It's what I appreciate about you as a writer, that you have both shoes: the profound and tender one, and the light touch of humor that lifts us gently out of the quicksand to appreciate the beautiful mess.
Rick, I couldn’t have said it better myself. Rob, your writing is so heartfelt and touching. And your stories are universally resonant. It’s a combination that activates our emotions one sentence at a time and moves the world forward (during a time when it seems to be moving backwards).
i had the same scenario: vacant lot, a block away, mud, several five-year-olds and a three-year-old. i got home with both ruined shoes, covered in mud, without the three-year-old. i remain unsure as to which was the primary cause of my serious censure: my ruined shoes/clothes or losing my brother down a hole. he was found unhurt and happily playing with a frog at the bottom of his three-foot-deep faerie playground. for the shoes, i was grounded in penal servitude - housework, gardening, etc. he got to keep the frog. life is unfair.
Like you, I didn't think I an attachment to my parent's possessions. But when we moved my mother to a nursing home, my brother suggested we take her bedroom furniture to the dump. It was scratched and scuffed and more than 50 years old. I couldn't do it. The wood was mahogany and I didn't want it to end up in landfill. I hauled it home, sanded the two dressers and night tables down, stained them and now they are my bedroom furniture. It's beautiful and - bonus: I feel like I have a piece of my parents with me.
A lovely piece, Rob. The first one of yours that I read. I'm slow at discovering new writers on here, but then again, I'm not here much. Happy to have found you. :)
This is so touching, Rob, and gives such insight into how one generation affects the next. Possessions can mean so much and so little. It’s the memories of the people that go with them that count.
This was beautifully written. It brought me back to losing my grandmother, who had Alzheimer’s. Before she went to the nursing home, she began getting rid of all her possessions. My mom took most of them because she couldn’t bear to see them thrown away. That same year, I lost my mom unexpectedly. I was 23.
She never got rid of anything. Clearing out her home while grieving was one of the most life-changing experiences of my life. When you’re already reeling from loss, how do you decide what stays and what goes? That question changed how I live. Now, when I look at clutter, I think: Would I want my kids to deal with this if I were gone?
But more than the stuff, your line—“how could they just be gone?”—hit the hardest. When I got the call about my mom, I asked five times: What do you mean? Like… she’s gone? Are you sure?
I never saw her body, and for years I couldn’t believe it was real. I had nightmares that she wasn’t dead, just lost, waiting for me to come back. Like a misplaced shoe. More than a decade later, it still haunts me.
Oh, Laura, I so feel this. 23 is such a young age to lose one's mom, too. What a year that must have been. These things feel impossible to get one's head around. I read somewhere, in the deepest days of my grief, that the grief doesn't get smaller, but our lives grow bigger around it. That feels true to me. I'm sending you my very best, and am grateful for your beautiful, thoughtful comment.
I read this sitting on my couch wrapped in one of my mom's shawls. I still use my dad's eraser and my grandmother's lemon press. Dead people's things hold meaning and connection for me.
“… these things simply remind me that I’ve lost them.” I took a screenshot of that section because it was profound and you framed beautifully what I feel when I hold the tiny brass whale that my mother treasured. She’s not here to hold it now. I’d rather have my mother than her things.
Oh Rob, You have a knack of making me tearful. Beautiful. I'm with you on not really wanting stuff. It does act as a reminder. Sometimes it can be reassuring. We do need pairs of shoes though. One is simply foolish.
Your yarn spinning, in true Steinbeckian fashion, joins together the seemingly little moments. Of course it turns out they are not small and are the universal glue that draws it all together and keeps us from spinning to oblivion, or worse; to meaninglessness… please keep em coming!
The things you realize about life, usually a little later than you would wish for. Family get togethers around holidays. Back then you knew you would get older/grow up, but it seemed so distant. Your aunts and uncles would always be around, somehow in a never ending state of middle age. But, somehow, one by one, they got older, retired, and all too quickly, passed away. Your favorite stories they told, family jokes, and traditions disappeared as well. Parents, who could do anything, get frail and falter as well. The passage of time, and all the changes your parents tried to tell you about come to life. Not regret, but a slow realization.
Yes, I think often of an uncle in Australia, who was a family historian of sorts. He had the best stories, and as many as I heard over the years, I wish I'd heard more.
What a gorgeous read! I got to know your mother, you, and your son - and each of you made me feel a different sort of tenderness. I'm so glad to have discovered your blog!
I made it back to you. Nothing matters more than this and it's not surprising that the pure soul of a child perfectly knows it... even though it sounds like a witty attempt to put it on the emotional level to avoid some mother's reprimand... :D It's moving and funny at the same time. Thank you.
Thank you, Gretchen. Yes, these things do echo through the generations, don't they? For better and worse. So glad this one resonated, and to hear from you.
It's what I appreciate about you as a writer, that you have both shoes: the profound and tender one, and the light touch of humor that lifts us gently out of the quicksand to appreciate the beautiful mess.
Thank you so much, Rick. That's really lovely to read.
Rick, I couldn’t have said it better myself. Rob, your writing is so heartfelt and touching. And your stories are universally resonant. It’s a combination that activates our emotions one sentence at a time and moves the world forward (during a time when it seems to be moving backwards).
Thank you pal. ❤️🙏
Thank you so much, James. What a comment to read. I so appreciate it.
i had the same scenario: vacant lot, a block away, mud, several five-year-olds and a three-year-old. i got home with both ruined shoes, covered in mud, without the three-year-old. i remain unsure as to which was the primary cause of my serious censure: my ruined shoes/clothes or losing my brother down a hole. he was found unhurt and happily playing with a frog at the bottom of his three-foot-deep faerie playground. for the shoes, i was grounded in penal servitude - housework, gardening, etc. he got to keep the frog. life is unfair.
This was beautiful and especially needed in these turbulent days.
Thank you so much, Sherry! That's wonderful to hear.
Man, your writing is always like a warm blanket. So comforting and immediate and real. Beautiful piece, my friend.
Thank you, my friend.
Like you, I didn't think I an attachment to my parent's possessions. But when we moved my mother to a nursing home, my brother suggested we take her bedroom furniture to the dump. It was scratched and scuffed and more than 50 years old. I couldn't do it. The wood was mahogany and I didn't want it to end up in landfill. I hauled it home, sanded the two dressers and night tables down, stained them and now they are my bedroom furniture. It's beautiful and - bonus: I feel like I have a piece of my parents with me.
That sounds beautiful, Linda. Lovely things to be surrounded by.
This is wonderful xx
Thank you, Suzanne!
A lovely piece, Rob. The first one of yours that I read. I'm slow at discovering new writers on here, but then again, I'm not here much. Happy to have found you. :)
Thank you, Silvio. I'm so happy you found this piece. I'm really enjoying reading your work.
Glad you do, Rob. Thank you!
This is so touching, Rob, and gives such insight into how one generation affects the next. Possessions can mean so much and so little. It’s the memories of the people that go with them that count.
Yes, so true, Wendy. Thank you for reading, and leaving such a lovely comment. I appreciate it!
This was beautifully written. It brought me back to losing my grandmother, who had Alzheimer’s. Before she went to the nursing home, she began getting rid of all her possessions. My mom took most of them because she couldn’t bear to see them thrown away. That same year, I lost my mom unexpectedly. I was 23.
She never got rid of anything. Clearing out her home while grieving was one of the most life-changing experiences of my life. When you’re already reeling from loss, how do you decide what stays and what goes? That question changed how I live. Now, when I look at clutter, I think: Would I want my kids to deal with this if I were gone?
But more than the stuff, your line—“how could they just be gone?”—hit the hardest. When I got the call about my mom, I asked five times: What do you mean? Like… she’s gone? Are you sure?
I never saw her body, and for years I couldn’t believe it was real. I had nightmares that she wasn’t dead, just lost, waiting for me to come back. Like a misplaced shoe. More than a decade later, it still haunts me.
Oh, Laura, I so feel this. 23 is such a young age to lose one's mom, too. What a year that must have been. These things feel impossible to get one's head around. I read somewhere, in the deepest days of my grief, that the grief doesn't get smaller, but our lives grow bigger around it. That feels true to me. I'm sending you my very best, and am grateful for your beautiful, thoughtful comment.
Did you know that that is EXACTLY how Harry Sussex felt about his mother, Diana?
I had no idea. I’ll have to read up on this! Thank you for sharing.
I read this sitting on my couch wrapped in one of my mom's shawls. I still use my dad's eraser and my grandmother's lemon press. Dead people's things hold meaning and connection for me.
This is lovely, Annette. What beautiful things to cherish.
“… these things simply remind me that I’ve lost them.” I took a screenshot of that section because it was profound and you framed beautifully what I feel when I hold the tiny brass whale that my mother treasured. She’s not here to hold it now. I’d rather have my mother than her things.
I'm so glad to hear from you, Wendy. I'm with you. Thank you for this.
Oh Rob, You have a knack of making me tearful. Beautiful. I'm with you on not really wanting stuff. It does act as a reminder. Sometimes it can be reassuring. We do need pairs of shoes though. One is simply foolish.
Thanks so much, Margaret. And yes, I try to keep them in pairs these days. x
Rob,
Your yarn spinning, in true Steinbeckian fashion, joins together the seemingly little moments. Of course it turns out they are not small and are the universal glue that draws it all together and keeps us from spinning to oblivion, or worse; to meaninglessness… please keep em coming!
Thank you, Chris, I completely agree. I so appreciate the very kind encouragement.
The things you realize about life, usually a little later than you would wish for. Family get togethers around holidays. Back then you knew you would get older/grow up, but it seemed so distant. Your aunts and uncles would always be around, somehow in a never ending state of middle age. But, somehow, one by one, they got older, retired, and all too quickly, passed away. Your favorite stories they told, family jokes, and traditions disappeared as well. Parents, who could do anything, get frail and falter as well. The passage of time, and all the changes your parents tried to tell you about come to life. Not regret, but a slow realization.
Yes, I think often of an uncle in Australia, who was a family historian of sorts. He had the best stories, and as many as I heard over the years, I wish I'd heard more.
You have an amazing ability to mix such contrasting emotions in the same piece. Brilliant.
Thanks so much, Simon.
What a gorgeous read! I got to know your mother, you, and your son - and each of you made me feel a different sort of tenderness. I'm so glad to have discovered your blog!
Thank you, Debra. I'm so glad you did, too. I really appreciate the comment.
Beautiful. I so relate! ❤️🩹
I know you do. Thank you, my friend.
I made it back to you. Nothing matters more than this and it's not surprising that the pure soul of a child perfectly knows it... even though it sounds like a witty attempt to put it on the emotional level to avoid some mother's reprimand... :D It's moving and funny at the same time. Thank you.
Thank you, Luisa—this means a lot.
This piece reminds me that there was a reality to my dysfunctional childhood that was a part of who my parents were and I became.
Thank you for this warm and loving memory.
Thank you, Gretchen. Yes, these things do echo through the generations, don't they? For better and worse. So glad this one resonated, and to hear from you.