A month or so ago, I wrote that I was pretty well done de-cluttering, and boy howdy, was I wrong.

Edmund hoarded clothes and books. Over the last couple of days, I have emptied two chests of drawers literally stuffed with his t-shirts, socks, underpants, pyjamas, gym shorts, race shirts made of skithery technical fabrics, running tights, sweatpants and sweatshirts, fleece sweaters and rugby shirts. First it all went into laundry baskets, but there are only six in the house (who needs more?) and I filled them in an afternoon. Then I started stuffing the stained, torn and faded items into old Army-issue field laundry bags, and now there are three of those leaning up against the wall.

My brothers came down from Ottawa for the funeral, and they each left with a quantity of shirts, sweaters, jackets and workout gear. Big Brother now has the Canada Goose parka, and it makes him look like the offspring of a human and a firetruck -- it's long, puffy and scarlet, and BB is about six foot two and broad with it. Brother Andrew went off with a Luftwaffe flight jacket and a handknit Fairisle-type sweater from Orkney, among other things.

The main bedroom closet is still full. Unfortunately, neither of The Brothers shared Edmund's size in shoes or hats. The big closet has a four-tier rack of men's shoes and boots, with more in boxes on the floor and the shelf, and at least three closets contain stacks of hats. They will have to sit for a while and marinate.

Today, I shall go to church and have brunch downtown. The fridge is full of cooked food, thanks to other people, but the folks at the diner will be looking for me (I broke the news to them on Wednesday and there were tears and contraband hugs -- public health says no hugging people you don't live with). I will probably find my friend Yvonne (sings soprano in the choir) and her husband there as well.

Sur avec la guerre, as they don't say in France.