Idea free to a good home

‘Ithink it’s time to get rid of the crib and the changing table,” Sue said.

“Get rid of the crib and the changing table?” Who was this? You think you know to whom you’re married and then they say something and you wonder if you really did know or whether the person you thought you knew was masquerading as somebody else.

“Somebody else” because a crib and changing table are like trophies, plaques and awards, signifying that not only did you graduate, but you did so Phi Beta Kappa and with a gold tassel.

It’s one thing to give away a book or a pair of shoes, it’s another to give away a crib and a changing table. For the latter pairing, you’re not giving away things, you’re letting go of an idea.

The idea is we’ve had our time, our fun and our place in the sun but it’s over. Time for somebody else to have theirs. Theirs and the crib and the changing table that go with that fun.

We have four children and four grandchildren. We’ve been lucky. Hard to get luckier than that.

“I think it’s a good idea,” I said, looking at this person who I thought I knew but evidently didn’t know as well as I thought.

This may be tougher for a woman. More poignant. Women operate on the ground floor while men are upstairs looking out the window at the moon.

Women are connected to the earth. Men to the stars, or a fantasy thereof. Somehow they meet in the middle, make peace and sometimes babies, too.

I walked into Sam’s old room that had been painted black during his high school years.

I moved the changing table first with its three dark-stained shelves. “First” because it was lighter although not light.

I can handle this. I’ll ease it down the stairs, wheel it along the sidewalk and hoist it in the back of the truck.

I didn’t want to fall down the stairs and break the table and me in the process. Then,

I wouldn’t need a table but a bed where I could hoist my leg in the air.

I picked up the corner of the crib. No way I was moving it alone. Not unless I was the Power Team and God was one of my teammates who worked out with free weights.

I’d have to take it apart, which meant lying on my back, squinting and hoping that when I removed the last bolt, the top railing didn’t fall and brain me.

I like taking things apart and I don’t like taking things apart. Like it because I’m a guy and don’t like it because I have this nagging doubt that I might not be able to put it back together once I do.

In addition to reconstruction doubt, I like being rewarded for my act of charity. Some people prefer to give anonymously and quietly but not me. I want to be serenaded by a brass band and have people thank me for my unbelievable generosity.

When you show up with a stack of crib wood and a sandwich baggie full of bolts and say, “I have this great crib for you,” they look at you funny. Look at you funny and think: “You do? You think I believe that? All I see is bolts, wood and work.”

I took the crib apart, put the bolts in a plastic baggie with a note saying, “Bolts for crib.” I might as well have said, “Good luck. You’re probably missing a bolt, a washer and certainly the instructions.”

I stacked the pile of crib wood in the truck next to the changing table. The truck wouldn’t start because the battery was dead. I stuffed the crib and changing table into the Jeep but now I couldn’t see and would have to drive with my head out the window.

“It’s a great crib,” I said when I got there.

The guy looked at me like, sure. No brass band. No “What a wonderful thing you’re doing.”

Sam’s room is almost empty. Empty of stuff. Full of memories. That’s the best kind of empty.