Boxes keep appearing on our front porch. Brown cardboard ones, plain except for the sweeping Amazon.com "smile" across the side, and white ones bordered with bold black letters announcing a CRATE and BARREL delivery. None are even addressed to me.
The names on the shipping labels read Andrew Lewis and Katherine Alexander Lewis, the newlyweds. Packed inside are gifts from their wedding registries, pots and pans, bowls and platters, skillets, griddles, cookbooks, flatware, mixer, knives, cutting board, grater, measuring cups. . . all for their new kitchen, and, coincidentally, all items that my mother is giving away as she downsizes from house to apartment.
For the past month I've often felt like the umpire in a tennis match, head turning back and forth from our daughter and her new husband to my mother. Katherine and Andy are unpacking boxes, filling their home, adding to their first few belongings. My mother is packing boxes, emptying her home, taking away from a lifetime of belongings. Straddling the net on my imaginary court, I find myself in the middle of the extremes, in "middle age" (a term that strangely sounds more old than middle) observing and pondering stages of life, wondering the value of "things."
Searching for insight, my thoughts return to my grandparents' house after Pop died and Grandma was leaving their home for an apartment. Growing up in the same town with them, I felt as much at home in their house as my own. It was packed from attic to garage with accumulated stuff from over 50 years of marriage, six children, and a passel of grandchildren. Walking through the rooms, looking at the familiar furniture, dishes, knick knacks, pictures, personal possessions, I knew that I wanted to take something as a remembrance. But out of a houseful of belongings, what held personal meaning for me? Could "things" capture a memory, trigger an emotion, help me hold onto a piece of these two people whom I dearly loved?
Uncertain, I selected four.
*the Scrabble game that Grandma taught me how to play, the one we played on Saturday nights at the old cardboard table in the living room
*the dominoes that Pop taught me how to play, the ones whose box was so dilapidated that he taped and re-taped it with black electrician's tape until it fell apart
*Pop's rocking chair, where he sat watching his favorite Yankees play on t.v., as I brushed and styled his hair
*Grandma's rocking chair, where she sat quietly rocking on the screened-in front porch, as I swung beside her in the porch swing, singing
Thirty years later, these possessions still have the power to connect me to my grandparents, the experiences and love we shared. A value only I could assign, only I could treasure.
The names on the shipping labels read Andrew Lewis and Katherine Alexander Lewis, the newlyweds. Packed inside are gifts from their wedding registries, pots and pans, bowls and platters, skillets, griddles, cookbooks, flatware, mixer, knives, cutting board, grater, measuring cups. . . all for their new kitchen, and, coincidentally, all items that my mother is giving away as she downsizes from house to apartment.
For the past month I've often felt like the umpire in a tennis match, head turning back and forth from our daughter and her new husband to my mother. Katherine and Andy are unpacking boxes, filling their home, adding to their first few belongings. My mother is packing boxes, emptying her home, taking away from a lifetime of belongings. Straddling the net on my imaginary court, I find myself in the middle of the extremes, in "middle age" (a term that strangely sounds more old than middle) observing and pondering stages of life, wondering the value of "things."
Searching for insight, my thoughts return to my grandparents' house after Pop died and Grandma was leaving their home for an apartment. Growing up in the same town with them, I felt as much at home in their house as my own. It was packed from attic to garage with accumulated stuff from over 50 years of marriage, six children, and a passel of grandchildren. Walking through the rooms, looking at the familiar furniture, dishes, knick knacks, pictures, personal possessions, I knew that I wanted to take something as a remembrance. But out of a houseful of belongings, what held personal meaning for me? Could "things" capture a memory, trigger an emotion, help me hold onto a piece of these two people whom I dearly loved?
Uncertain, I selected four.
*the Scrabble game that Grandma taught me how to play, the one we played on Saturday nights at the old cardboard table in the living room
*the dominoes that Pop taught me how to play, the ones whose box was so dilapidated that he taped and re-taped it with black electrician's tape until it fell apart
*Pop's rocking chair, where he sat watching his favorite Yankees play on t.v., as I brushed and styled his hair
Thirty years later, these possessions still have the power to connect me to my grandparents, the experiences and love we shared. A value only I could assign, only I could treasure.
Gathering,
Giving away,
and. . .
Keeping.
As my head turns toward my mother, sitting among a room of stacked papers, family pictures, multicolored quilts and glittering glass bowls, I wonder how she will decide. What will be worthy of her keeping?
Very thoughtful and thought provoking.
ReplyDeleteI love the new background for the template. It is you!!
Thanks! These stages of our life do require time for reflection. As for the template, an airplane does seem to be a fitting symbol of my "back and forth" life now. :-)
ReplyDelete