We’ve all had one. Seen one. Or know someone who’s had one.
The Grandma in the Dead Reds House.
Furniture stuffed into every corner and on every surface and shelf crap. I mean beloved knicknacks. Bassetts with bouncy heads. Snowglobes from the great Minneapolis mall of America or the streets of Berlin. Souvenirs from the son’s vacation overseas in 1988. Antique perfume bottles of beveled glass or painted teapcups or miniature vases or turtles or hippos or {fill in the blank} sitting gathering dust.
“But they’re oh so cute!” shrieks grandma* at a hint of suggestion that perhaps she might want to declutter, downsize or prepare for departure from the mortal coil, lifting a bronze replica of a mermaid between fingers of a hand slowed but not stopped by arthritis, bones and veins visible through skin like fine parchment paper.
(*grammie with stuff is a state of mind; age is irrelevant)
“If you say so, grammie,” you think, biting your tongue. Grammie hasn’t much time. Allow her her illusions if they bring her pleasure.
You I know the truth. It’s just stuff. Knickknacks. Crap that’ll end up in Goodwill boxes or garage sales after she’s gone. Unless her kids picked up her clutter habits and gross emotional attachments. Then it becomes stuff relocated from house A to B.
The House of the Dead Reds. Dominating every room, rising above the clutter – uh, I mean treasured mementoes – are blooms. Fake blooms. Perhaps roses. Perhaps dahlias, peonies and orchids (oh my!)
Whatever the variety, invariably they have this in common: red.
Oh sure, there may be other colors. Yellow the shade of a withered lemon. Pink the shade of the roof of a mouth. White the shade of an aged tooth. Blue the shade of the Hawaiian diving waters.
Red, however, prevails. Fake red blooms from the crafts store or garage sale or Walmart. Purchased in 1908 or 2008, doesn’t matter, they’re all the same.
They’re designed to look old.
Look kitchy quaint.
Look like death.
In my house — what used to be a home for {glances at watch} eight to 10 minutes — they’re popping up everywhere now that the new roommate, whom I shall call Grandma Roses — to distinguish her from Grandma Moses — is unleashing the contents of her boxes, numbering to infinity.
If you think Pandora’s box was wicked, you ain’t seen nuthin’ until you meet with someone, be it Grandma Roses or anyone, whose occupation is collecting STUFF. (Paired with an inability to let go and/or lack of discernment, stuff stays to accompany you to your grave. Truth overlooked: Ya can’t take it with ya
{I know some of you out there are up to your gills with stuff … drowned by a sea of clutter … THINGS unnecessary to true living. My preference is that you preface any photographs with a warning, otherwise unprepared exposure may induce shock that will force me to cease and desist reading your blogs. Thank you.}
So yeah, the home that became the house that became my place of imminent departure is morphing into the house of your grandma. If not yours, then someone’s.
And it’s only just begun!
Space formerly empty and rich with solely/soulful glorious sunlight and air is increasingly occupied by some honkin’ pieces of furniture.
Tabletops before unadorned, minimalist and empty scream for something. You guessed it! A bundle of dead reds. Slathered in dust and the look of decay. The centerpiece of each room.
{that anyone finds that appealing is beyond me.}
My house — I call it my house only because I still reside here, technically — is metamorphing before my very eyes. Each day arrives something “new,” some item pulled from Pandora’s boxes brought by Grandma Roses {approximate age: 50}.
Each day some space is swallowed by Stuff. Because some people, they can’t look at space without thinking that something must be put there.
Puke.
And I do. On the daily.
Everywhere’s springing up stuff.
Springing up fake reds.
Frighteningly remarkable how prolific they are! For dead flowers.
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