We have read about squirrels and their hoarding habits pre winter. About how they sort and stack their food, either in one place or in multiple places sorted by the type of food with an indexing mechanism sort of like a Random Access key to a database.
I have long since considered my parents to be of the same mentality. Having come from poor economic means and having had to work hard to get to a level of economic stability, their appreciation for the extra or free things reminded me of myself as a kid at the candy store on those occasions when I got my wish !
I recently had to open up and clean my parents home after 12 years of being locked up. While the process by itself was cathartic helped by some amazing friends and my brother who lent mind and body support to the task, one of the most memorable parts of the experience was finding out how much of squirrels my beloved parents were.
Once bitten twice shy - I discovered 16 years of monthly telephone and electricity bills with receipts filed neatly. This was because in the initial days of moving to Chennai there had been trouble with the telephone exchange and the electricity line man on account of payments not being registered. Similarly with 40 years of LIC premium payments neatly filed with each policy. It made me remember the two times my dad got frustrated with my accumulating papers and not filing them - once in Madurai and once in Bangalore - and taking it up on himself to file each paper and index the files. I lovingly cherish the files with his handwriting (infinitely neater than mine) even now.
Everything will come of use .... sometime in life - this was an universal truth with them. Leading to boxes of rubber bands, boxes of buttons and safety pins, piles of shopping bags from years of shopping when bags were free of charge, pens from every hotel that they ever went to. The list is endless. As I sorted these out and wondered what to do with them, I realized that my own shirt was hanging on a hook back in my apartment in Bangalore for want of a button. Even stuff that they didn't find a use for, was stored in the attic or in a trunk. I remembered my parents going to the temple each week and getting the vibhuti in a date calendar sheet that my father used to carry with him to the temple.
Items are actually free and of huge use - There were packets of the small bars of soap from travel, creams, a bag full of combs which came free with a hair oil that my mother used, two shelves full of duffel bags which came as a freebee with some investments my father used to make, every single note pad and diary that they got. I remember being given the free comb a few times, free duffel bags when I had to carry somethings extra from home. My parents had a magicians hat from which they produced almost anything at will. And as I sorted through the empty house full of things, I realized how they had accumulated all these in anticipation of just those occasions.
Memories are stored in objects - In today's day and age, when we have easy retrieval mechanisms for any thing we want to remember leading us to debate on whether the education system should test memory any more or application, how does one store memories ? What did one do when Google Photos wasn't around to remind you what happened on this day in that year with a nice collage and background music ? You stored objects that triggered memories. Photos were treasured. Albums were taken out and reviewed leisurely. And objects too - kindergarten school boxes of my brother and I, my mother's first blood pressure measuring device and her first stethoscope, my grand mother's spectacles, each and every one of our report cards from school, every letter I ever wrote home from college or after, the grand father clock that my parents got at their wedding. The list is endless. To the point where the house was 80% objects and memories and 20% living space. Even my first briefcase - broken and battered.
Everything needed a back up - we do not often pause to think what we would do in case something didn't work. Well, my parents did. And so there was the flashlight near the bed, the flashlight near the television table in the hall, the large emergency lamp that was always kept fully charged in my father's table. Who thinks of back up bedspreads, pillows, buckets, vessels - there were extra of everything. Just for a rainy day. And maybe a back up for a back up as well. Like the four pairs of nylon backing for the easy chairs which still had the original backing intact.
Home was a family event - I have heard of the old archetype of men being these non home body types. My father was the antethesis of this archetype. I have seen him making dinner for us if my mother was late from hospital. And helping cut vegetables and filling water etc. He was the perfect half to my mother. Helping her in everything for as long as he could before Parkinson's got the better of him. Washing dishes was no big deal as was getting the milk each morning and setting out the coupons each night.
Technology was to be respected - whether it was the new cassette player that my brother got them or the laptop on which they made Skype calls to us or the television itself. Everything was kept properly with covers, bases and put away when not used. Who puts away a laptop properly and covers it each day ? Or wipes down a cassette player or television and cleans it each weekend ? Or treated the new vaccum cleaner like a life saver. My parents were unbelievably proud of each such new technology that they acquired and used. I can still remember their reaction to the Roomba at my brothers place and the CD player I got home. Even the mobile phone they used. There was a healthy respect for anything technology. My mother's first such brush with an advanced technology was a much celebrated affair when she went for an ultrasound machine training when I was a kid. We talked about it for a week. And so I discovered everything neatly packed and covered and in pristine condition at home.
Records must be kept - I discovered years of daily book keeping of expenses. And read about how 1 kg of rice in Raipur was Rs 5 whereas the pujari who came for a puja home had to be paid Rs 2 + Rs 1 for the rickshaw charge. Like this there were diaries after diaries of expense records. Which finally came to an end as my father discovered that he couldn't write with his Parkinson's. I saw the game attempts he made to still write down the gas cylinder charges and the milk coupon and the shopping expense at the Spencer's Store (a whopping Rs 346 for a week as compared to Rs 12.25 - including the 25 paise - way back). I felt like a study of inflation could be made using these records. And then of course were the bank passbooks. Every single passbook from 50 years or so of earning was there. Even when I operated their account digitally and sent them quarterly statement print outs from the net banking account, the religious trip once a quarter to the bank to update the passbook was a must.
Learning is a blessing - after having struggled their way through education and college, they had a healthy respect for education. Every single book, every report card, every letter of recommendation, every training attended and certificate received was stored in the steel almirah locker. Every academic book of us brothers was stored in the book shelf that had its own story to tell. My mother's pristine set of medical books was donated to a college which gave her a letter of receipt and thanks which also went into the locker. And did I mention the photocopies of each such certificate and record ? In triplicate or more some times.
Everything must be accounted for and divided - there was a clear earmarking of what was for my brother and what was for me. I am sure they would have been heart broken that we never took those things from them and a majority of them were never used. This behavior had very early roots. My mother being a gynaec would often get chocolates after a successful delivery of a baby. And she would ask the father of the baby for two otherwise she wouldn't be able to accept the toffee - one for each of her boys.
As I stood amongst the sofa that I had jumped on as a two year old and torn which remained intact till date, the television which was 20 years old, the almirahs which were bought on the occasion of my parents wedding, the trunks made of mango wood from a tree that had been cut down at home (can't waste the wood can we ?),
Now which variety of squirrel do I classify my parents to be ? Chunky hoarders or scatter hoarders ? I only know that as I stood amidst all the things they had accumulated and decided to give it all away for people to use and requested for their blessing, that in the day and age of "circular" and "slow" when we search for bags to take to the store, many of our habits are changing to these. And when I looked at my attic and saw my son's pram and his early toys, I realised that there was still a lot of my parents in me. And suddenly I was proud.
