What I'd been doing before that text message was watching Two Men and a Truck (up from A Man and a Van from my 20s) remove the article of furniture christened Les Alpes Maritimes by my father being removed from next door on its way to cushy Oakville where my younger brother has now reunited the entire dining room set from Bedford: oak dining room table, six upholstered chairs, marble-topped sideboard and the Alpes, a carved cupboard/ sideboard some eight feet high and seven feet long, which fortunately comes in two separate pieces. Plus clubbed feet if you want them, but we never did, because how would you dust under the thing? Younger bro is now the only one of us with a house big enough to take the thing. I mean, yes, so do I because my house is of course the same dimensions as next door, but I don't have the room. Nor the lifestyle: it held the good crystal and the liquor which my hospitable s-i-l used to bring out when entertaining her many friends and relations. I don't entertain, and not merely because I'm a lousy cook and don't have a Significant Other to make conversation with the guests while I try to do it.
But anyway- au'voir that chunk of my past. If I'm a bit teary, well, I have a virus and my joints hurt. Brother is actually wrestling more with saying good-bye to his books, his duplicate books. I recommended Marie Kondo to him: thank Principles and Practices of Political Distribution in Ontario version 4 for its yeoman service and say good-bye to it, because you still have version 5. My s-i-l doesn't understand holding on to books one hasn't read and may never read. I could quote Robertson Davies at her but it won't make any difference: "Book lovers may not want the books to read immediately, or at all; they want them to possess, to range on their shelves, to have at command." That emotion is not in her repertoire. This no doubt is how she will be able to live in a 600 sq ft apartment.