Marty’s 91-year-old mother has decided to sell the family home. This is the house they had when Marta was born—her next older sibling was two when they bought it. That front stoop is where I first saw and was thunderbolted by my beautiful Marta. And it is the house where the wonderful Christmas tradition happened, and this stunning picture of Marty was captured (just behind the second story window, second from the left). Even after all the kids moved out, it comfortably hosted just about every family gathering to ever take place. And well, it is the only house that all of Marty’s family thinks of when they think of home. For this reason, all parts of the process have been emotional for Marty, her siblings, her mother, and even me. 

The family fretted about going through the three floors of the five-bedroom house and its fifty years of accumulation. I told Marty that she and her siblings were crazy lucky because Mama Nat runs a tight and orderly operation. A naval commander would not only commend Mama Nat on her ship-shape ways but likely even ask for a tip or two. Not to mention all the custom bookshelves and cabinetry Papa Ken made--it is said that the neighborhood's original builder's complimented his designs (and probably lifted a few of his ideas for future use). That said, everything still needed to be touched and decisions to be made about what would make the cut for Mama Nat’s new, smaller domicile and what sorts of things the family wanted to take for their memories.

Marty, being on summer break, and being hella organized herself, was the natural choice to take point in this work. Curious about her qualifications? When Marty was ten and playing at a friend’s house, she asked her friend if she thought they could reorganize their home’s kitchen cupboards. A bit confused by the suggestion, her young playmate said she didn’t think her mother would appreciate that. Marty settled for making Light-Brite art, but under distinct protest.

After one of her many afternoons at Mama Nat’s, Marty came home, collapsed on the couch. I sat next to her, offering her a shoulder to cuddle into and she said in beleaguered words: I asked what brought on this comment. It was spending four hours going through her mother's jewelry. She was struck by the number of unopened, unworn, and in some cases unremembered items in the collection, some of which were from coveted brands and obviously not inexpensive. Multiple times during this exercise, while surveying decades of accumulation, Marty found herself asking the question, What are we doing?