# A Dead Guy's Stuff



## Plasticweld (Jul 16, 2016)

A Dead Guy’s Stuff by Bob Brown

A half empty Mason jar, I am half way to victory.  The cheap moonshine burns a little as it goes down.  The warm glow it  gives me takes some of the edge off the day.  A long hot shower seems to do little to erase the collection of dirt and memories of an old friend's life, today was a somber day. 

Don had passed away more than a month ago.  Today I spent wrapped in his past, touching his stuff and trying to understand the things that were important to him.  What was junk and what was a treasure, it is not as simple as it seems.   At 80 years old, he had a lifetimes worth of memories and collections, all covered now in dust and the mildew of time, some things were well used and worn others barely touched.  We knew the obvious things, what clothes he liked and the handful of things we had seen him use in the last 15 years.  He had lived lots of life before we knew him, only through his possessions were we able catch a glimpse into of our friend,s life before we knew him. To hold something in your hand and wonder is this junk or did it hold some special memory became a guessing game.  Some of it was junk to us, but it was something he had chosen to hang on to. Some of it was practical stuff, tools and the things of everyday use, others represented special times and places that meant something to only him. As curators of his past life we were left with the task of what to discard and what to save.   

At one point I wanted nothing of his, something screamed inside of me that there is more to my old friend than his stuff, I longed for the old friend and secretly began to despise the stuff I held in my hand, it is still here, he is gone! 

At the end of a long day I did keep some things, things that would mean nothing to someone sifting through my possessions at the end of my life.  A tacky camouflage shirt, Don always wore Camo clothes. A cheap compass made of plastic, it somehow represented the direction in life he took, he knew what and where he wanted to be.  Some old suspenders, I wear them and somehow it seemed only right to continue using something of his in my everyday life. 

I had kept some cheap junk,  stuff that held meaning to probably only me, I can only wonder as I reflect back on the day, the Mason jar now empty.  How many of Don’s precious memories did I throw away today of his?  

I have thirty dollars of Don’s stuff, I also have some memories that are priceless of a man I called a friend, today was a somber day.


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## escorial (Jul 17, 2016)

touching read..objects and people are so connected and i like the way you have struggled and connected with that...great read......


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## Firemajic (Jul 17, 2016)

Reading this brought back, in high def, that horrible time, after Mom was killed... SHE WAS GONE, but her things were still here... how could that be... How do you sort through someone's life... EVERYTHING was precious... her comb still had strands of her beautiful silver hair entangled in it.... in the end, we packed up what was left, after all of us took simple mementos, put it in boxes, and labeled it "MOM" .. the  boxes are still in my attic, I use her comb...

Anyway... This is fabulous, the quiet, respectful contemplation, the sincere grief ... The things you kept says so much about you. About how YOU understood your friend and the value you placed on his friendship... Who could ask for more....


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## Bard_Daniel (Jul 17, 2016)

A very touching and personal piece. Enjoyed fully.

Thank you for sharing!


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## DATo (Jul 22, 2016)

Hi Plasticweld,

Your story presents an interesting theme which offers many avenues for approach. This story reminds me a bit of Tim O'Brian's nonfiction book, _The Things They Carried_, which tells of the possessions as well as the internal emotions carried by the American soldiers he served with in Vietnam. And then there is the poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay titled_ Lament _which also deals with "things" in the presence of death ...

*Lament
Listen children
Your father is dead
From his old coats
I'll make you little jackets
I'll make you little trousers
From his old pants.
There'll be in his pockets
Things he used to put there,
Keys and pennies
Covered with tobacco;
Dan shall have the pennies
To save in his bank;
Anne shall have the keys
To make a pretty noise with.
Life must go on,
And the dead be forgotten;
Life must go on,
Though good men die;
Anne, eat your breakfast;
Dan, take your medicine;
Life must go on;
I forget just why.
*
Your story captures this general theme well and presents it in a compelling manner. There are some very small critical issues I could bring up but my primary interest when I read stories at websites such as this is to concentrate on the creativity and imagination displayed by the author and in that regard I compliment your story. Nice work!


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## EmmaSohan (Jul 23, 2016)

I loved that you took a job -- sorting through things and deciding what to do with them -- and put meaning into it. I don't mean that you wrote about it, though I liked that too -- I mean that you _did _that.

I really liked "At 80 years old, he had a lifetime's worth of memories and collections, all covered in dust and the mildew of time," It shifts so fluidly between reality and metaphor. Or it leaves me stuck between the two and admiring both.

"things that would mean nothing to someone sifting through my possessions at the end of my life" Awesome. Including writing, I love this technique.

"A cheap compass made of plastic, it somehow represented the direction in life he took, he knew what and where he wanted to be." I wanted something like, "I doubt it meant that to Don." I am painfully aware that you normally have time to do that easily.


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## ppsage (Jul 24, 2016)

This 'somber day' repetition trope is an unexpected literary gem, and the principle reason for my response. Congratulations, well played! ------------- This has got to be one of the most evocative topics possible, for those of us gray enough to have peered into a casket or two. It's also one where the details of it's telling are literally strewn at your feet. So why do we get, in that beefy second paragraph, nothing but thin summary? Loosen up just a little bit, and all those ideas can be powerfully conveyed with items and their handling. ------------ In your opening you have this sentence: 'The warm glow it gives me, takes some of the edge off the day.' I do not personally think it's ever useful to separate the subject and predicate with punctuation, here I'm certain it is not. pp


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## Donnam (Jul 28, 2016)

Wow, this is a lovely piece of writing that took me back to a similar time. So true, when a loved one dies you reach for the most meaningful momentos rather than for items of monetary value. At what other time in your life would you treasure a tacky camouflage shirt. In between the words I got a good feel for what sort of a person and friend Don was. He was a lover of the outdoors, a practical and downtoearth person enamoured with nature, experience and friendship in contrast to signs of wealth. I think this piece conveys a powerful message. thank you.


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## WildPolitics (Aug 16, 2016)

This is a great piece, and held me to the end. I usually avoid this subject in an attempt to walk past the doorway to my own demons.

Like ppsage, I am also caught by the somber day repetition. I loved that you were 'wrapped in his past' and that you put yourself in the role of 'curator'. Its touches the heart of this deep wellpool,  without drowning in sorrow.

I wondered if the the repeat of 'before we knew him' in this sentence was intentional:
_He had lived lots of life before we knew him, only through his possessions were we able catch a glimpse into of our friend,s life before we knew him_

Perhaps it would be more powerful broken into three short sentences. Just a thought.


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## Plasticweld (Aug 16, 2016)

WildPolitics said:


> This is a great piece, and held me to the end. I usually avoid this subject in an attempt to walk past the doorway to my own demons.
> 
> Like ppsage, I am also caught by the somber day repetition. I loved that you were 'wrapped in his past' and that you put yourself in the role of 'curator'. Its touches the heart of this deep wellpool,  without drowning in sorrow.
> 
> ...



The repeats are intentional, it may just be a way for a less skilled writer to make a point.  Going back over my feelings as I wrote the piece, it was written in the span of 15 minutes and with the exception of ppsage's recommendations about breaking up a sentence it is pretty much un-edited.  

The goal in writing it was to be able to capture the feelings and the day, to be able to share with the reader who is my best friend who was hit by Don's death far more than I, h_e viewed him as a father figure, not just a good friend. _There is a big difference between hearing about someone's past and then holding remnants of it in your hands.  Some of the things we had first hand knowledge of, some we had heard stories about.  You come to realize that there are many definitions or layers of truth when you use the phrase "Before we knew him."   the  repeat was an effort to try and explain those levels.  Thanks for reading and pointing out the sentence, it does read rough in it's current form...Bob


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