Today’s letter writer is Dorothy Rice, author of the brilliant memoir, Gray is the New Black. Nothing like a pandemic to put our “stuff” in perspective….
I have so many things, objects, stuff – more than I can reasonably put to good use. I’m not generally hugely bothered by it. The jumble of discards, tools, piles for goodwill in the garage. Baby furniture and god-only-knows-what in the attic. Clothes in half a dozen sizes that haven’t fit in years. The remains left behind by five grown children. What’s left of my mother’s and one grandmother’s earthly possessions.
Precious memorabilia mixed with stuff that’s simply old. Most of it shoved into cupboards, under beds, stacked on shelves too high to reach. Un-labelled boxes and lumpy sacks. Easy to forget behind a closed door or cabinet.
Yet they’re there. Sometimes I worry I’ll burden my kids with all my “things,” like my mother did, seized with Alzheimer’s before she’d done any down-sizing, leaving it to my sisters and I to determine what to keep, what to gift, what to give away, what to toss.
There are predictable times when the sorting, sifting and organizing urge hits:
“Spring” cleaning, no matter the actual season
The last trimester of pregnancy
Preparing for a move
Marriage – Divorce – Marriage
When kids leave home
When a family member dies
During a pandemic
Like most, I’m following all the health advisories and staying close to home. I’m avoiding human contact and practicing social distancing when I walk the dogs. I could be productive. I want to finish a book this year. I could connect with friends and family in the old-fashioned ways. Letters. Phone calls. New ways too. Zoom. Facetime. I could pitch in, find ways to help the many whose situation isn’t so comfortable as mine. Retired with a livable pension. Family close by in case of emergency. A comfortable home, no, a huge home – bought 22 years ago to accommodate a newly-blended family of 7. Me and my third husband, our kids – 9, 11, 15, 17, plus a newborn. Now it’s just the two of us, two dogs and two guinea pigs, rattling around in a five-bedroom house.
I write a little. I walk a little. I talk to my sisters and a few friends a little. I miss my grandkids a lot. Mostly, I sort things.
It began with the dining-room hutch, half-filled with two massive sets of depression-era glass – one clear, one a lovely translucent purple. It suddenly seemed foolish to have the only storage cabinet in the dining room chock full of glassware I’d never used and that has no particular sentimental value. My husband’s stepmother gave us the clear set – she thought it might have been his grandmother’s. His cousin’s wife gave us the purple set. She too thought it might have been his grandmother’s. I’d always wondered if they weren’t just clearing out their cupboards.
I googled it’s worth. Thought about selling it. Sent photos to my eldest daughter, asked if she’d like me to save it for her. The grandmother whose dishes they might have been, is no relation of hers, but they are lovely and a full set. She said she would. I ordered proper padded storage containers. Round zippered bags for plates and saucers. Flat, compartmentalized ones for goblets and glasses. Twelve containers in all. Labelled. Safe for posterity.
The containerized depression era glassware now fills an entire faux French Provincial cabinet in the living room. One I’d just taken off my eldest son’s hands. The cabinet was my mother’s. I’d promised to save it for my younger daughter.
It will be years before my daughters have room for the dishes, the furniture, or anything else I might set aside for them. They both live in tiny Manhattan apartments. Homes of their own are dreams, ones that may not be realized in my lifetime. Not to be morbid. Only to say, I may be storing these things indefinitely. So, I’ll label them and keep a list. This box goes to Veronica. This one to Carolanne. These to Fred, to Bobby, to Bryan.
It started with the depression-era glass. Which led to tablecloths and placemats. Which led to the one set of china I do use. Which led to . . .
It’s a big house. We may have twelve or more weeks of semi-isolation, of sheltering in place, ahead of us. I sort things. I think about what they mean, what they matter. I remember who they belonged to. Who made them, used them, once cared about them, how they came to take up space in my home. I write a little.
Thank you Dorothy. I, too, have too much “stuff” in my house from long-deceased family members. Although her new line of products and TV show have somewhat discredited her, Marie Kondo in her original book spoke clearly about what to do with inherited items as well as gifted items for which we have no use. Touch all of them physically, hold them close, and mentally thank the person who gave them to you. Tell them that you received their message, that you know they love or loved you, remembered you and even cherished you. Then let the item go to another person who can use them. The item itself will thank you and feel so much better for being used for its purpose! The anthropomorphism was one of the best parts of her book and kept our entire family giggling when we talked about it! Example: Your socks will feel much better being gently folded and laid on edge in your drawer, rather than being stretched to the max into a tight ball and rolled around like potatoes as you jerk your drawers open and shut.
I just sold my home I had lived in for 40 years, raised my 3 kids, buried my husband ( not in the house!) Suffice to say, I had lots of “stuff”. I moved to a small apartment in a wonderful retirement community. Getting rid of stuff is so freeing! I have what I need and more, but no storage units. I call it my “Barbie apartment.” I kept what I love. I heard if it doesn’t bring you joy, get rid of it. So I have.
This is so wise and I thank you for sharing your experience with stuff.
Wonderful meditation on what mementos are for. This pandemic and quarantine is changing our view of our lives in ways big and small.
you said it!