I HEAR DEAD PEOPLE. :)

I hear dead people.  Yah, you heard me. I hear them.  Well, not exactly AUDIBLY, but I hear them.  I shall explain, but first let me tell you what brought me to tell you of this.

Today, on another New Year cleaning organizing binge, I determined that I was going to pull out one of the old trunks, give it a good coat of Tung Oil, dust and vacuum it.  That was interesting, because considering its age, there is probably 129 year old dirt in there.  But there are also family treasures, or “Junk” as my kids like to refer to it. 

I painstakingly pulled all the “Junk” out, pulled out the drawers of the trunk, and stuffed everything in plastic bags.  After all, “Junk” needs protecting from my inept painting rituals.  I attempted as best I could to sort the” Junk” by who it belonged to, and even decided (HOLD YOUR BREATH, KIDS) to throw some stuff out.  So various and sundry boxes and carefully tied ribbons that I will NEVER in my life ever be able to identify the person whose hair they tied, went into the REAL trash bags.

Then I dragged the trunk outside, brushed it carefully, vacuumed it, and proceeded to apply the life -saving oil.  For those of you who don’t know anything about Tung Oil, it is the stuff that our Great Great’s used prior to the invention of Shellac or Varnish.  And obviously it works, because all these years later, that trunk still has the canvas, the wood, the latches; everything intact, except the key.

So after the careful application of the Tung Oil, I came inside to sort and identify the “Junk”.  I had decided a while back that I am probably not going to live forever, and someone in my family may want the Trunk of Junk and perhaps they would like to know what each item is in it, rather than attempting to guess.  Some items were easy; Funeral books, letters in the envelopes, World War II newspapers.  But it was the articles of clothing and some of the other stuff that I needed to label.  I decided that for the clothing, I would just stuff a note in the pocket. Hey it worked for my grandmother!

The first thing I ran up against was a trash bag full of linens, my grandmothers’ bonnet (easy to identify because I had seen her wear it)  and some pot holders that I know she made, because I helped her.  There was also a stack of neatly ironed Table linens, that were made easy by my Dad’s evident scrawl across the bag that said, “My mother’s Table Linens, cotton and linen.”  I quietly said “Thank you, Dad” and sorted through it all.  It’s amazing that each piece is still so neatly folded together with the companion pieces, and still smells something like my grandmothers linen closet.  It’s also amazing that my dad even bothered to label the bag.

On to the Military Uniforms.  I looked at a long overcoat, thinking for sure it was an Army coat, because of the wool and the color.  I could not imagine my dad needing an overcoat off in the Pacific Islands.  And then I heard his voice.  “Look at the buttons.”  Mind you I was not taken back by this, I just did as I was told, as I had been taught by Mr. Marine Sergeant and clearly on the buttons was the Marine emblem.  The second item, a uniform coat, was the same, and the Marine hats were easy to identify, because there is a picture of Dad wearing one.   

Then on to the various and sundry papers that were neatly rolled up.  I know I had seen them before, but never looked at them.  And then a voice, “Take a peek”.  My Granddads’ voice for sure.  So I opened it up, and there were all his diplomas and his teaching certificate from 1912. 

I could go on and on about the things I found in there, that I had never noticed before, and the voices of those gone on before that I heard. 

And I am sure each of you would find it creepy that I hear their voices.  But I don’t find it creepy, I find it comforting.  It’s not like it’s audible, it’s more like it’s hidden away in my heart. 

For there is where they are, each of them, with their smiles and their little laughs, the jigs they danced and the arms that held me.  But most of all, the voices that taught me and directed me in my life. 

Somehow I know they are watching, occasionally going “OH SUSAN” and occasionally rejoicing.  I know they are with Jesus, who also watched them go through this process of sorting through dead people’s stuff.  And He is the one I can hear audibly.  For He is telling me, “These are part of the legacy of your forebears, who are with me forever.”