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I’m not really a knickknack kind of girl. “She likes to play with them.”They nodded, looking not entirely convinced.I don’t blame them. “They’re for Lucy,” I explained, referring to my two-year-old granddaughter. Fireplace Sound Hidup Kertas Dinding Android Real fireplace background with sound and motion will warm your heart. ID Wallpaper: 11484 Versi: 1.0 Genre: Alam Muat turun: 29 Saiz: 13.65 MB Ulasan : 0.
Children moved out but somehow neglected to take their belongings with them. People died — my dad, uncles, aunts, cousins — and we survivors had to divvy up their treasures: old family photo albums, china, curios, silverware. For most of my life, I ran a tight memorabilia ship.But then I got old, and somehow, I started having more stuff. I do my own dusting and vacuuming, so the idea of having shelves filled with quaint little tchotchkes that have to be removed and then put back into place every week was never appealing.
All across America, we boomers are stuck with heirlooms and mementos that we can’t give away. And, come to think of it, he’s probably right.I’m not alone in realizing that my offspring aren’t interested in my stuff. That he might on some future occasion require salad forks, soup spoons and butter knives for 12, all monogrammed with initials that aren’t his, was apparently unfathomable. “And won’t it need to be polished?”“I have silverware,” my son Jake told me, simply stating a fact. “Too ornate,” my daughter Marcy said apologetically when I offered it to her. Mine are such minimalists that I can’t even interest them in really choice items like the family silver.
I can remember the allure of thinking I could pivot at any moment and change my surroundings, head off to Paris or New York City with nothing more than the clothes on my back.The rest of me laments that I can’t find homes for these ancestral items — that they, and the whole trailing history they hold for me of Christmas mornings and crowded Sunday dinners and barely but fondly remembered elderly relations, are fated to wind up on shelves at Goodwill or the table of a yard sale, to take up residence, if they’re lucky, among other people’s families, other people’s lives.My husband Doug’s mom, who’s 89, is going through her second stage of deaccession at the moment. They travel light.Part of me admires that. Their homes are sleek and streamlined, pared down, meant for easy movement and recalibrated lives.
But when things have meant a lot to you or someone you loved for a long time, it’s hard to consign them to oblivion.My situation is, ahem, somewhat further complicated by the fact that a lot of my most cherished belongings — the blue-and-white ceramic elephant occupying the fireplace hearth, the mid-century sideboard in the dining room, the Art Deco candlesticks — have no meaning for anyone. This time around, I feel her pain — well, maybe not for the deer heads. That means Doug and I are going through our second stage of parrying her proffers of taxidermied deer heads and World War II uniforms and lawn ornaments. She’s pondering moving again now, to assisted living.
I could try to justify my interior design by saying I’m simply taking the architecture back to its roots. This isn’t all that odd, I suppose, considering it’s a Victorian house. Even though — and I think this shows admirable restraint — it was part of a pair, and I only bought one.At this point, my home is so knickknack-heavy that it resembles a Victorian parlor crammed with scrimshaw and broidery and antimacassars and artwork made from human hair. It would be a lot to ask anyone else to adopt that elephant. I bought stuff just because I liked it and no longer had to worry the kids and their friends would break it with errant field-hockey sticks. In other words, I took other people’s discarded crap and made it mine.
Now, we cross our fingers and pray the missing goods will just enjoy their new, more active home.That’s not to mention the books burrowed in boxes all through the house — the aforementioned kiddie books and cookbooks, sure, but also all the photo albums, the hardback set of Harry Potter, the Scouting manuals, the complete Baby-Sitters Club and Goosebumps oeuvres. There was a time, not so long ago, when Doug and I grew cross if a chainsaw or camping stove was checked out and wasn’t returned. Backpacking equipment, tents, ladders, roof carriers, gardening utensils, power tools and coolers of every shape and size roost in our basement and garage, like a homeowner’s lending library of wonders. And thinking about death and dying makes me wonder: What’s going to happen to all the stuff that I’ve accumulated?Meantime — and forgive me if I sound a tad bitter — our home is the repository for all sorts of items the kids feel free to borrow and then return to us, just so they’ll never have to buy and store them for themselves. Hey, whimsy is my middle name.)Living through a pandemic has a way of making you think about death and dying.
And I’ve yet to see anyone’s VCR tape collection ring up big bucks on Antiques Roadshow. And thinking about death and dying makes me wonder: What’s gonna happen to the elephants? The china sets? The lovingly stored-away class photos of the kids from preschool through graduation gowns? It’s easy enough to say, “Put it all on eBay!” But nobody on eBay wants those old class photos. I think he’d have made good on the threat, too he wasn’t as sentimental as I seem to be.But living through (so far, anyway) a pandemic has a way of making you think about death and dying. We should just declare the place a museum and charge for tours.At some point shortly after I had kids, my dad announced that he was going to throw everything belonging to me and my siblings the hell out if we didn’t come and remove it from his house within 30 days.
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