Now that I am commiting myself to living with less stuff I am looking for small productive ways to store memories that I have long associated with needing to hold onto physical media. DVDs are gone, sold to Amazon, we can rent or purchase digital copies if we ever want to rewatch them. I am scanning paperwork and saving it to pdf so I can print it off if I actually ever need it. Photos are simple as I converted completly to digital by 2004 and never got around to having prints made. The few prints I do possess fit neatly in a single drawer. Going through all the gifts I have been given over the years was sentimental and harder to purge but I am still able to let it go by simply getting rid of anything that was broken, and hugging or photographing anything I liked but had no use for one last time before donating it.
I haven't really gotten the cahonnes up to go through heirlooms but I've got a plan for that too. If I do find I have anything I do not really want or need I will find a family member who can greater appreciate the item as it should be. I am a sucker for the chance to own a little piece of family history. I really feel a connection of spirit to these items. I feel that our ancestors must have loved and protected these items because they cherished them and it would honor their memory for me to do that too. Now I think oh my god maybe they didn't love that soup laddle. It probebly just sat in so and so's utensil drawer for 40 years because she rarely had a use for it too. Further it is probably only in great shape because it was stuffed in the back and forgotten not cared about at all not because it was cherished. That gets perfectly to my point. It is unlikely that my ancestors cared more about their clutter then I care for mine. My clutter does not represent a thing about me. Why in the world do I think it is any different for them. In the future I will honor my family by cherishing lessons, beliefs, and stories that really do preserve a bit of their spirits. No longer their clutter.
Today I started a button box in honor of the one my Grandmother keeps in her home. As a child I loved to look through her tin and imagine the story of how each little piece was once lost and then found. My Grandmother often tells me about how her Auntie never left anything to waste. I remeber hearing that she even kept loose strings to use for mending torn fabric. I see making my own little box as a way to honor that lesson and to remind me just how lucky I am to not need to save stray threads for mending my old socks. One small useful item holding a priceless bit of spirit don't you think?
Grandma’s The Button Box: 3-18-13
ReplyDeleteMy Grandma…why did I not let her know how precious she is to me and how valuable her lessons on life and the living of it, mean to me. As a child she seemed to want to teach me so much more than I was willing to learn. But thank God, she sit the example.
Today how I wish I had sat at her feet to hear her life story and I ask myself, why didn’t I have more interest? In my home as a child, Sunday was God’s day. Like an unbroken rule, we were up early, dressed in our Sunday best, ready to chomp down a big breakfast of steamed hot dogs and bread for breakfast, then off to church…for Sunday School, followed by church service where we sang hymns and listened to a sermon. How come I didn’t appreciate how proud my Gramie was when I began singing in the adult choir at a very early age?
After church was home to a big Sunday dinner that my dear Auntie prepared. Actually it began with Uncle fetching a live chicken whose head soon hit the chopping block…Being poor, with no toys to play with, following Uncle around and experiencing life through his actions provided me with plenty of good entertainment. Why didn’t I ask, how come you find it amusing when I dance and sing with a chicken who has lost it head?
Oh well, the big Sunday, Chicken dinner was followed by quiet time…often times a nap…I remember one such afternoon when Grandma shared with me that her parents had given her in marriage when she was fourteen years old. I found that information a real revelation, asking, “how did you get to know him?” Sunday afternoons he would make a visit and take her for a horse and buggy ride. Why I didn’t ask more questions, I have no idea…I do know he left his young wife and seven children when the Scarlet fever epidemics of the nineteenth century took his life.
I also know my Gramie’s parents were very poor and only spoke French. She shared almost nothing with me about them, and I asked little. Only one time do I remember ever laying eyes on them or hearing them speak with her in a strange tongue. From that time on, even when I would tease her to speak French for me, she objected. But had no objection when I took French in highschool, from a teacher who didn’t know how to speak French.
When searching Gramie’s genealogy, to my surprise I discovered Gramie’s Grandfather, John Pogney, was born in Italy. Now I ask and wonder, why didn’t she tell me about her Grandpa being born in Italy. Did or did she not know? Grandma’s gone to heaven to be with her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. When I join her there, I expect all my unanswered questions will be in vain. I’ll be completely and blissfully happy, just as she is…