My grandfathers' ghosts

A moving truck arrived in front of our house on Saturday containing furniture and other items from my grandfathers' apartment that my parents generously paid to have shipped out to me. The apartment had been my dad's parent's place and sat vacant for a few years after my dad's father (Pop) died about 10 years ago until my mom moved her father (Grandpa) in when it no longer seemed like a good idea for him to be on his own in San Diego.

Grandpa died last fall, so of course it's a little bitter sweet to be the recipient of such bounty. The first thing I noticed when the stuff came off the truck was that it smelled like Pop's apartment. I opened a desk drawer that used to serve as an entry table in the hall and it hit me - the smell of polished wood gone dry and starched linens washed to within an inch of their lives. My sister is the sentimental one, but I must admit, I got little weepy.

The load included a stunning dining room table and matching buffet, which I'd been looking forward to put in our dining room since we bought the house almost two years ago, and a gorgeous bedroom set of two dressers, a night stand and vanity - all huge, solidly built and in great condition - that will replace Anna's childhood dresser and the one I bought 12 years ago at a yard sale for 40 bucks (both refinished in the shabby-chic style with the indispensible help of my mother-in-law) and the two unfinished pine tables from Ikea that that served as bedside tables but never came close to handling the mass of books, magazines and other sundry dust-covered objects that we kept heaped upon them.

In short, our furniture is finally living up to the promise of our 1922 craftsman-style house. It's a grown-up house now, though I can't shake the feeling when I open a drawer to retreive a pair of socks in morning that I'm sneeking around in my Pop's bedroom, snooping for treasure that will tell me more about who he was before he became my Pop.