‘Would you like this almost-full bottle of floor cleaner?” my mother asks. She waves it under my nose and I see it is for wooden floors. “I don’t have wooden floors, Mum.” “No, neither do I,” she says, rather disappointed. “Well, if you don’t want it, I shall put it in the bin.” This is a test, because she knows we both hate being wasteful. “OK, OK, I’ll take it and find someone with wooden floors.”
This cycle happens every time I go to see my parents. It starts almost the minute I arrive, with a pile of things my mother has been saving up. Last time, it was a stack of 90s cotton jumpers, and there is usually some old tool she has found in a drawer. As the visit goes on, the gift-giving is ramped up; every time she leaves the room, she returns with some new object. She has always been generous – no visitor has ever left without produce from the garden, fresh eggs, a bunch of flowers. But recently it has taken a different tack.
My mother is “death cleaning” – putting her lot in order. That is a literal translation from the Swedish döstädning (dö means death, städning is cleaning). In Sweden, doing this is a gesture of love for those you leave behind. You start to go through all your hoarded junk and work out what is of use and what should really go. It’s like Marie Kondo downsizing for the later years.
I don’t think anyone has told my mother that she is practising a mindful Swedish exercise; she is just resolutely practical and hates waste, so she is getting on with the task ahead. The last time I visited, I was offered the family sundial. This came out of a conversation with my dad about moors (I am writing a book about peatlands); when he got up to leave the room, my mum also left and returned swiftly with the sundial. “You should have this,” she said. “Your grandfather found it up on the moors and when I said I was looking for a sundial he gave it to me.”
I have always loved this sundial. I remember my grandfather, who was from Lancashire, teaching me how to use it. My dad returns and spots it: “That’s my dad’s sundial,” he says, suspiciously. My mother points out that it was specifically given to her and is therefore hers to give away. She may love death cleaning, but my father doesn’t. And while she goes around finding more and more stuff to give away as the time comes for me to leave, my father hovers over the boot of my car, peering in and finding reasons to take things out.
We all look at the sundial, which was made from a mould, pressed from some sort of lead alloy. Round the edge it says: “Lookever towards the sun – the shadow will fall behind you,” and in the centre there is a crudely fashioned sickle and an egg timer. My father points to it and says: “What’s the name of the thing in the middle that casts the shadow?”
“It has a name?” I say. “Who knew?” My wife, who is visiting with me, looks it up online and at the same time I see my dad searching through his vast brain to find the snippet. “Knomon,” he says, “with a K.”
“Gnomon,” says my wife, “with a G.”
Gnomon comes from ancient Greek and means “one that knows or examines”, which sort of sums up my dad. He then says he doesn’t think it will work in Wales, because it must be set up from a precise latitude and it has to be done on the equinox or it won’t work. This is a tactic to encourage me to give it back. My mum points out that you can use your watch, set the shadow to the known time “and it will work perfectly”.
I have started to realise that I need to embrace all of this, because when you don’t shoo away the items, you get all this: stories, memories, knowledge. I never want this death cleaning to end; I want it to go on and on. But I know it can’t and here comes another gift; something shifts and, instead of denial, you get acceptance. I hope I can remember the name of the shadow‑caster when I am in my 80s.
