It seemed to make sense to start in the basement. There was something about beginning at the roots, the foundation, that appealed to me. With some trepidation, I walk down the few concrete steps into the dusty, musty space.
Immediately, I think of Dad, of how he spent his time since his retirement. He never took well to retirement. His work had been all-encompassing. First in his own companies as a research engineer and entrepreneur, and then as a key person in the R&D department of various organizations, he designed and built diagnostic imaging equipment to detect breast and prostate cancers. This is not the type of career one simply walks away from at society’s pre-determined age.
He kept up with his interests and his research into other medical equipment with an old work partner, until the poor gentleman unexpectedly died. At the same time, he cared for mom, who was ailing in later years, as only a devoted partner and engineer could. With the purpose of making his tasks easier and mom’s physical existence more comfortable, he embarked on ambitious projects to address mobility issues and day-to-day care.
The basement décor tells the story in randomly scattered vignettes. There are piles of wood in assorted cut shapes, some with drilled holes and some without. Curious materials such as PVC pipes, rubber components, foam pieces and plastic sheeting are stacked all around. I smile when I see a round wheel attached with short PVC tubes to a sturdy wooden base. Its intended use was to stand Mom on it from her position in bed and be able to turn her to be seated on the commode, without having to hoist her up and sideways — a difficult feat if Dad was alone, which he often was.
A separate room within the basement served as a mini machine shop, with a drill press and various other tools. It was also a dark room, where Dad would develop and manufacture his own printed circuit boards for his various electronic designs. Scattered around were all the necessary supplies and solutions. It was the home of a brilliantly mad scientist.
Incongruently stuck into a tool holder above the large, cluttered tool bench is a postcard of Woody Allen holding a blow-up doll, from one of his early movies. He was one of Dad’s favorites. I put aside the postcard, along with some tools, even though I have very little use for them.
The estate sale person told me that I didn’t have to go through anything. They would do this as part of their job of preparing items for sale. But what would they make of the commode contraption? I take this as well, for use as a funky industrial style lazy Susan on my kitchen table.
I stand in a sea of components and circuitry for the many projects he would tell me about, both professional and personal, which somehow were always, eternally, “in progress.” He would complain about never having enough time to complete them. But it was in the research and design phase where he’d get the maximum enjoyment, and it kept him sharp and productive until the very end.
I’m surprised at the depth of my emotion amidst the cobwebs and clutter.share this: