Better than I could ever have imagined …

What a difference a week makes.  Last Tuesday I was moaning about having too much ‘stuff’; and how I had to start getting rid of it.  Well you wouldn’t believe the progress I’ve made.  So much so, I simply have to blog about it again, today.

Sorry.

Can’t say I blame you if you’ve had enough of this, particular topic, but I’m just having so much fun I can’t help myself.  So please, indulge me.  God knows if or when I’ll ever feel like this again.

Yes, I did say “fun”.  I know, “fun” is not usually a word one would associate with cleaning out drawers, closets, desks etc.  Unless you’re one of those neat freaks, which I am, most assuredly, not.  But for some, inexplicable reason, I’m enjoying myself — despite the sore back it’s giving me.

It’s wonderful to see all those bags piled up, ready to go — to the garbage, to recycling, to the shredder, to whoever wants it.  There’s more of ’em every day; and I must say, I am getting a tremendous sense of

I wouldn’t exactly call myself a hoarder …

… but I do admit I hang on to too much ‘stuff’.  I don’t know why really, because my mother wasn’t like that at all.  She was ruthless about getting rid of anything and everything she no longer needed, wanted or used.  Or fit into, for that matter.

Maybe this is nothing more than an act of rebellion on my part.  I’ve never thought of it in quite that way before.  Or maybe I just take after my father.  My mother used to crack the whip on both of us.

My closets and drawers are not a thing of organized beauty.  Neither is my desk.  Or my bookcase.  Or just about any surface you can find in my apartment.  My handbag’s the same.  A royal mess.  I can never find anything in there,

Day 315. Still Looking

My mother was a neat freak.  I’ve written about it a few times.  Her idea of a fun afternoon was to organize her drawers.  Not that they needed it.  They were always perfect.  Perfect, little stacks of whatever.  Unmentionables.  Nighties.  Sweaters.  Scarves.  Hosiery.  Socks.  Handkerchiefs.  Jewelry.  Make up.  Whatever.

I’m a lot like her.  But NOT when it comes to drawers.  The inside of my handbags.  Pantry’s.  Cupboards.  Or closets.

In fact, when it comes to ‘order‘, you’d never know my mother and I were even related.  We were total opposites.

It would drive her nuts.  Whenever she’d come to visit me here, in Toronto,  she always tried to put closets on our agenda of things to do.  If we woke up and it was raining, or freezing cold or snowing she’d say (beg), hopefully:  “Fransi, this would be a perfect day to do your closets.  I’m here, I can help you.  We’ll get it done really quickly if

Day 14. Feeling Sentimental

August 20.  Today’s my mother’s birthday.  She’d be 90.  She was 82 when this photo was taken.  Her hairdresser took it; and no, she hadn’t had her make-up done by a professional for the shot.  She did it herself.  She put her make up on like that every morning, without fail.

My mother was an identical twin and they were born slightly premature.  Her disposition was 100% Leo:  She always had a smile on her face.  Always.  She was very outgoing, gregarious even.  She talked to everyone, including strangers in elevators, on the subway, in stores, wherever.  And no one ever seemed to mind.  They never tried to distance themselves from her, afraid she was a bit of a nut.  They carried on conversations with her.

When my parents sold their house after I’d moved out, they moved downtown, into an apartment.  It was a lovely, elegant building with a lot of old-world charm.  The original owner, a Greek tycoon, sold it to a Quebec-born millionaire, J. Louis Levesque. A businessman, racehorse owner/breeder and a philanthropist, he sat on the Boards of blue chip companies like Air Canada, Canadian National Railways, Hilton Hotels of Canada, Provincial Bank of Canada and many more.  Among the many honours he received during his lifetime, he was in the Canadian Business Hall of Fame, received the Eleanor Roosevelt Humanitarian Award in 1972 and, in 1976, he was named to the Order of Canada.

When he bought the building my parents lived in, one of the conditions of the sale was that the wealthy Greek would move out of the penthouse, so J. Louis and his wife could move in.

Well my mother struck up a conversation with him, in the elevator one day.  She instantly became his new best friend — to the point that, whenever he went fishing