What Makes Up Your Life?
At first, when they left Wichita, it seemed logical to downsize. It was sad, probably more so for my mother and aunt as they watched their childhood memorabilia being sold at auction. My grandfather's organ ... going for a steal. Furniture. Knick knacks. Little bits of history just gone. Sold to people who don't know it's value, don't know it's story. Canning supplies. Canning storage. Depression era habits that died so very hard. The organ I think still breaks everyones heart. I don't know what happened to Grandpa's violin.
Now it's down to brass tax. No more need for small, basic cookware. No more need for dish cloths. No more need for the love seat or chairs that her and Granddad used to read the paper in. Not as many pictures of family and children and grandkids. It's all being sold or given away really. Time to move on. It's got to find a new home.
The things that we love ... when it comes down to it are just things. But to me, the picture Grandma had of Oregon or even this really kind of horrible welcome sign ... it means something to me. I saw it every time I went to Grandma's. It's familiar. In ways I am no longer familiar to my grandmother really.
Even picture frames ... gifts that we've given her ... all have to find a new home; mostly to goodwill. How do you take back those things? Where do they go? How do you explain to the new owner what they mean? How they were attained, and how special some of them were? My dad bought her and my grandfather a wooden frog from Brazil. I have it now. But it was bought special for them. And it was special because my dad, all on his own, did that.
None of the stories are needed. They are just things. Random, old things that will be sold for $1 or less probably. But all of it makes up my Grandmother's life. And it made me think about what my life would go for. Probably not much. I mean mostly I have the same stuff; linens and picture frames and furniture. All of it infinitely replaceable and interchangeable with hundreds of other things just like them. But they are mine. Lewis and I bought this couch together. Our first joint purchase. The stupid aluminum picture frame that has our engagement picture in it ... originally it had our first picture as a couple in it. It's probably worth a nickel. A penny really. It's horrid and tacky with hearts and everything ... but I can't get rid of it.
It just makes me sad. Thinking about all the things I have, what would mean the most to me and then at the event of my death or incapacitation, it all just goes into a void. A thrift shop or salvation army for other people to pick over. Gifts from children and husbands and friends ... all just given away.
Mostly, what I hope, is that the pictures I've taken, maybe just the best ones ... I hope those are kept and passed on. I know it's stupid and I get told all the time ... live in the moment, you don't have to photograph everything. No, I don't. But memories fade, and in ten years when my kids are older and rushing out the door to catch the carpool to practice for this or that, I can flip through my slideshow of pictures and remember quite clearly these all too fleeting days when they were totally mine. When they looked at me like I truly hung the moon, and when they trusted me implicitly for every need and wish.
I'm glad that I can keep some of Grandmother's things. And none of it is really heirloom quality or anything. Just things. But maybe it will mean something to the part of her that remembers, that someone who knows her story and loves her has some of the things she once loved.
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