In Their Proper Places

We are led to believe that rogue states are stockpiling WMDs.

In recent investigations, I have discovered incontrovertible proof that my mother was stockpiling cheese boards.

I hold before you exhibit A: no fewer than five, yes, five devices designed and constructed solely for the short-range delivery of a solid cheese payload, with or without cracker, to possibly dense populations of civilian mouths. Some of these devices are remarkable in their complexity, particularly the marble and steel and wire cheese guillotine; others comprise a multitude of materials, including porcelain, wood, and magnets (for cheese-knife retention purposes). In clear breach of the Crocker-Stewart Hors D’oeuvres Non-Proliferation (HoDoNoPro) treaty of 1998, Ms. Irvine knowingly accumulated devices with grave and immediate consequences in their intended use. Surveillance archives recently uncovered evidence of the victims of such devices beyond any hope of clear-minded self-control, declaring, “Ann! Is this a Manchego? And a Wensleydale, as well?”

Our national inaction is no longer an option: left unchecked, Ann Irvine’s accumulation of cheese-related devices will surely

OK, so I’ve beaten that joke to death. Anyway. Yesterday, I predicted that by tonight, I’d be really tired of dealing with all the stuff — the furniture, the boxes — from my mom’s estate. As it happens, I’m not.

I’ve been unpacking boxes all day, mostly the dining room stuff: my mom’s table linens, china, crystal, silver. A lot of it goes back two, three, or four generations; Robert Leo Irvine, a navy officer in World War I, married Janet Klink, and George Irvine — my mom’s dad — was one of their sons. George went Army, and commanded an artillery battalion at Normandy, later becoming the commander of V Corps Artillery, and taking charge of a battery of short-range Honest John tactical nukes in Germany. Scary stuff. In addition to his eagles and his oak leaves, I still have both sets of his branch insignia: crossed cannons for artillery (infantry is crossed rifles; MPs are crossed pistols; cav is crossed swords), and crossed cannons with a rocket in front for missile artillery. I never met Robert Leo, and was very young when Janet died, but George died less than a year after my mom, and George’s wife Eunice is still alive. I hope to see her in a couple weeks, when I head out west for my cousin’s wedding.

When he was alive, George was a steadfast republican, as are many military officers. I remember getting in arguments with him when I was growing up, especially over his belief that the US should be an English-only country, and that languages other than English ought not to be taught in schools. I don’t know anything about my mom’s family beyond my great-grandparents, but I do know that the Navy treated Robert Leo well, and that he’s buried at Arlington. He saw a lot of the far east, and many of the things that were packed in the boxes that came up this weekend were his, particularly the china. I unpacked today a lot of gorgeous and clearly quite old Chinese and Japanese blue-and-white serving dishes, from the very big (a goose-sized serving platter and an immense dragon-motif tureen) to the very small (seven tiny finger bowls). I guess I’m self-conscious about inheriting this stuff because of my attention to class issues: George, and before him Robert Leo, did very well for himself as a military officer, and each retired after twenty-odd years to lucrative corporate jobs. I know little about their wives, other than that Robert Leo’s wife Janet Irvine (nee Klink) seems to have come from wealth, as I’ve found a felt-enclosed set of twelve tiny sterling silver forks and twelve tiny sterling silver spoons, all engraved with the letter ‘K’. Eunice’s maiden name was Eunice Ramona Walker, but I’ve found only one piece of silver with a ‘W’ on it. In any case, it’s clear to me that George and Eunice had a little money: there are some silver platters that were trophies from the hunt club, and such. I remember George’s ritual, that he and Eunice — every Friday at six p.m. — would each have a ‘highball’, and that was the only time they ever drank.

I’m giving a lot of history here, history that probably won’t much interest you or other folks, but I’m giving it for a reason. As I noted above, I predicted that I’d soon tire of the unpacking. I didn’t, and it ought to be pretty obvious why I didn’t get tired of it, and why today has been the most pleasant and enjoyable and happy day I’ve had in the past two years.

My mom died quickly, of a relatively rare variant of ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). Stephen Hawking has the most common form of the disease, which works from the extremities inward. My mom’s bulbar onset variant started from the head and worked down. Within two years, my mom — who had a double major for her BA, in French and German, and who had three Masters degrees, in Comparative Literature, Library Science, and Management & Public Policy; who had reviews of biographies of Kafka and Benjamin and Foucault published in Library Journal; who did a Masters thesis on Hannah Arendt; who passed on to me the original-language versions of the works of Goethe and Proust — lost her mind, and at the age of 59 was watching cartoons all day, because that was what made her happy.

I’ve been involved for the past two years in a dispute over the estate with her boyfriend, who did some things that I thought were really rotten and paranoid and avaricious and vile. It’s finally been resolved, and David and I won. Since David’s in prison, I’ve been point man for getting this stuff done, and it’s been hard.

So Allied Van Lines got my mom’s stuff up here yesterday, and I’ve been unpacking, and like I said, it’s the happiest I’ve been in a long, long time. In a close and physical and material way, I’m touching these things that I remember from growing up, all my mom’s things, and I’m putting them in their proper places, putting them away, finally putting to bed this estate dispute that’s been suffocating me for the past two years. When I touch these candlesticks, these plates, these books, these dishes, these linens, I remember them, and remember myself and my mom and my family in their presence, and it’s another piece of memory laid to rest, no longer loose or slippery or missing, but tangible and in its place, a tiny prayer of remembrance.

Here, it says. This is your history.