Colby had thousands of books and many of them he had listed for sale online. The books were spread out over five rooms and other than his personal collection (which numbered about five hundred) none of the books were organized. Lack of organizational skills was part of Colby's dysgraphia disability, along with writing, knot tying, and math calculation. It takes me more than six months but I have examined each book, categorized it, evaluated it for online sales listing, and then either kept it or given it away.
Several hundred books went to Grandpa's House a Nashville-based program for men with mental illness and addiction. About a hundred were so damaged they went in the trash. Several I kept, and I carted more than forty boxes of books to the Goodwill. I still have about two hundred books from Colby's personal collection that I will keep for a while . . . or longer.
The reason this is important is that I carried the last box of books to the Goodwill today. This sorting through thousands of books has taken a good portion of my time. Plus, it was important to move them out so I can begin evaluating, organizing, sorting, categorizing and moving other groups of items such as his hundred or so DVDs, VHS tapes, and video games. There are also several hundred CDs and CD cases in various bags and boxes, and stacked loosely on shelves. Of course none of the CDs are actually in the cases or any where near the case they belong to. I will begin matching those up next. That could take me another six months. At least CDs are smaller than books.
The work is tiring, boring, mind-numbing. But in doing it I feel close to Colby. These were his things, things that were important to him, that meant something to him. The best I can do is keep the ones we were both connected to and find homes for the rest. They do no one any good sitting in a box or on a shelf. Colby would want this music that he loved so much to be appreciated by others. And it will be . . . many months from now.
Showing posts with label stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stuff. Show all posts
Friday, February 12, 2010
Monday, November 30, 2009
Privacy
Today I wade through the piles of stuff in Colby's room and pull out one of his computers. He has several, some of which I know do not work. In trying to sort through things I am beginning to test electronics to see what is viable and what is not, what I should keep (for now) and what I can get rid of.
This computer fires right up. It is one I gave him several years ago and he has been storing music files on it. Lots of music files that he produced or composed. I open one file, then another. It seems an invasion of his privacy and it makes me uncomfortable. But it has to be done. Colby was quite talented, but his music was not everyone's cup of tea. It is politically driven with lots of metal. But I have lived in Nashville far too long not to realize it is good. Very good. Some songs I have heard before, over and over as he developed riffs and licks and intros and outros. Day after day, sometimes stretching into weeks, the same song again and again until he got it just right. Other songs I have not heard before. Some are other bands he recorded, many of the songs, both his and other musicians, are partially done.
This entire process of going through his things leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It is likely to be there for a while as I am months away from finishing. I know I have read writings he never intended for me to read, but it must be read for me to know what it is. Is it important enough to save? Does someone else want it? Should it be thrown? I have discussed this before, but in this case I want to say it feels like spying, snooping.
We all leave stuff behind: papers, music, art, books that indicate who we are, where our interests lie, what is important to us. It is a way for those left behind to piece our lives together. But we also leave behind lots of "stuff" that means nothing. Unless we specifically state, it is up to our survivors to figure out which is which. And, we can't possible get it right all the time. So if you have things that are important to you, please let someone know what they are. I can easily sort many of Colby's things. But if a specific piece of jewelry, a rock, a ticket stub had sentimental value or he just happened to drop it on his dresser, I do not know. I am much more equipped today than I was a few months ago to make these determinations. I have pieced much together. But there is much I will never know. And that makes me very, very sad.
This computer fires right up. It is one I gave him several years ago and he has been storing music files on it. Lots of music files that he produced or composed. I open one file, then another. It seems an invasion of his privacy and it makes me uncomfortable. But it has to be done. Colby was quite talented, but his music was not everyone's cup of tea. It is politically driven with lots of metal. But I have lived in Nashville far too long not to realize it is good. Very good. Some songs I have heard before, over and over as he developed riffs and licks and intros and outros. Day after day, sometimes stretching into weeks, the same song again and again until he got it just right. Other songs I have not heard before. Some are other bands he recorded, many of the songs, both his and other musicians, are partially done.
This entire process of going through his things leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It is likely to be there for a while as I am months away from finishing. I know I have read writings he never intended for me to read, but it must be read for me to know what it is. Is it important enough to save? Does someone else want it? Should it be thrown? I have discussed this before, but in this case I want to say it feels like spying, snooping.
We all leave stuff behind: papers, music, art, books that indicate who we are, where our interests lie, what is important to us. It is a way for those left behind to piece our lives together. But we also leave behind lots of "stuff" that means nothing. Unless we specifically state, it is up to our survivors to figure out which is which. And, we can't possible get it right all the time. So if you have things that are important to you, please let someone know what they are. I can easily sort many of Colby's things. But if a specific piece of jewelry, a rock, a ticket stub had sentimental value or he just happened to drop it on his dresser, I do not know. I am much more equipped today than I was a few months ago to make these determinations. I have pieced much together. But there is much I will never know. And that makes me very, very sad.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Aftermath
Today I find a recycling center and place 27 World Book encyclopedias from 1979 carefully in a bin. I am crying by the time I get to the third book. These were not Colby's personal volumes, although they could have been. He was interested in such a wide variety of subjects that he would get pleasantly lost in books such as these. These books Colby had obtained somewhere, most likely for free, and had hoped to "re-home" them. He did that a lot. So much so, that my basement is still full of "stuff" that needs to be re-homed. Colby's mindset was that we all throw away things that still have use, maybe not for us, but for someone else. I believe that is true. One of Colby's "missions" while he was here with us was to get people to understand that we as a society are using more than our share of the Earth's resources.
This is the reason for my tears. Despite my best efforts I could not find a home for these books. They were too heavy to list online; shipping them would have been prohibitive. The Goodwill and Salvation Army, along with all the used bookstores in town rejected this lot as too dated. 1979 was, after all, thirty years ago. A Craigslist ad went unanswered and I finally came to the conclusion that the only home for these books was the recycle bin.
Those who pass young, or suddenly, or young and suddenly, do not give much thought to the aftermath of their passing, including the disposition of their possessions. I take great care to try to do what Colby would have wanted with his stuff. I am mostly clueless. I often have no idea if a specific CD or a book, a torn ticket stub, a shirt, a poster, was especially meaningful to him, or to one of his friends.
With books, however, his intent was quite clear. I was taught from an early age that books are a gift to be treated reverently; they are not to be thrown out. I passed this school of thought along to Colby and now I feel as if I have failed him. I place the last of the World Books gently in the bin and turn away, defeated. At least they will be recycled. Colby would have taken some consolation in that, and so, too, will I. I did my best and no one can ask for any more than that. I decide not to be so hard on myself so I wipe the tears away and head to the house. Maybe in his piles of stuff I will find something else I can re-home yet today. I know that whatever I find I will try my best to make that happen.
This is the reason for my tears. Despite my best efforts I could not find a home for these books. They were too heavy to list online; shipping them would have been prohibitive. The Goodwill and Salvation Army, along with all the used bookstores in town rejected this lot as too dated. 1979 was, after all, thirty years ago. A Craigslist ad went unanswered and I finally came to the conclusion that the only home for these books was the recycle bin.
Those who pass young, or suddenly, or young and suddenly, do not give much thought to the aftermath of their passing, including the disposition of their possessions. I take great care to try to do what Colby would have wanted with his stuff. I am mostly clueless. I often have no idea if a specific CD or a book, a torn ticket stub, a shirt, a poster, was especially meaningful to him, or to one of his friends.
With books, however, his intent was quite clear. I was taught from an early age that books are a gift to be treated reverently; they are not to be thrown out. I passed this school of thought along to Colby and now I feel as if I have failed him. I place the last of the World Books gently in the bin and turn away, defeated. At least they will be recycled. Colby would have taken some consolation in that, and so, too, will I. I did my best and no one can ask for any more than that. I decide not to be so hard on myself so I wipe the tears away and head to the house. Maybe in his piles of stuff I will find something else I can re-home yet today. I know that whatever I find I will try my best to make that happen.
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