Two years ago this weekend, my grandpa passed away. And I still don’t really know how to write about it without sounding melodramatic or self-absorbed or whatever. Of course, if I try not to sound like those things, then it ends up sounding like we weren’t that close. But we were. He was like a parent to me (which is not to impugn my own parents’ parenting skills- this was not a my-mom-was-too-busy-spinning-around-a-pole-to-raise-me-so-Grandma-had-to-step-up situation.), and it was like losing a parent.
(Also? How many more times can I write the word “parent” in a sentence?)
So that happened. And it was (is) horrible.
In my head, there was a list of things I would be okay with doing this weekend. Drinking heavily was right up there. Attempting to sublimate my feelings with cheesecake- also a noble goal. Facebook would presumably also enter into the equation.
(I’ve heard people talk about this thing called exercise making you feel pretty good, but I’m waiting for more evidence.)
NOWHERE on the list was, “Dig through his waterlogged stuff.”
Apparently, God, or whatever decided to make it rain more than it has, oh, MY ENTIRE LIFE, thought differently.
After he died, we rented out the house. (Because my mother, bless her soul, harbors illusions that I will be gainfully employed one day and can live there.) But we kept a room in the basement filled with furniture and boxes and stuff that we simply couldn’t absorb into our house, but also really didn’t want to get rid of. Most of it was off the floor on bricks or something, and we figured, eh, it’ll be okay.
(By the end of that whole house process thing? I would have left my brother there and figured eh, he’ll be okay.)
Until last night. When the lady who is living there now called and told us that water was pouring in the first floor and was waist deep in the basement. That…oh, God.
Because we really needed that. THIS WEEKEND.
This morning we headed down there, pretty much expecting almost everything to be ruined.
(Well, first I stopped and bought these adorable boots because I am impractical and own exactly no shoes that are appropriate for flood situations.)
Okay. I’m not a big spiritual girl. I’ve got nothing against miracles, I just tend to be a teensy bit on the pragmatic side. But…this was a miracle. There was practically no water in the room with our stuff. One cardboard box had wicked water up about six inches, but the piece of furniture inside was completely dry. There was no damage. There was dust on most of the stuff.
The main basement was sopping. Which I learned really quickly when I helped carry the woman’s carpet upstairs and ended up with water (God, I hope it was just water) down my boots, down my shirt, on my face…everywhere.
But that room? With everything of his that we really, really wanted to keep, especially this weekend? Was completely safe.
So I guess that’s not a bad way to start this weekend.