Stuff

I have a lot of…stuff. My kids, my husband, my family and a few friends all make jokes about all my…stuff. I view my treasures very differently than they do, however, I am beginning to feel claustrophobic.

As I sit here in my downstairs family room situated in what I always have felt a quite cozy home, I survey the room. What happened? How did I get to this place?

A stack of “want to read” books surround me. I love books, I love the feel of pages, the scent of paper and the words filling the pages with stories that will take me to far off places. I adore books that touch the heartstrings, books that make me laugh, make me cry and leave me in suspense as I turn the pages. As a matter of fact, I will admit…I am a book addict. I cannot pass a book store without picking one up and adding it to my “want to read” stack.

However, my books are taking over. I have them stacked beside me, behind me, in a basket at my feet and on a small ledge by the window. I have bibles that I took to Israel three times, a bible I truly treasure filled with notes on thoughts and feelings. I have another bible that belonged to the kid’s great grandmother and one of the first few I read as a young Christian. I have journals and journals telling my story on shelves in my room. I have baby books revealing the start of little lives stored away for keeps.

I find it interesting the stuff we keep, the stuff we collect throughout the years. In my family room, on almost every table or stand, I could pick up something that “means” something special to me. There are several items the kids made me, bought me or gave to me. Some of the items the grandchildren gave to me that I treasure. When I look at the stuff, I can’t bear the thought of pitching it. My children, most of them are now grown, have no idea that some of these seemingly insignificant gifts mean something to me.

The family room has that “lived in look”. In other less kind words, it’s a mess. As I look straight ahead of me, my coffee table is loaded with stuff, my fireplace houses photo albums waiting to be transformed into scrapbooks and the television holds photos, candles and a clock. It’s a mess filled with my stuff. On the mantle over the fireplace I have a brick from the brick yard my Papaw Bill worked at and a rock from my dear Aunt Pauline’s yard. These small things tie me to my family. Strange, huh? I mean, they are only things right?

I have mementos from travels, distant places around the world. There are two pillows from Panama on a trip my brother, God bless his heart, took me on. I have rocks from the three trips to Israel he and I traveled to, a photo book from New York City where I traveled with my four girls one weekend, I have items from Belgium, Paris and many other travels surrounding my home. They all bring back a flood of memories when I see them.

Upstairs in my dining room, I have my Great-Grandmother Pitts dishes, antiques for sure. I love those dishes stored in a hutch the girls Great-Grandfather on their father’s side built with his own hands. The dishes were once promised to me by my dear Grandmother Goldie and before she passed, I carefully packed them up and took them home. I cried as I dropped two plates while I was washing them to put them away. They tie me to a past, a place where families had sit down dinners together, where loving hands made the meals and decorated their meager living spaces. I was a little girl when my grandmother served me a meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes made with real butter on these very plates. I remember her loving look as she patted me on the head and told me the pretty plates, mix matched for sure, would one day be mine. After her death I brought them home and on our first Thanksgiving in our new home, I served my girls a big meal on them.

These very dishes served a family of five over 75 years before. Although they are not a whole set anymore, one plate I managed to glue back together, they belonged to my past, they link me to two very special ladies in my life and have now served five generations. I can almost picture my petite Great-grandmother setting the plate to her giant sized husband and three little girls. The dishes hold history for me, family and friends breaking bread and sharing lives over a meal.

How could I part with these treasures? Would they ever begin to mean the same things to my children, or my children’s children? The answer is probably not. I know one day I will pass away and the kids will do just as they have joked for years; they will take my stuff out to the backyard and while remembering me I hope fondly, have a huge bonfire. One person’s treasures will become another person’s stuff.

However, I hope, as they are cleaning out my stuff, as they dismantle my life they will pause and remember me. I pray as they hold an item in their hands, most likely shaking their heads, they will see that the tiny picture painted for me years ago by tiny hands was treasured. I keep these things as a silly gesture of those I love. I cannot take these things with me, nor will I need them where I am going. But while I am here, I will look at them fondly, I will remember those I treasured in my life gifting these silly items to me and how much I adored them.

Yes, I have a lot of stuff. I am beginning to part with a few items here and there, things that are not tied to precious memoires. I am downsizing just a little, but not as much as my family would like. I like to think by giving up my stuff now I would be stealing that pleasure of a bonfire filled with memories I smile at the thought of them all gathered together throwing away my stuff and laughing. I can see them now, hugging, maybe crying a bit and laughing together as a family. The bonfire will be bringing them all together thinking of me and the past. The joke is on them.

Teresa Gale