Embrace change, or limited to the sum of your parts?

"Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Start fresh. Follow through on your dreams."

That message greets me at the front door. The words are printed on a thin strip of white paper taped beside the county sheriff's notice of eviction. The "ee-vict," as they like to call it in the landlord business, shows a date just short of Thanksgiving to be vacated by order of law.

My friend Chuck, who is paying me to help him clear out the house, did not notice the ironic placement of that message. I suppose he was too busy touring the place and its immense, 1-acre yard, his mind converting a lifetime of T-shirts, bedsheets, pillows, coffee cups and kitchen appliances into a job estimate for what it will take him, a retired handyman, to empty the house.

Large, modern, in a nice neighborhood, it has to be cleaned out by mid-January so a real estate agent can slap on some lipstick for what will be, most likely, a one-day listing for an $800,000 sale.

The house is owned by parents who have evicted their son. Despite this obvious rift, mom and dad hold out hope for their boy. Everything of personal value has to be boxed, clearly labeled, and placed in safe storage.

The parents live in another state. Their son is newly homeless. So new, in fact, that the neighbor across the street, a woman on a horse, stopped clopping to let us know that the young man came by the other night and sat in his car in the driveway.

"I think he was thinking of breaking in, but he didn't," she said. "He kinda scares me."

The plot thickens. Now I want to know if the parents are the authors, by proxy, of the "today-is-the-first-day" cookie fortune next to the eviction notice, or if the son wrote it and taped it there himself.

In common

The next three weeks become an odd ritual of cleaning, reducing, meditation. It is the month I have taken off from writing and I enter this other person's house as though fulfilling a retreat obligation at a strange, dark temple devoted to the god of American possessions. It is a meditation on the shelf life - literally - of stuff.

More precisely, a meditation on how our things outlive us.

I open drawers that were never meant for another person to open. I look at photos of strangers' faces from other times and places. Snapshots blur like a blender as I dump them all - niece's first communion, someone's spring break - into a single U-Haul box marked "Photos."

I handle the most personal of letters and medical reports with my only concern being how much they weigh ("Doctors").

I learn that this man loved birds. Quite likely more than people. He was also a sucker for porcelain holiday figurines holding pungent Yankee Candles. These, I hope, were gifts. I also discover I am not the only person who saves the little condiment packages of red pepper flakes and parmesan cheese you get with pizzas.

I learn this man was bitter; a hole in the drywall above the master bedroom headboard most likely made by a fist.

Chuck spares me by taking on the bedroom. He deserves a medal for this, along with hazard pay.

Note to self: Remember when you die, someone, if not your kids, is going to find everything.

And I mean everything.

Land o' plenty

Scott (the name I'll give the son) was in his mid-40s and owned a very successful landscaping company. He had a huge drafting table in his office where he sketched rolling landscape designs with elaborate sprinkler systems. He left behind a large, two-car garage full of top-name, expensive tools: weed whackers, leaf blower, grass mower, chain saw, hedger, Honda generator, a Craftsman steel tool cabinet with gliding drawers, and peg board walls holding hoes, rakes, shovels.

His abandoned Ford truck and steel-hauling trailer were worth a bundle each.

What happened?

Downward destiny

One day at work a tree fell on Scott. His injury was severe and career-altering. Though he recovered mobility, he could never work again.

Here's the hitch: the house had been originally gifted so Scott could build his business while keeping expenses low. Obviously, the parents knew a great investment and it was "understood" (as I heard from Chuck, who had heard it from another) that the son was not going to be able to live there forever.

The normal success track would be, I assume, Scott eventually buying the place from them, or moving on to another of his choosing.

The falling tree took care of that.

Where the story turns tragically is that Scott, fully qualified for a disability claim, chose not to claim it.

I emptied two drawers from a filing cabinet, full of Department of Labor & Industries manilla envelopes addressed to Scott - all unopened. Letters from doctors unopened. Agency appointment cards rubber-banded, buried at the bottom.

Help reached out, but Scott refused it. The bigger question is why, of course, and all I can come up with is self-fulfilling prophecy. The way he labeled certain things in the house during his last days there - envelopes truthfully marked "toenail clippings, 11/20/21" and "housefly infestation, 10/9/21" - tells me he was in a dark place. The kind of place where, if something bad happens to you, it must be part of a larger, downward destiny.

We each face that junction when given the doctor's news. Cancer can inspire your inner fighter, or your mystical superpowers to BE with acceptance and gratitude.

On the other hand, bad news can be like the proverbial jug with no plug, a downward slide with its sad, addicting melody - a tune, unfortunately, many learn to love.

Where's the hike?

Such bad form on my part. While I thank you for allowing me to get this story off my chest, I also say with full honesty that this week's photo of Randall Preserve, at the U.S. Highway 101 Mud Bay exit on Olympia's west side, was my go-to sanctuary for the past month while I helped clear out that house.

Find the short, wood-chipped trailhead next to the former Blue Heron Bakery log cabin, across from Buzz's Bar and Grill parking lot.

A wooden bench makes a beautiful spot to watch ducks, herons, gulls and eagles, and in general, to watch humans in their cars going past, but at a safe, animal distance.

■ Mark Woytowich is a writer, photographer, video producer and author of "Where Waterfalls and Wild Things Are." He lives in Potlatch with his wife, Linda. His "On the Go" column appears every other week in the Journal. Reach him at his website, http://www.wherewaterfallsare.com, or by email at [email protected].