I don't think about it so much in terms of when I may die - that could happen anytime - or even how (though I really don't want to die from Covid). It's more along the line of what will be lost when I leave.
No one will care that my grandfather gave me the Yamaha guitar. Or that my father gave me the old electric one I have in the closet. Nor will they know the thrill I experienced when I bought my first guitar, my very own choice, not one given to me or handed down. They will only be guitars.
Nor will my books mean anything to anyone, except perhaps by then books will be illegal while guns are the collectible item of the day. The books maybe will be burned, Fahrenheit 451 style, and no one will know that I think Phyllis Whitney wrote one of the best writing guides ever and it was totally underrated and dismissed by the "establishment" writers, or that I consulted the Chicago Manual of Style (15th edition and out of date somewhat now) hundreds of times.
The story of how we came by the bedroom furniture, which is a lovely, sweet memory for me, will vanish. Will anyone even know it's by Virginia House (which no longer exists), and one of the last sets of handmade furniture from the company before another larger furniture conglomerate gobbled it up and turned its products to a parody of the great items it used to produce? Will there be anyone to remember that we bought it at Da Longs, a furniture store in Roanoke that is now long gone?
No one will know that the scrap on the molding in the corner of hall came from the day we brought in a large piece of furniture. They won't know that my husband and I held hands every night while we watched TV, or that we built this house ourselves, for real, each of us nailing in boards, staining woodwork, working jobs and then spending long hours in the summer evenings to build ourselves a home. A small house by any standard, but big enough for us. And it's a home, not a house.
After we are gone, it will be just a house. Someone else will have to make it a home.
My material goods will be simply what they are, things that someone else may use, or rubbish that will end up in the trash.
My friend who passed away spent much time trying to rid her home of her stuff before she passed away. She had keepsakes from her family - a brother who died young. What to do with them? she asked me. Her son, she knew, had no connection to her sibling as he died long before her son was born. I wonder what happened to some of the things I gave her, things that meant something to the two of us, but would mean nothing to anyone else. I don't know.
I have similar items. Nothing much of value, junk jewelry that belonged to my mother and my great aunt, things my friends have given me that I treasure because I love that friend. A wise old owl sits atop my bookcase - my friend Leslie gave me that. In the end, it will be just another dust collector. A board with a collection of sayings also sits up there - my friend who passed away gave me that when I received my master's degree. She also gave me two of the clocks I have in my office.
No one will know I love clocks.
These are the things I think about sometimes in the quiet, when I walk through my house. I notice a nick in the wall, a scrape on the door. I know (mostly) how it got there, what happened to make it so. When I am gone - when we are gone, my husband and I - they will only be nicks and scratches, things to be repaired.
We are not our stuff, and we can't take it with us, but sometimes we are bound and connected to our stuff. The letting go can be cathartic, but it can also be sad.
This also reminds me that I am connected and somewhat in love with democracy, with the ideals of a world of equality, with the knowledge that the world is mean and cruel because it wants to be, not because it had to be. Those ideals mean as much to me - more to me - than the stuff I have around me. But just like my material things, these ideals simply sit and become nothing without someone to make them function. Where are those people?
The sun is shining and the icy snow from several weeks ago hopefully will disappear soon. In its place, we will have mud, but also growth. The daffodils will begin making their way from the bulbs to the top of the earth, their little leaves sticking out, specks of green among the brown grass. The forsythia will bloom.
Life will go on, regardless of the state of the nation, the state of my home, or the morass of my soul.
This topic has been on my mind a bit. Many high school friends have been diagnosed with cancer lately, and some others have had heart attacks. I am in my early fifties and is this when these things start to happen? It seems a bit early to me.
ReplyDelete"We are not our stuff, and we can't take it with us, but sometimes we are bound and connected to our stuff. The letting go can be cathartic, but it can also be sad."
ReplyDeleteOh, how this resonates with me.
I can totally relate to what you wrote. I think I will start putting notes on the bottom of some things. I need to see if I can get my son to help me sell somethings. After a couple of generations, things just are not important. Once I am gone, it won't be my problem.
ReplyDeleteMade me think of that saying "one man's treasure is another man's junk." Not that your possessions are junk, what you described here all sound lovely. But so true once we pass, that which we valued others will likely not. My husband and I sometime go to estate sales. I mainly go because I want to see the houses, but it saddens me to look at the items for sale and to know that these were highly loved and treasured and now all with price tags on them and reduced by 50% on the last day of the sale. Even family sometimes do not want what their loved ones had. We got rid of about 90% of what my husband's parents had (and they boarded on hoarders). We didn't have the room for it nor particularly cared for the items, sad as it was. Was just talking to my husband about a similar topic and said within just a generation or two, we will hardly be remembered. But I guess that might be the way of the world. Interesting topic to think about and write about
ReplyDeletebetty