Love Letters and other hotel slippers

There are two kinds of people. Hoarders and non-hoarders. And if you happen to be the offspring of a baby boomer, chances are you would have likely shared a home with a hoarder. This was evident in the days I dedicated to clearing a dead man's history. I had an inkling that dear old dad used to hang onto just about everything, not because I found shoeboxes filled with mini soaps, tiny shampoo and conditioner containers, toothpaste packets, tea and coffee pouches swiped from the hotel rooms he frequented since retiring, nor did the drawers full of medicine receipts, travel booking confirmations and retro postcards sent decades before, but in the cupboard, yes, a cupboard full of pristine, still-in-the plastic-wrap hotel slippers. The type that robust bodies saunter about when the sauna session is complete.

There is a caveat to this post. If, like me, you are an offspring of an eastern-bloc baby boomer hoarder, then finding a cupboard full of slippers should not have you batting an eyelid. We eastern blockers are not fans of being barefoot in the house. Neither are we fans of wearing any type of shoe on the plush pile rugs unless it has a monogrammed terry towelling cover. My father, the fastidious economic type, probably considered it his right to pack the complimentary hotel slipper in his overnighter, with the sole purpose of repurposing the slipper if and when guests arrive at his home. All he would need to do is whip out a brand-new pair of slippers, and wallah; everyone is happy.

In that week, when the said collection was yanked out of the cupboard and when I didn't think I could find any more stamp collections, brand new socks, or baseball caps from just about every state, country and territory in the world, I came across the hoarders' treasure, the ultimate mirror to the soul, the long-forgotten love letters.

Why did I instantly feel embarrassed? I know he considered himself a ladies' man on the dance floor, but I wasn't convinced that he was a bard of the heart. Every fibre of my being was curious to have a read beyond 'To my lovely…', that's what happens when you are forced to attend community language school on a Saturday; being bilingual in this instance was an advantage, but I didn't let it get the better of me. Although the voice in my head justified this as reading the love letters between Hemingway and Dietrich, somehow the image of my father hunched over a dim lamp, professing his love in his unruly handwriting, seemed like I was opening a book that I could no longer unsee.

So a word of note to all those hoarders out there. If you're not a fan of your children unveiling your torrid past, either dispose of it yourself, leave explicit instructions for its appropriate filing or add it to the hotel slippers you have hidden in a cupboard somewhere.

#paststories #lovelettershidden #hoarders #babyboomers