I had heard the word packrat bandied about with respect to my mother's mother, but she was paradigmatically so: cereal and cracker boxes cut into makeshift magazine racks, meaningless newspaper clippings with notes, paper notes to herself, and a fine effusion of other gimcrackery over the whole affair. Her book selections leaned strongly toward health, or at least alternative medicine, some of which my parents will scavenge for their self-vitaminizing and -herbification. There's barely room to turn around in the tiny house she last had, on a relatively busy road near a busy street fairly proximate to the main rail line through downtown Hixson.
Mainly we were after a changing table she had and was using as a rigid frame into which to pour books and other effects, since it can do my nephew more good with its original function (he recently came down with RSV, but he seems to be recovering nicely, along with his first exposure to great grape taste of Dimetapp). We moved around more of her, colloquially, shit, in order to wrest the table out of the room. We ended up setting off her Lifeline home alert thing but that ended in a phone call, not an urgent zooming ambulance or anything.
I'm told I'm not needed to move more things about, which is good: I threatened my parents I'd need a breath mask and latex gloves to help more, though that's more from my dust allergy and proximity to my mother (who has generic cold-flu whatnot) than paranoia. I may end up with mother's mother's mattress, since I'm sick of the tube-style waterbed I've had for quite a while, but that's a bit eerie so I may beg off. Halloween impending doesn't help that mindframe any.