Ownership: Glee – no. My words – yes. Address and other names are all fictional, made up from my little noggin.

Dedication: This collection of however many chapters, to those lonely and not prepared to do something about it. This is also about hoarding, how it affects and leads a lasting effect on us all.

I just really love Stoner Brett's Grammy. She's a real sweetie. And her neighbour across the street, would be a sweetie too. Anyhow!

Trigger Warnings: So, be careful. Not knowing what sets you off, but this chapter contains a funeral scene.


~ Grammy's Neighbour Across The Street ~

~ goodbye mrs brown ~

"911 What's your emergency?"

"My neighbour has died, so I suppose I need the police and ambulance."

"Who am I speaking with please?"

"My name is Brett McCowsky."

"Is there any danger present?"

"Well, her house is pretty over-run with lots of things, I suppose you could say she's a hoarder."

"How has she died?"

"Well, she's pretty old, so maybe her heart gave out."

"How old is she?"

"Well, I think probably over 80years. My Grammy was in her 80's and they were very close in age."

"Okay, we'll send the police and an ambulance. What is the address please?"

"Number 45 Brown avenue, Charleton."

"All right, we've dispatched them to you. Will you be okay until they arrive? Or would you like me to stay on the line with you?"

"Um, I think I'll be okay. Is it okay if I wait outside, or at my place? It's pretty scary here."

"Sure, waiting at your house, will be fine. Where do you live?"

"Across the road from her, at number 46."

"What is your phone number there, so we can call you when they arrive?"

"My number is ….."

~ leaving number 45 ~

The ambulance come and the police come. Brett and Dottie see them pull up at Mrs Brown's, they go out to greet them.

They're escorted through the garden, which is perfect of weeds, well manicured lawns with perfectly kept rose bushes, marigolds and garlic.

Dottie puts the key in the lock, "You might want to take a deep breath before coming in, and then just take shallow breaths until you get used to the smell."

"We've done this before Miss."

"Oh, no you haven't. Not like this at all."

The officers all look at her with surprise, then at one another. She seems to be confident so they trust her and do as she says.

But once inside, nothing could have prepared them for the reality of inside Mrs Brown's home.

There was a single walkway down the corridor to each room. Once inside each room, there would be a single, narrow walkway again, to a single major place in the room.

On either side of any walkway, were assorted sized boxes, packages, collections of things. Around the edges of these stacks were collections of rubbish. Literally rubbish, but not in packets.

As a young ambulance officer goes to step over a shoe, she knocks into a single box with her shoulder. That box had been holding some others in place, there's a quick scramble out of the way as a rush of light and heavy boxes tumble down.

A fallen box opens, revealing folded up boxes inside.

Eventually they reach the kitchen, where Mrs Brown is. She appears seated at her kitchen table, but slumped, arms and hands slack in her lap.

The officers look around the room. They see a clean enough sink, except for the set of meal preparation dishes, a pot and colander. The stove is immaculate. A magnet that declares 'Love, is a meal shared' stuck on the stove backing.

A collection of flies and moths lay dead on the window ledge, obviously they've been collecting for a while, trying to escape this prison too.

"Right then…." procedures happen, the police and ambulance officers do what they must. "Could you wait outside while we assess?"

Dottie and Brett return to the front and wait for the inevitable.

A local reporter stands at the gate, making notes in his notebook, and photographing the arrival of a doctor. "Excuse me, but I don't want my photo taken? What company do you work for?"

"…. Local News. I'll delete it then, my apologies. What's happened?"

"No comment." Pushing the gate open, he nods to Brett and Dottie, sitting on the steps. "I'm Dr …., where is the deceased?"

"Straight through, down the corridor, the kitchen is at the back. They're all in there." Dottie's voice is quivering, tiredness descending on her.

With her comforting arm around Brett's shoulders, she leans her head against him. The waiting tiring him too. He humms and sighs.

An ambulance officer comes out, "Could you help us clear the hallway please?"

"Yeah, sure, umm no problems man." They get up and Brett helps them move the collection of boxed mess on to the front patio.

Once cleared Mrs Brown is laid down, covered up and escorted from her home. The reporter, still on the outside of the property, takes photo after photo. What a scoop for him, he can imagine the headlines above his photo, 'Mrs …. Brown, discovered dead in her home.' And the caption under his photo, 'Was her death natural or was it due to her hoarding?'

"We'll have to contact the family, do you have their details?"

"Yes, come across to our place and we'll get them for you."

The house is locked up, secured, keys returned to Dottie and Brett.

The family are contacted, arrangements made.

~ a fine day for a funeral ~

The local parish church was packed with well wishers, those who loved her and will miss her. The service was lovely, voices of Angels singing hymns with one or two of Mrs Brown's favourite modern songs.

The casket was surrounded by photos, vases of dried flowers, fresh flowers. On top of the casket was a single portrait of Mrs Brown, in her younger youthful days. On top also was an arrangement of knitted items, a football scarf, a crocheted tea cosy and more flowers.

Behind the casket was a huge multi-coloured leadlight display with purpose lighting pushing through onto the casket. Inside, Mrs Brown's body lie. It lied in clean clothing, brushed hair, painted nails, slippers on her feet and the squared blanket that she taught Dottie to knit, tucked up to under her chin. It lied on satin cushioned lining, sides and from above.

Her hands clasped in a prayer, held a posy of lavender, a stick of vanilla and her set of Rosary beads intertwined with her fingers.

The service is lovely, the family appreciative, the pall bearers strong. The wheels needed oiling, the floor could have been vacuumed better, the collection of Bibles and hymn books left behind are untidy.

While the casket is loaded into the hearse, the congregation mill around with polite conversation, bored children play quietly to one side. Birds twitter, a kennel of dogs bark from the nearby vet clinic, oblivious traffic drive by.

The wind is warmer than the church had been, the sunshine comfortable for those who forgot their sunglasses.

Soon enough people wave as Mrs Brown is driven away. They follow and walk as far as the end of the driveway, the hearse blends in with the traffic, it keeps pace and eventually its sight lost as it creeps over the horizon.

The people turn back to one another, organizing lifts to the wake.

The wake, reading of the will, continuation for those left behind.

~ Blackbird singing in the dead of night ~


Extra kute little author note: This has to be set over two chapters.