Making order
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Since the beginning of autumn 9 years ago, I was subjected to social stress 3 days a week for four hours
to assist live-in care of my parents. Over the years, I got used to it,
but since their health was deteriorating year after year, these were no
enjoyable times for me. Since last February it's over; finally, also my
father left us in his 99th year.
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During
all these years I took notes of events that appeared remarkable to me.
Since then, I keep seeing the empty house, where I grew up from my 6th
to my 26th year, at the same weekdays as during the 9 years before,
each time staying for four hours as I was used to do. I opened all
cupboards and shelves, screened papers and photographs, books and diaries.
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At
home, I typed the notes I had taken over the last 9 years. I printed
the text and bound the pages together. As the title of this book I
chose 'The eye of the needle', in analogy to the biblic verse (although
my parents didn't care for religion). This activity kept me awake
during half nights. But it didn't exhaust me. I had the impression that
I didn't need much sleep at this time.
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In
my parents house, I went through my fathers diary from January to
September
1945. He was recruited at the first of January to his regular military
service at the age of seventeen. He described in some detail each day.
While reading, I took hand-written notes on seperate sheets, for me and
for other relatives not patient enough to read the original.
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I
learned details my father had never told. Little things, nothing
horrible. After basic training, they were not moved to the front, but
to the west. They had occasional (peaceful) contact with French and
American soldiers and finally realized, that war was over. For the next
few months, they earned their living by helping out on farms.
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I set up some ring binders after having cleared
them of their previous content. Now and than I had to decide on the
potential value of old documents. This was challenging in the
beginning, but soon I developed the necessary routine to sort the wheat
from the chaff. I would never throw away an old birth certificate.
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To my great delight, I discovered in a shoebox with my mother's secrets a postcard addressed to her from summer holydays
in 1959 (I was six) spent with our nurse in Upper Austria. I still have
dear memories of this vacation. Even my and my jounger brother's names
were on the card, in careful capitals. I attached the card to the inside of a clear plastic filing.
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I discovered that my parents
were frequent visitors of concerts and operas. Each of them had several
old programs stored at special places. I brought them together and
filled - in chronological order - a ring binder. My father kept old
coins. I went through them, aided by a magnifying glass. Items coined
before 1850 (or remarkable for other reasons) were fixed on a sheet of
paper und shortly commented by my hand writing.
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Also
after such archiving occupations, I sometimes had the impression that I
needed less sleep than usual.
This may also happen after reading for some time in my own old notes. I
wonder if this has any neurobiological reason. In essence, sleep and
bringing order to personal papers may serve similar purposes.
Confronted with the relicts left behind by my parents, some
recalibration of my relationship with them might also play a role.
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9/26 < MLB (9/26) > 10/26
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