Old Things

There's a dumpster in the driveway. Because when you live somewhere for nearly 50 years, there's a lot of detritus. A lot of I'll need that someday and someone could use it stuff. Not to mention the what-is-that-anyway I mentioned last week.

You have to, when you're going through places where things are stored, guage what is valuable, what is collectible, what is needed, what you can't part with, and what is trash. You have to decide if trash and what you can't part with are one and the same.

You--or in this case I--have to wonder why I can't part with it. I still have the memories that give it value. I know my actual ability for recall is suspect, which makes that a moot point anyway. If I pick up a threadbare potholder, even if I do vaguely recall it hanging in Mom's kitchen, it's not going to hang in anyone else's. Because they won't remember it at all, and did I mention threadbare?

Sometimes what you find is kind of fun. I have some plates from the Grange hall where my grandparents went. They're white, with scalloped edges. I use them because I like them. Yesterday, I found two more of them in a tote of my aunt's things, and it made me happy. Will my kids want those plates when I'm gone? Will they even want the Callaway Corelle I've been using for ... well, a long time?

Probably not. Even now they are not perfect. The ivy is faded on the Callaway and the green is fading off the rims. The Grange hall plates have chips here and there and some of them are crazed. They will have no antique value. Do I love them? Yeah, I do. Should anyone else? Likely not if they didn't go to Grange with their grandparents or think Callaway dishes are just totally cool. (And they're not heavy, which makes them perfect for me.)

Why am I writing this? You mean other than the fact that it's Saturday morning and I've had a busy week and we have a dumpster in the driveway? If that's not a writing prompt, I don't know what is. (Writer humor--if you know, you know.)

I'm writing it because of a locket my son found among Aunt Gladys's costume jewelry. It's costume as well, I think, but it's also something I'm going to keep. I don't know whose it was, I don't know its story or why my aunt had the locket, but I do know it's someone's memory and it was a precious one. When my girls go through my jewelry box and find old Beatles pins and daisy earrings, they'll find the locket. They'll wonder, too, but I think the locket won't go in the dumpster or to someone who collects Beatles memorabilia or vintage Celebrity jewelry. I think one of them will take it home and put it in her jewelry box and save it--because someone loved the little boy in the picture and someone treasured the lock of hair on the other side of the locket.

Sometimes the stuff in the back of the closet or under the bed or in the garage are more than just old things. They are indeed someone's memories. They are often things that were loved and cherished and maybe needed. They are like old people, the much maligned Baby Boomers I write about. They matter. When it is time to let them go, by all means, like the dishes and the potholder, let them go. But don't forget them, don't negate their value.

Our high school class and the one from the year before ours is gathering today. The memories shared with those people are some of my favorites among old things. We've been out of school long enough to have experienced many things we'd rather not have. Losses we've never "gotten over" because we've learned the hard way that you don't. Willie Nelson has a song that says, It's not somethin' you get over, but it's somethin' you get through."

But getting through them means to appreciate the good things that have been along the way, to cherish the memories even if they fade and soften. To keep them in our emotional and mental jewelry boxes just to take out and look at sometimes.

Make it a good time. Go, Warriors, classes of '67 and '68. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.