Thoughts on Things, The Birth of Memories, The Ends of Eras

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About stuff. Actual stuff, that we, as humans living in this world, come to possess and save and store and hold on to and lose. I’ve been watching as two major events unfold in my loved ones’ lives and these thoughts collided in my mind.

First, my husband’s parents are moving out of the great state of New York for the first time in either of their beautiful lives, downsizing their home and moving off of Long Island and onto The Mainland. Back in 1984, they made their first big move from Queens out onto “The Island” with their three boys when my husband was five years old. That was their family home, filled to the brim with all the memories of growing up: backyard sports, birthday parties, barbecues, swimming in their pool, building friendships, sharing laughs, playing games, maturing. That chapter ended, though, and the empty-nesters looked for a new nest. That family home was sold in 1998, while my husband was in college, and they settled nearby into the quaint old refurbished ferry house on the water, one town over. Shortly after that occurred, my husband and I met at school and not long thereafter I flew into this new nest.  It was the house he brought me home to, where I was introduced to his parents and brothers and aunts and uncles and grandmother and friends. We’d dated while his parents lived there, and it was our homebase when we came back to New York many times for event after event during the busy wedding season of life and my father-in-law would kindly drive us and pick us up wherever we were headed, no matter where, whatever time of night. This was before Uber, of course. Then along came the babies, and babies did come. The three boys all got married three years in a row, and the babies each came in short order, one after the next and the next over the course of seven years. Ten little lovelies. We would stuff into this home for family reunions and holidays. At some points, the three boys were far flung: in London, California, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, out further on Long Island. We would all schlep via airplane and car to meet in this house and in a blurry sleep-deprived New York state of mind, minivans laden with pack-n-plays, booster seats, sound machines, diapers and diapers and diapers, we would gather in a tizzy of giddy toddlers and crying babies, young parents’ heads full of noise and fatigue. We would laugh though, and wine would flow, and coffee mugs were filled to the tippy top. And then the years whipped by. The kids got a little older, and a little busier, and our visits got spaced out further and further. Our incredible in-laws continued to hop in their cars, though, and help us all when nannies cancelled or when we needed extra hands on deck when we were sick or needed to travel for a wedding or trip or any of a million other reasons like recitals and Grandparent Days and on and on. The miles they drove and drove to us stayed the same, but the drive impacted their bodies more and they wanted to be closer, to come to more games and invite the kids for sleepovers. Last weekend we drove up to say goodbye to this home they’ve had for almost two decades. They toured us through the rooms asking if we wanted this piece of furniture or that, these books, those lamps, that end table. We’d already received boxes upon boxes of my husband’s trophies and awards and papers he’d written from high school and graduation caps and old golf shoes and photographs of study abroad experiences and dorm life. But it was so neat looking at some of these newly unearthed familial mementos, one notable item among them was a personal letter my father-in-law received from George Steinbrenner, owner of the Yankees. Hearing stories about how they’d come to possess these varied tidbits of their pasts was endlessly enjoyable. A bowling pin from the bar my husband’s grandfather worked in for countless years, the one with the bowling alley in the back where his dad would line up the pins for the bowlers by hand. Holding in our hands these old cut crystal bowls and vases and wine glasses from great great uncles and grandparents was surreal, imagining the hands that made the bowl, and, more meaningfully, the hands that bought it and shared it and passed it on. Sometimes I visualize these items in a time-lapse video, being built or fashioned in a faraway town, then coming by boat or truck or walked into the store to be sold, purchased by a younger version of old distant relatives for some amount of money, wrapped in paper of the time, carried home, brought out for various celebrations and family dinners and what not…then sitting for years in a cabinet, and handed on to a daughter or son. Then it moves cities, and then gets used some more, and then again it sits, and again handed on to the next daughter or son to give it new life. The video in my mind zips through styles and haircuts and clothes and decor, all changing in a fast-forward blur. Truth be told, this is why I love Antiques Roadshow so much. (Shh, don’t tell anyone. Seriously, though, if my husband is out of town, sitting with a glass of wine under a blanket and hearing people tell anecdotes of the acquisition of their old paintings and necklaces and statues and plates and cupboards and rifles and quilts and autographs? Best. When their great great grandfather toured Asia. Or it survived the Holocaust. Or the Civil War. Or, also some accidental comedy, when you watch puffed up proud people bragging about these presumed-to-be valuable items with tall tale family legends that you watch them learn on camera…actually aren’t true. Or the sweet guy who was handed down an item in a distant aunt’s will….that just *happens* to be this rare collectors item worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. He’s shocked. He cries. His whole life changes in an instant. Ugh. LOVE that.) Anyway, it all gets passed on. It tells a story. It’s where we came from. Maybe they are ostentatious items, that someone proudly purchased as their career was beginning to take off. Maybe they are simple and humble, but the items were so special to *them* because they made them with their own two hands or had come through the family for so long. And *that* makes it special to us.

Through their home we walked, seeing semi-packed boxes filled with their life and their story. When the tears greeted my eyes after seeing a blanket my father-in-law had taken with him from the hospital where the first grandchild was born and the pink Johnson and Johnson’s’ baby lotion that no longer has baby skin needing it…I said to my mother-in-law with a quivering voice, “It really is so so awesome that you guys are coming closer to us…but…this is sad. It’s the end of an era. So much has happened in this house. So many beautiful things. And hard things. And stressful things. And hilarious things.” I gestured to these old hutches and china cabinets that weren’t going to fit in their new place, that soon would no longer remain in our family. “It’s so sad.” And she smiled and said “Aw, sweetheart. I know. But. Every time I feel sad, I remember that these are *just things* and we can bring the memories along with us. What’s best to me is being nearer to my grandchildren and being able to build *new* memories with all of you. That’s what’s most important.” At that moment, one of the kids came running into the house (*ding ding ding* “Front.Door.Open” said the cold digitized female voice of their home alarm system). Snapped me back. Yes. That’s true. All of this…it’s just stuff.

The second event which happened alongside this one is sadly the recent result of countless wildfires. Having spent a few years out west and making friends and memories in Northern California, the fires that are continuing to burn and blaze and devastate and devour home upon home upon business upon school upon farm upon vineyard upon land upon car upon things….. and lives…. it’s breaking my heart. We have several friends whose homes and livelihoods have come to a screeching halt. The fires consumed…all of it. I read an article saying that there was nothing even to sift through. Everything. All of it. Every. Single. Thing. Was just (*snap*) gone. Except, of course, the memories of the places and the things they once possessed…where they had kitchen dance parties or stole kisses or baked pumpkin bread or laid their little ones down to sleep. Thankfully my friends and their spouses and children and dogs made it out with some of their stuff…most notably their lives… but the rest of it, sadly, is gone. Documents of properties owned, clothing, scrapbooks, baby photos, journals, family heirlooms, new sneakers, favorite pairs of pajamas, books, birth certificates, jewelry, holiday decorations, and…and…and… Amazingly, though not surprisingly, most of what I’m reading from my friends and old neighbors is that while sad to have lost all these things, they are thankful to have their lives and loved ones and that they will rebuild and process and grieve, but that they were glad to *only* lose *things*.

Things carry so much meaning and history and love. But, really, they are just things. None of them can be brought with us when we die. Most things, while housing sentimental value, harkening back to bygone eras, actually can be replaced….and, if not, we actually can move forward in life without them (sad as it may be). It begs the question then: why do so many of us place so much value on things? Cars. Houses. Clothes. Shoes. Home decor. But. Really, genuinely, sincerely….None. Of. The. Stuff…..Matters. I struggle a little bit with this because I’m a saver. I keep some of the kids art work. And their writing journals. And the shirt I was wearing the day I met my husband. And some of the sweet outfits the kids always wore that will bring my mind back to certain moments or eras in life. I get real joy out of rifling through old photos and diaries and old wedding gifts that were less necessary than we’d perhaps thought at the time we registered for them. But…our attic and garage and basement are Filled. With. Things. I like the stories. And the memories and moments that the *things* remind me of. It’s a good thing too, though, to not be so attached. To the things, yes, but to the space they take up inside your closets and your brain and…to the immeasurable weight you don’t even realize they place on your heart. We all might benefit from making time and space to reflect on this and it’s place in our own lives. To wonder deeply about why you hold on to all the things. Or why you toss all the things. Why you need to acquire all the things. Why things don’t mean anything at all to you. What is it we are all trying to prove? And to whom? What holes are we trying to fill? Why do we routinely cling or rid? What lessons need to be learned within it? What does that say about us? To any little eyes watching, what does it teach them about the way in which we view the world? I don’t have all the answers obviously, but the questions, I think, are important to ask.

Being aware enough, too, day to day, to really *see* our people, and appreciate our things when they serve us as their maker intended…that is important too. Awareness is that secret skill that allows the memories and gratitude to get imprinted in our brains and on our hearts. If we blow through life without awareness, we run through the whole thing in a hazy daze, and then none of the joy or pain or laughs or warmth we experience has any place to land. The memory doesn’t get the opportunity to take root and flourish. Perhaps worth sitting down with a warm cup of something and thinking a bit. About things. And stuff. Give thanks for the things we have. Let go of the things we don’t need. Have presence of self to absorb the purpose and place of the items from our history in the moment. And allow *memories* to carry you when the things inevitably do go. It’s all just….stuff. Be well, friends. Xo