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baronessekat I arrive at the Doma early on a Saturday morning to start working on making it ready for me to move in. It is a nice clear warm day and I’m in a fairly good mood.
I open the garage to discover that it is empty save for the cabinets and the workbench and a couple bins. EVERYTHING else – the bikes, the tools, the snow blower, even the rack next to the door that the snowsuit hangs on and the hanging fluorescent light fixtures- is gone and the walls have been freshly painted. I found myself standing there in disbelief.
I go turn off the alarm system on the house and make my way inside. Many things are missing, but not everything. I do a circuit of the house and see the table in the living room turned on end and leaning against a wall. Pictures are taken down from the wall and missing. The flag that draped my father’s casket is missing. All the boxes and bins in the living room that were to be resorted for the garage sale are gone. My mother’s jewelry boxes are gone.
Furniture in the spare room and living room are gone but the stupid childcraft encyclopedias are stacked neatly in the family room where the book case they had been in used to be. The santa’s workshop is still there though.
As I reach for my phone to call the police to report a robbery, I hear voices out in the garage and go out to see total strangers going through the few bins that were still in the garage. They are arguing over the contents and two people are close to fisticuffs over a rather ugly glass plate that had belonged to my grandmother.
“What the hell do you think you are doing in my garage?” I demanded and they all stop and stare at me like I had spoken in a foreign language.
A woman of obvious upper class breeding snorted and informed me that the house had been through an estate sale and that they were told that what was left was free for the taking.
I demanded to know who had authorized the estate sale, cuz it certainly wasn’t me and I was executor of the estate. They said some real estate agent had made all the arrangements.
I try calling 911 on my cell but get a “if this is a real emergency please press 1” and no matter how many times I press one, I can’t get past the automated answering service. So I try calling 0 for the operator. Again, an automated system. 411 for the Amherst police. I finally talk to a live person who says that it’s too bad but since the stuff is gone there’s nothing they can do and to just let the people finish what they were doing and they’d be gone soon.
I hang up and blink at the phone and look up at the people and notice a face in the growing crowd. It was my grandpa -the one that died just after Dad. (the grandfather still living is ‘Pop-pop’) He looked good in a pressed black suit and a brick red tie. I went to go hug him and he pushed me away and said that I just had to accept what was happening and move on.
When I said that these people had taken family treasures he shrugged and told me that it had been my responsibility to take care of the family possessions and now I would have to face the consequences.
Just then my cell phone rings and I answer it. In a really soft voice I hear “Tina? It’s Aunt Patti”. I ask her to speak up as I can’t hear her. She says she can’t because she’s not even supposed to be calling me.
I ask her when she and Uncle Alan are due to come home from their trip and she says “That’s the thing. We really are not on a cruise in the Pacific. We had to enter the witness protection program and we can’t come back home.” The then said they loved me but could never speak to me again and hung up.
Again I stood blinking at my phone when two people in the garage (which now seemed to hold about 60 people) started arguing loudly. I went to go break up the disagreement and was grabbed by my upper arm. I looked up and saw a police man who said I didn’t belong there and I had to leave. As he was escorting me to my car I woke up.
I’m sure there is some kind of significance and symbolism in all of it. But frankly I just found the whole thing rather disconcerting, upsetting and down right icky. And not something I would like to have again, thank you very much.
I open the garage to discover that it is empty save for the cabinets and the workbench and a couple bins. EVERYTHING else – the bikes, the tools, the snow blower, even the rack next to the door that the snowsuit hangs on and the hanging fluorescent light fixtures- is gone and the walls have been freshly painted. I found myself standing there in disbelief.
I go turn off the alarm system on the house and make my way inside. Many things are missing, but not everything. I do a circuit of the house and see the table in the living room turned on end and leaning against a wall. Pictures are taken down from the wall and missing. The flag that draped my father’s casket is missing. All the boxes and bins in the living room that were to be resorted for the garage sale are gone. My mother’s jewelry boxes are gone.
Furniture in the spare room and living room are gone but the stupid childcraft encyclopedias are stacked neatly in the family room where the book case they had been in used to be. The santa’s workshop is still there though.
As I reach for my phone to call the police to report a robbery, I hear voices out in the garage and go out to see total strangers going through the few bins that were still in the garage. They are arguing over the contents and two people are close to fisticuffs over a rather ugly glass plate that had belonged to my grandmother.
“What the hell do you think you are doing in my garage?” I demanded and they all stop and stare at me like I had spoken in a foreign language.
A woman of obvious upper class breeding snorted and informed me that the house had been through an estate sale and that they were told that what was left was free for the taking.
I demanded to know who had authorized the estate sale, cuz it certainly wasn’t me and I was executor of the estate. They said some real estate agent had made all the arrangements.
I try calling 911 on my cell but get a “if this is a real emergency please press 1” and no matter how many times I press one, I can’t get past the automated answering service. So I try calling 0 for the operator. Again, an automated system. 411 for the Amherst police. I finally talk to a live person who says that it’s too bad but since the stuff is gone there’s nothing they can do and to just let the people finish what they were doing and they’d be gone soon.
I hang up and blink at the phone and look up at the people and notice a face in the growing crowd. It was my grandpa -the one that died just after Dad. (the grandfather still living is ‘Pop-pop’) He looked good in a pressed black suit and a brick red tie. I went to go hug him and he pushed me away and said that I just had to accept what was happening and move on.
When I said that these people had taken family treasures he shrugged and told me that it had been my responsibility to take care of the family possessions and now I would have to face the consequences.
Just then my cell phone rings and I answer it. In a really soft voice I hear “Tina? It’s Aunt Patti”. I ask her to speak up as I can’t hear her. She says she can’t because she’s not even supposed to be calling me.
I ask her when she and Uncle Alan are due to come home from their trip and she says “That’s the thing. We really are not on a cruise in the Pacific. We had to enter the witness protection program and we can’t come back home.” The then said they loved me but could never speak to me again and hung up.
Again I stood blinking at my phone when two people in the garage (which now seemed to hold about 60 people) started arguing loudly. I went to go break up the disagreement and was grabbed by my upper arm. I looked up and saw a police man who said I didn’t belong there and I had to leave. As he was escorting me to my car I woke up.
I’m sure there is some kind of significance and symbolism in all of it. But frankly I just found the whole thing rather disconcerting, upsetting and down right icky. And not something I would like to have again, thank you very much.
