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My Dad has put up my Grandmother’s house up for sale.  The irony of that is hilarious if you know the parties involved.  My Grandmother's life work is that house and everything arranged just so.  My father out of all his siblings was the rebel.  Or at least rebel-ish.

 28 year old cool Dad on the right.

That he is the keeper of that Goliath is a twist of fate that I would be amused by if it hadn’t come because my Aunt Mary has a horror show of a degenerative brain disease.  I would have been thrilled if Aunt Mary had foisted this French Country style run amok on my Dad to go retire in the actual French countryside.  Instead she is roommates with her mother in a memory center out in Claremore.  I have to think about it small amounts of time.  If I think about it too much my stomach starts to hurt and my breathing elevates. AKA panic attack.   

 My Grandmother is probably one of the most anxious people I have ever known.  Her house was her safe space.  She created a French Country meets American Colonial meets British regalia meets family memorabilia meets all the knick knacks that ever were.  She worked for Charles Faudree in town for many, many years and they scoured antiques stores and flea markets to fill 4000 sq feet to the brim. 

Historically all over the place

It’s a mess and it’s beautiful. Its emotionally overwhelming and unbelievably tender. She obviously had something to prove. If I had to guess I would say she wanted status. Or perhaps compulsion.  Or perhaps this was her art.  Everything down to the match sticks are perfectly place and diligently guarded.

Walking through the house that will be emptied breaks my heart.