Wednesday December 22, 2004 - The Museum of Earthly Possessions

Wednesday December 22, 2004 - The Museum of Earthly Possessions

I spoke with my dad on the phone today. He’d been to William Beaumont Hospital to collect medication for my mom and had just returned home when I rang. I spoke with my mom for a few minutes asking her how she was feeling—she’s had some stomach trouble of late but seemed to be feeling better today. My mother is addicted to Fox Television News—a real news junky and I can hear the television in the background so I know she’s half listening to me and half catching the chatter from Fox. She tells me she’s been on the treadmill this morning getting her exercise for the day. She asks about her grandchildren and great grandchildren, two of the former, four of the latter. She asks for more videos of the great grandkids playing—I’ve become somewhat of a movie maker with Apple I-Movie and she gets a kick out of the 2- to 3-minute clips of the kids doing something funny while a pop song plays in the background.

My father picks up the extension phone and she says, “talk to your father and kiss the babies for me.” The line goes silent for a second until I hear dad chime in asking how I’m doing and I say “fine” and I ask after him. When I ask my dad that question, I know I’m going to get a detailed answer. He takes me through a list of maladies that he’s gotten over since last we spoke and then launches into his continuing complaints of his knee. The knee transplant he had done a year ago continues to bedevil him, largely because he can’t get up from a kneeling position without the aid of a cane. He’s encouraged by his friends at the VA hospital within William Beaumont. They remind him that he has another six months before the knee will be back to 100 percent and he’ll just have to put up with the inconvenience in the meantime. My father does not take kindly to recuperation. He gets easily frustrated when he’s unable to do something that had been second nature to him, bending down to pick something up without the aid of a cane.

I ask about the progress on getting the building put up to house all of Mr. Upton’s possession. Mr. Upton was dad’s lifelong friend who passed away last year. This year my father spent straightening out a mix up at the cemetery where Mr. Upton had requested to be buried. That task completed, my father’s next duty was to build a place to house Mr. Upton’s collection of “stuff.” Within Mr. Upton’s house and storage sheds is an incredible assortment of bric-a-brac: paintings and prints from flea markets and garage sales, hard bound and paper back books from well known and forgotten authors, musical instruments—accordions, keyboards, guitars, etc, newspapers and magazines with dates in the 1950s, 60s, 70s, and 80s—and shoes clothes and junk all amassed by a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t throw anything away. My mom, sisters, and all my family’s friends have lobbied long and hard for a garage sale. However, my father doesn’t have the heart to throw any of it away. Perhaps, it’s the only reminder my father had of Charles Upton’s time upon this earth.

Shortly after Mr. Upton died, my father found a large prefabricated metal building on sale for 50 percent of its list price. It was being sold by a company in Virginia. It required assembly as well as a concrete foundation set with mounting bolts for securing the building. Dad purchased the building and it was shipped by rail to El Paso. My brother, D, who has a fleet of short haul trucks, picked the building up and stored it in a trailer at his place. Dad planned to erect the building on a piece of commercial property my dad bought from Mr. Upton some 30 years ago. The plan was for my dad to hire G, a freelance building contractor to lay the foundation and erect the structure. My father sold G a piece of property and the two have become close friends ever since. The building arrive over six months ago but dad decided to check with the city before putting it up just in case he needed a building permit. Both G and D were convinced that the building was considered a temporary structure hence did not require a permit. However, it would cost dad if the city did force him to tear it down once it was put up.

Dad has had his run ins with the city of El Paso over the years. Usually, he finds a way to get what he wants. This time he found someone in the zoning department who promised to guide him through the process and get the permit. That was five months ago. About a month ago, the lady threw up her hands in despair and advised my dad to put the building up without the permit, since no one in the department had a clue as to what was needed for the type of building he planned to construct. Dad, frustrated with the continuing delay agreed to her advise and G was given the go ahead to lay the foundation and erect the metal structure. It didn’t take G long to raise the building and in about two weeks time, dad was given the tour of the new repository of Charles Upton’s earthly belongings. “It’s huge,” dad said "and exactly what is needed to clean up that lot once and for all." Besides Mr. Upton’s belonging the building will also become a museum of all the old cars my dad ever owned: two 1955 Buicks two-door coupes, a 1957 Cadillac Coupe de Ville—great looking fins, a 1957 Ford Mustang, 1959 Lincoln Continental, and the 1951 Oldsmobile that took the family all over the U.S. and Puerto Rico. Besides the cars, D has a collection of tools he has stored in a small building on the property that will be transferred to the larger building.

There’s only one catch in the completion of the museum: the door. The door that the building manufacturer was offering for sale would have ended up costing about a quarter the cost of the building itself. The manufacturer offered to trim the building to a door my dad could purchase separately. D knew where he could get a for a tenth the cost of the new one. Dad sent the dimensions of D’s door and the building arrived with an opening of that size. Only problem is the door has asbestos in it and had to be quarantined and cleaned by a service that specializes in hazardous waste removal. I asked my dad how they were doing getting the door cleaned and he said they promised to have it ready this week. My dad and I both started laughing knowing that with Christmas this close, he’ll be lucky to see it the first week of January. “I’ve waited this long,” dad said philosophically. “I can wait a few more days.” I’m planning a trip down to help transfer the collection into the new museum. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.