pockets full of mints and lifesavers. They weren’t just belongings; they represented the lifetime of one special man. And oh, how she found it so difficult to part with it all.

There were many drop-offs at thrift shops. A lot was just discarded. Decades of newspapers and receipts, unfinished projects, old radios, and old toilet seats. Her mom kept his wedding rings. His granddaughters wanted his shirts. The ball hats & fedoras went to his grandsons. His son valued a metal sign with their last name. Another son wanted a ring their dad had worn. She wanted his old manual typewriter; her sister wanted some of his birdhouses.

So much of her grieving comprised of time spent reflecting on the memories. Memories stirred by photos, by cards received in sympathy and in talking with her mother and her siblings. And it was then, in her desire to remember, that she began a small black notebook. She filled it with memories written, photos taped in, song lyrics that rang with emotion, poems, and even unanswered questions.

Gradually and slowly, over time, sadness and smiles entwined, sometimes even on the same page. And that created peace. Some of the entries she posted online. She kept most of the memories to herself.

Some entries were musings. "Tap, tap, tap; I type on my dad's old Royal manual typewriter. There's dried liquid white-out on the far right-hand keys. I found a similar typewriter online for $850. Is that what it's worth? I say this one has much more value. This one is priceless."

She wrote of how she missed her dad. “It’s just not the same without you here. Tuesdays were kind of like our days. I love that you'd tell mom that you didn't have to eat because I was taking you out: we’d sit at the lake, get takeout from the diner, go to movies, and for haircuts. We’d play cards. I love you, dad. And I miss you.”

She wrote that her dad was a man of few words. “He wasn't wordy unless he was giving directions, in which case he'd go into great detail; even drawing you a map AND telling all the things you would see if you went too far or the wrong way.”

Sometimes memories come when she saw something differently, "I had another great memory of my dad. I had forgotten it until I saw Den's shaving mug & brush this morning. When we were kids, our dad would come out of his bathroom with shaving cream all over his face. He'd "torment" us saying he wanted hugs. We'd laugh and scream like it was horrible, but it was great to be loved and teased.”

She wrote of lessons she learned from the contents of her dad's pockets. “Wintergreen lifesavers, butterscotches, tic-tacs, even peanut butter crackers and granola bars in his sweater and sweatshirt pockets showed his preparedness.” She wrote, "Dad was always willing to share his secret stash." and "His bulging wallet full of photos meant he kept his family close.”

Eventually, the little black notebook filled, and she wrote a sequel. Over the years it became a series. And now she had her own belongings that only she saw value in. She had sweatshirts and sweaters, signs and rings, and even a few birdhouses. And the shelf she’d hidden.

Her grandson found the hidden shelf of journals that chronicled the years as they were cleaning out her belongings. She had filled the notebooks with memories written, photos taped in, lyrics, poems, and even unanswered questions. And he wrote the song for a contest he entered. He called it “Her dad's belongings". And that song of his grandmother’s writings won him the 20,000-dollar prize.