It seemed appropriate that sprinkles drifted from gunmetal clouds as the auctioneer's chatter rose above the din from a crowded lawn.
I was amid the scores of shoppers alongside cousins Bob and John Arthur Hammerschmidt the other day as we watched the lifetime of possessions from our late grandparents' house (and later Bob's parents' home) in Harrison were hauled away by the boxloads for seven hours.
That's the way life leaves many of us who outlive the others. It is bidding farewell to familiar physical remnants of our predecessors to be dealt with when our time arrives to assume that responsibility.
In this instance, many items, from jewelry, kitchenware, tools and furniture, were recognizable as once belonging to Bob's parents and our grandparents as they steadily disappeared into waiting cars, trucks and SUVs.
The rain is falling harder now. The auctioneer doesn't miss a beat. "I got 4 dollars, who'll gimme 4.50? Now 4.50, can I hear 5? Five! Five! Now got 5.25. Going once at 5.25, twice, sold to number 45 for 5.25!"
I suppose the outflow of material possessions was cathartic in a cleansing way. Yet it was difficult. Our grandparents departed years ago. John Arthur's father, John Paul, died last year at age 92 and was laid to rest in the city's Maplewood Cemetery alongside his wife Jenny. Bob's father, our grandparents and my parents, Rue and Elaine, all are clustered at rest there. Bob and his sisters Beth and Susan still have their mother, Imogene, thriving in an assisted-living facility near Bob's home in Springfield.
Fun Aunt Imo, as we know her, had been the last to live in the family home until a few years ago when it became unsafe for her to continue alone.
Walking through the two-story, 2,400-square-foot home on two tree-shrouded acres along Oak Street, I recalled memories from the hours I'd spent over the years visiting there with my cousins, aunt and uncle. The memories flowed easily.
Such vividness probably stems from the combination of smells and perhaps some unknown aspect of quantum physics emanating from the walls that had trapped particles of the home's history. Who knows?
I stood in a corner reflecting on just how many formative years mother Elaine, her twin Elizabeth, John Paul, Bob and the third female sibling, Zita, had spent living, loving, laughing and disagreeing here.
Outside the rain fell even harder. "Who'll give 5 for this handsome family soup tureen? It's a classic that'll also serve your family well! I got 8, need 9, got 10 ..." the banter, amplified by a microphone, rang continuously across the lawn and into the neighborhood. There were truckloads yet to sell.
In the days when the Hammerschmidt kids were teenagers, well before Uncle Bob remodeled and enlarged the home during the 1970s, an open "dog trot" divided it into two distinct halves. It was in this house that, when mom and Elizabeth were 18, my father, Rue B. Masterson (then a dashing second lieutenant bound for World War II) suddenly showed up just as a Hammerschmidt family Sunday meal was beginning. Rue previously had given Elizabeth an engagement ring. But she had no clue he'd be arriving unexpectedly, as evidenced by the fact that she'd given Rue's ring to twin Elaine to wear that afternoon while Elizabeth cozied up beside her invited dinner guest named Doc.
Awkward! Their father, Art P. Hammerschmidt, saw the situation and insisted Elizabeth step outside to explain her new boyfriend to Rue, then invite him in for the meal. Lt. Rue wound up seated beside Elaine. And wouldn't you just know, wound up dating and marrying her, while Elizabeth and Doc would tie the knot.
So many hopes, tears, dreams, disappointments and joys had transpired for the Hammerschmidt family in this now rapidly emptying home. And with all physical signs of life departing, only Aunt Imogene carries the bulk of memories from 70 and more years past.
"Who'll give 15 for this elegant silver tray? Got 15, now 17! Now 17.50! Now 20!" The rain was unrelenting.
In the living room sat the padded rocker where our Uncle John G. Sugg, the town's optometrist, had spent hours working crossword puzzles and playing checkers with his young nephew John Arthur. On the dining table lay a 100-year-old banjo Aunt Imo's father had played as a young man. In an obscure box, friend Cecilia Foley had discovered a silver cigarette lighter embossed with the image of twin females swimming, and engraved with my mother's initials, along with her engraved sterling silver cigarette case.
There was no way I could let those two small deeply personal items head off into the gray morning with a stranger.
"Who'll give 10 dollars for the Masonic hats? Right there! Sold!"
And so the day went, one item snapped up after another until all the material possessions that once meant a great deal to the family had left in vehicles lined up around the block. And because of the way this transitory existence we share plays out for all of us, one day these items, and more, will be passed along to other strangers who will never know the history behind them.
------------v------------
Mike Masterson's column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com.
Editorial on 06/11/2016