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I went to Savannah for a few days last week. It was my first trip there since Aunt Betty‘s funeral.

Staying in her house was sad. I love the old place and the beautiful Gordonston neighborhood, but it isn’t the same now that Betty is gone. It’s almost, but not quite, just another house.

But I had work to do. Betty left personal belongings and family treasures dating back three generations. The family now has the job of dealing with it.

We’d already removed the most valuable stuff — the silver, jewelry, and what-not. We’d also cleaned out the medicine cabinets, the refrigerator, and the pantry, so nothing perishable remained.

My brother Lee, the accountant, is executor of Betty’s estate, so I have to make myself useful in other ways. On this trip, I spent my time addressing the huge mass of photos, papers, and letters she left behind.

Betty saved everything, and the volume of stuff is truly intimidating. In many rooms, the drawers and cabinets are packed tight with prints, paperwork, and mementos of every kind.

Among them are countless photographs she took over the years — of people, flowers, her cats, and a host of scenes and landmarks around Savannah.

I found decades worth of greeting cards, letters, and photos sent by dozens of friends and relatives. I found correspondence from her brothers dating back to their high school days.

Most of it was unorganized, but not all. Back in the 1990s, I got into the habit of sending Sierra Club cards at Christmas time. As I discovered, Betty saved every one of those cards over the years. I found the stack neatly banded together in a marked envelope. I guess she liked the nature photography.

In doing the sorting, I learned quickly not to take short cuts. Every envelope and folder has to be closely perused, or something important might be lost.

When I opened a large envelope marked “Gordonston Assn.,” I found — mixed in with back copies of the neighborhood newsletter — two old newspaper clippings. One was about Betty’s reign as Freshman Queen at Armstrong State College. The other was the obituary of Aunt Maggie, my grandfather’s sister.

An envelope marked “Andrea Feb. 03” indeed might contain photos of my cousin Andrea. But for whatever reason, it also might hold a black and white print of my dad as a toddler, or me at age 10, or Betty at the beach with her high school pals. Betty saved everything.

After a few days, I settled on a practical way to sort and organize things (multiple cardboard boxes), and I made reasonable progress. All I can do is keep chipping away at it.

On some future trip, I’ll have to deal with Betty’s massive collection of 35mm transparencies. From the 1950s to the 1980s, she took color slides. Lots of them. They’re waiting for me in boxes under the table in the breakfast room.

For most of the week, Paco and I were alone in the house. While I worked, he relaxed and enjoyed the spring weather, sometimes in the shade in the back yard, sometimes snoozing on the screen porch. Savannah life agreed with him.

Twice a day, I took him for a walk around the block, or to Juliette Low Park, where he could go off-leash.

I did, of course, take breaks at lunch and dinner and ventured forth to eat seafood. When you live inland, it’s important to get infusions of iodine when you can.

By the fourth day, I had finished going through all the photo albums, drawers, and closets in both the dining room and the den — with the exception of two small cabinets that serve as TV/electronics stands.

I looked inside. The contents probably represented another half a day of work.

No matter. By that time, I was done. I had hit a wall. I needed to go home and recharge. All of it will be waiting for me on my next trip.

Betty saved everything. And I’m glad she did.

Aunt Betty’s front porch. Her peace lilies are thriving.

Paco at Juliette Low Park, which is within sight of Betty’s house. In the fall, the Gordonston Association will plant a Betty Smith memorial tree.