Flood Continued

Dear Dad,

How many Labor Day weekends did I spend at the Mattituck House? How many did G3 spend there? I think — except for the year you were in France, and the first year you were dead — he spent every Labor Day weekend of his young life with you. And what used to made Labor Day weekend extra special was that you always took me out for an early birthday dinner. It was our last bit of fun before the school year began, our last dance with summer before reality set in. This year, G3 and I were supposed to spend our last weekend ever in Mattituck, but God, Mother Nature, Fate, whatever you wish to call that alleged divine force, refused to allow it. Instead, I spent Labor Day weekend laboring. 

On Saturday morning, after a painful goodbye out in Long Island, G3 and I returned to Glendale so that I could continue helping Mom clean up from the flood. She had accomplished a great deal in my absence. Neighbors helped her carry the couch and Poppy’s sewing table outside. She also got rid of my horse, your desk chair, and your suitcases — all things that were damaged or destroyed. If it had only been water, some of it might have been salvaged, but sewer water made it all too gross to save. I feel bad. Mom had said G3 could have your smaller suitcase. He feels he’s outgrown the R2-D2 one you bought him for our second trip to Disney. But I kept forgetting to put it in my car to take home. I thought I’d have time. I’m beginning to think I really gotta stop thinking that. Every time I think I have time, it turns out I don’t. 

I got to work immediately. G3 helped me carry Poppy’s antique Singer sewing machine out of the house. As we set it down at the curb, my mind raced backwards and I could see myself sitting in Poppy’s basement watching him sew. As a kid, I thought he could make anything, and he did make me dresses and jackets. Girl clothes because that’s what I was supposed to wear. Do you remember when Poppy made my brother a brown robe so that he could be St. Joseph for some pageant at Sacred Heart? He was young, maybe kindergarten or first grade. Then G3 inherited it years ago when it was big enough that the hem nearly touched his toes. Well, he still wears it. Obviously it’s much smaller on him, and he only wears it as a nightshirt to bed, but I don’t think he’ll actually let me retire it from his dresser until he can’t get it on at all. 

The TV stand was cracked and leaning worse than that tower in Pisa. The books on the shelf were saturated, and holding the damn thing up. Without the books, I’m certain the stand would have fallen over and the TV would have splashed into the flood water. I carried the TV upstairs and then broke apart the stand with my hands. The water had so bloated the wood that I could easily pull the pieces apart. 

Mom managed to save many of the pictures that got wet. She rinsed them off — one at a time —in clean water and then pinned them up on the clothesline to dry. Some she put on a towel in front of a fan — the many faces of me stretching from when I was a baby up through college. The pictures of you and her parents she worked the hardest to try and save. I guess, when the people you love are no longer alive, suddenly their pictures and anything else that reminds you of them suddenly become much more valuable.

I scrubbed the baseboards which were black from the shitty remnants left behind when the water receded. I scrubbed under the bathroom sink, behind the toilet, and under your desk, all the hard to reach places so that Mom wouldn’t have to get down on her knees. The mess in the cabinet beneath the sink in the laundry room was disgusting. Behind one of the doors it looked like several people had defecated and the smell seemed to support it. Cleaning that out was perhaps the grossest thing I’ve ever had to do. The cabinet will need to be replaced. The water damage is extensive. The wood is buckling and peeling. The shit is caked in the wood — all the scrubbing in the world isn’t going to remove all of it. And in some places the wood is gaping.

Your pin collection got wet. We had taken the three picture frames holding your pins off the walls in Mattituck and taken them to Queens. They were in a bin that should have been high enough off the ground to stay safe — but it wasn’t. Not this time around. The back of the frames were spongy and wet. G3 and I broke them apart and pulled all the pins off the soiled backing. We then soaked them in bleach and soap and I scrubbed each of them. I know how important they were to you. At some point, we will get new frames. G3 is adamant about it. He has already claimed them as part of his inheritance. 

My old trophies were sitting in water — another bin that got flooded. As I unwrapped each of them — Mom had gone to great lengths to pad and protect them with bubble wrap and paper — it was impossible not to remember the high I felt when I earned them. They were for MVP and high scorer in basketball, high average in bowling, batting average for softball, and participation trophies for dance (those I just threw away). I remembered walking out of various award ceremonies and you beaming at me, pride evident in your eyes. But sadly, all those awards never amounted to anything. I never got as far as I had hoped. I told mom she didn’t have to save the trophies any more. They meant a lot more to a kid with big dreams than to an adult who has watched each of her dreams turn to dust. But mom started to cry, and so I cleaned them with beach and soap so that she could store them once more.

For three days we cleaned and purged. We filled many garbage bags and we’d load them into Mom’s hand cart and G3 would push them around to the front to deposit on the curb. All laws regarding garbage pick-up were suspended. One sanitation worker told us to just keep putting things out and the garbage trucks would keep coming around. No one would be ticketed for putting trash out on the wrong day. The irony of the climate crisis. We’ve warmed our planet to the point that storms are more severe, the flooding more intense. As a result, there is far more trash, so much more plastic being poured into landfills. Let’s destroy our planet even more. And most people will go out and buy more stuff. It makes me wonder, do they really need it? Do any of us really need half the things that clutter our houses? My guess is no. 

As for Mom, I don’t think she’ll be replacing anything. I’m trying to convince her that she needs to move. That house it too big for one person. She doesn’t need to tax herself cleaning so much space. Plus, she doesn’t need to be doing yard work. This Glendale house is the one she should sell. I’ve advised her to think about moving into a retirement community. She’s been resistant. All of her memories of you are bound up in that house. It’s where she raised her children. But this flood might be what she needed to see reason. She can’t keep cleaning up like this. It’s just too much for her. Yes, I was able to help her this weekend, but who know if I’ll be able to next time — and there will be a next time. 

I worked until late Monday afternoon and then I returned to New Jersey. G3 starts school on Wednesday and he had plans to meet up with a friend today. I didn’t want to cancel because he won’t be in real school, surrounded by peers. Time with friends is important at his age. My brother said he would come up and spend some time helping Mom. She will need help getting people in to repair the damage and she’ll need help placing her insurance claims. President Biden declared parts of NYC a disaster area and we are hoping that Mom will be able to get some help from FEMA. But what Mom really needs most is you. If you were here you’d be able to handle everything as you always did. You’d know who to call. You’d be familiar with placing insurance claims. But mostly, you’d be able to calm Mom and put her at ease. Without you, everything to her always seems so much worse, so much more overwhelming. She misses you, and at times like this, your absence is suffocating.

This morning, I called Mom, as I always do. She told me she found a box full of  souvenirs she had gotten on the many family vacations we took when I was younger. The box, like everything else, was wet. There are a few souvenirs Mom thinks she’ll be able to salvage, but the others are ruined. She cried as she told me about them. More memories that will be tossed into the garbage. Some things can be replaced, memories and mementoes can’t.

You will be happy to know that, today, one of Mom’s former classmates from St. Pancras went to her house to help her with some more cleaning. He brought along his power washer to clean the basement, the basement bathroom, and the garage. When I spoke to Mom a little while ago I could hear the relief in her voice. There was less anxiety and she could breathe a little more easily. Her former classmate knew about the flood and the damage because of my initial posting about it. Another one of Mom’s former classmates — I think you knew him too, I think you went to high school together — reads my blog and he notified their graduating class. He too offered to help, but Mom told him she was okay, that she and I had already done the bulk of the cleaning. It is, however, nice to know that there are still kind people in the world, people willing to help those who need it. 

I miss you!