Clearing out my late father's home was a revelation

Times

20 hours ago

I visited my late father's house in January. I was there to 'clear it out', to pick through the detritus of his life with a vulturous eye and determine what was worth saving and what was for the dump. It was my first time back since the funeral. The house looked the same as it had when he died; the only thing missing was him. I didn't know my father very well when he was alive. I couldn't tell you his favourite song, or where he had been on holiday, or the names of his friends. I have no idea what his ambitions were, what his greatest achievement was, or what motivated him. I don't know what made him cry, what made him laugh, what made him think. The memories of my father are sparse and they are fractured. Returning to his house in January, I hoped his possessions might build a better picture of the man I once called Dad.
As it turns out, there wasn't much to find: a few tea-stained mugs, some old Gloria Estefan CDs, and diplomas for courses that no longer exist. But as I rifled through my father's past, something caught my eye. It was a Spanish language textbook: España Viva. The book, published in 1987, was designed to accompany the BBC Television series of the same name. Standing on the landing in my dead father's house, I held the well-thumbed, nicotine-stained book in both hands and stared at it. I was confused. My father had never once mentioned learning Spanish. In fact, he had never shown any interest in Spain or Spanish culture — apart from Gloria Estefan, and she was born in Cuba anyway.
Inside the book were dozens of paper scraps, his handwriting, nearly as illegible as mine, scrawled all over them. And then I found it. Nestled between two pages was a leaflet for a Spanish language course in Salamanca. The brochure was so old that it still asked for payment in pesetas. Beneath the words 'The best choice: Spanish in Salamanca' was an image of Plaza Mayor. I recognised the image because in 2014 I too had taken a trip to Salamanca to learn Spanish. I stayed there for a week with a family who spoke no English, and I visited the language centre every day. I had never told my father about that trip, and he had never told me about his. But by picking up that knackered old textbook, a new connection was formed between me and my father. We had both gone to the same city in Spain with the same purpose in mind. He could have gone to Madrid or I could have gone to Valencia. But we didn't; we both went to Salamanca, albeit 17 years apart. And without finding that textbook, I would never have known.
• Talk? No — my male friends and I just swap Instagram Reels
I took the book along with a vintage Austin Reed leather shearling jacket that happened to fit me perfectly. As I rode the Tube home, I thought about what my father had left me: a dog-eared Spanish textbook and a jacket with a pocket full of used tissues, a dental receipt and a Tanning Shop freshening wipe. It wasn't much, but it was something, and it was something physical. I held the book and jacket on my lap, and a thought occurred to me: this is what my father left me; what will I leave behind?
• Tracing my roots in the household clutter
See, we live in an increasingly materialistic yet immaterial world. Physical possessions have taken the back seat, their value replaced by the incorporeal world of the internet and the cloud and everything else that exists but can't be held. And while the digitalisation of our lives has given us unlimited access to information, it has also broken our connection to the real world, the tangible world, the world that we can touch, taste, see and smell.
Last year, I was mugged. My phone got snatched by some kid in a balaclava. And being the slave to technology that I am, my whole life was on that phone. And being the idiot that I am, none of that life was backed up. I lost every image, every note and every video. I lost the voicemails my father had left me before he died. I lost every photo I had ever taken with my girlfriend; I lost every text I had ever sent her. All of it was gone in a matter of seconds — the online equivalent of a house fire that leaves nothing behind but soot and ash. But it's not just me whose worldly possessions have moved from the physical to the intangible. Who gets film photos developed? Who buys notebooks and writes by hand? Who sends letters instead of emails? Who bothers to pay with cash? In each of these examples, the digital alternative is more efficient. But the digital version is also devoid of character, and it says very little about who we are as people.
• I grew up with an older, single mother. I can't imagine Christmas away from her
As invasive as it sounds, you can get a good idea of a person by going through their things. Step inside a person's home and a whole world is elicited: the books they keep, the memorabilia on the mantelpiece, the albums stacked along the shelf, the photos on the wall, the mound of journals in the attic, the chewed-up baby blanket from their youth now hanging in the kitchen like a priceless painting. As much as we hate to admit it, our possessions define us. I'm not talking about the monetary value of these possessions. A childhood teddy under a pillow says more about a person than the Alfa Romeo parked outside.
Asgard on his trip to learn Spanish in Salamanca
Technology is brilliant. It has done so much for the world — most of it good. But we can't allow the physical souvenirs of our lives to disappear entirely, otherwise what will be left of us when we're gone? When I was 15 I worked as a volunteer at a nursing home. Many of the residents had advanced Alzheimer's. Walking along the corridors, I would stop and look at the display cabinets outside their rooms. These cabinets were the SparkNotes of their lives: photos, scraps of paper, letters from late partners, estranged lovers and lost children, little glass menageries from friends long gone. A resident's whole life in a square box. Sometimes a resident would enter their room and stop to observe their own display cabinet, and they would remember who they were, however fleeting that remembrance was. At the time, I found these possessions moving. Now I see them as essential.
So, to answer my previous question: what will I leave behind? In the 2020 film Nowhere Special James Norton's character — a window cleaner dying of cancer — is reluctant to leave anything behind for his three-year-old son for fear it will only hurt him more. In the end, he leaves a memory box: a plastic container of letters, photos and a window wiper so his son will know what his father did. It wasn't much — nor is a Spanish textbook from 1987 — but it was something, and it was something physical. And while the world encourages us to declutter and to transfer our lives online, I will endeavour to hold on to the few precious physical items I own, even if they are of no value to anyone else — and I hope that one day I too will get the chance to leave them behind.