The Longest Chapter

For those of you who see me on a regular basis, you know I've been dealing with my dad's estate since shortly after his death last July.  He very thoughtfully did not make me the executor--choosing Northern Trust, the bank our whole family uses.  This has saved me lots of headaches and piles of paperwork--legal and otherwise.  

The view from my parents' home.  Lake Washington is barely visible in the distance.

However, their belongings and collections were all left to me, to deal with outside of the bank's purview.  My dad and I discussed their art collections extensively in the last couple years, and he was meticulous and thorough in his record-keeping.  The bank did need appraisals of everything for estate calculations, and as annoying as that was (a repeat of exactly the same done when my mom died, two years earlier), it was a lifeline for me!  Through this I met Kimberly, who appraised the paintings and ended up helping the Asian art appraiser with his job too.  Through her I met a kindred spirit, with relation to our adoration of our dads, and someone willing to help me through the whole dismantling and dispersement of everything he loved.  It was overwhelming, and I absolutely couldn't have done it without her!

The entry.

I'd initially done a big clean-out of all closets, cabinets and drawers with the help of one of my dad's aides.  Everything went to Goodwill.  After that, I contacted my parents' and my friends and offered any and all furniture, rugs, and small antiques.  I felt an estate sale would be undignified in their beautiful home, and I preferred friends have things they would appreciate and enjoy.  Thank goodness I had lots of takers, especially a couple people who placed great value on the memories of my parents and the times they'd spent in their home. 

My parents had three major art collections.  The first was Inuit (indigenous peoples of the Arctic) sculpture--as the one on the pedestal above.  I would estimate they had well over 50 pieces--varying in size from tabletop to four feet tall, carved of soapstone, granite and whale bone--and extremely heavy.  My dad in his generosity, wanted this collection to go to his long-time friend and fellow collector of Inuit art--who was thrilled to receive it.  I kept a small caribou as a memento.

My mom and I both loved Asian folk art (Mingei) and more rustic pieces, while my dad preferred the skill and artistry of Japanese lacquer work.  The second major collection is early 20th century scholar's writing boxes in exquisite lacquer and inlays.  There are 28 pieces in this collection which are all going out for auction during the next year.  I didn't keep any of these, as they are all too precious and formal for my home.

The largest art collection my parents had was paintings.  As you'll see in all the photos, they ranged from historic to contemporary, and varied in style as their tastes changed over the years.  I kept several I'd always admired, and gave quite a number away.  But the majority are also going to auction, along with the remainder of important Asian and archaic pieces.

The living room.

So this brings me to today.  Every piece of furniture has found a new home.  And this week the auction house will pick up all the Asian artifacts and paintings.  There's not a chair left to sit on and the bed I sleep in will probably go after this weekend.  I set myself a deadline of April 15, to have the contents cleared, and a realtor has been selected to get the house on the market for spring viewing.  

It's all good, but also very sad for me.  We moved into a very small house on this property in 1956--when I was six years old.  My parents obviously loved the lush setting, living on this same property for 68 years.  After several remodels, they tore the house down and rebuilt about 25 years ago.  It got bigger and airier, but it retained the large southwest-facing windows (even though the view has almost disappeared as the trees have grown) and the same overall feeling.  My brother and I grew up here, and my parents entertained here throughout their lives.  Together they curated their artistic interests and their collections mingled seamlessly, creating a lovely Northwest aesthetic. They loved their home and I'm so thankful they were both able to stay in it until the end of their lives.   

From the landing on the stairway.

I'm now suddenly facing the end of my connection to Mercer Island, Washington.  Since I moved away for college and never moved back, my only enduring attachment was my parents and their home.  But I've always felt a belonging (almost ownership) to the small insular community I grew up in.  And somehow, throughout this whole 'estate' period, I've managed to maintain a feeling of continued connection to my parents.  But now that my work (in the house) is done, I'm suddenly--and finally--confronted with grieving the loss of my family.  As I feel it all slipping away, I now realize what a huge anchor they and their home have always been for me.  And a significant aspect of my identity.  I know I'm rather old to be moaning about--and experiencing this--but I was luckier than most, having my parents live so long, and I'm just coming to terms with it at almost 75.  I'm facing the end of the longest chapter of my life.