Boxes and Boxes

Life after the Foreign Service for my folks was very much like life before; they moved on the average of every two years. Was this out of habit or because of opportunity? The coffee reports my dad wrote morphed into a newspaper column--same wit, detail, and optimism. My mother began a oft repeated mantra, "This is my last move." She described each as, "Boxes and boxes." No wonder. The souvenirs, the books, the writings, the scraps were treasures. I'm glad to have been the family historian even though I had no sense of systematizing, archiving, labelling. Things simply ended up in boxes and boxes. However, these boxes tell the stories of my life and how I held together the evidence of other people's lives in reverent cohesion. Here is the my cross-stitching of an alphabet sampler with peacocks bowing gracefully. Over there is the budding collection of blue bottles. The poster made from a photo of Winston Graham's garden is hung with "The String of Stars," paper stars Barbara Emily and Henry made one summer in Roanoke. An antique jewelry case holds broken halves of earrings but not just any. Nothing is Just Any. A decorated shoe box with Helpers written across it contains letters from friends along the way. A scrapbook is filled with calling cards of people long dead who stopped to visit my parents when they lived in Guatemala, their first post. I have considered scanning and filing objects and drafts and art but what a project! And wouldn't it be missing the tactile thrill of touching something very old and kin? For years the realization that after "I'm gone" most would be tossed, recycled, and worst yet, ignored, has haunted me. Yes, I have been haunted by Proust and Time Passing. My possessions would be kidnapped, somebody else's project, and I worried. It has become increasingly clear to me, though, that the worry was not about me. It was about these things being cared for. A sketch meaning nothing to an outsider has been lovingly protected for decades. A tiny geode which might be overlooked has housed memories no one could replicate from viewing a photo. My connection to inanimate objects began at the age of three when I explained to my dolly that tea would be late. Letting go would be appropriate but not characteristic. The clutter proofing magazines all tell me peace would be healthful. However, my health may be better because of my "friends": the petite Eiffel Tower with its patina harboring the scents of World War II; the wooden camel with the miniature perfume bottle in its cargo, the perfume long evaporated; and what about the "Remember Who You Are" bracelet crafted in Eureka? Or the wreath of fox grape gathered behind the cabin? Must I really dispose of the mint tin filled with my grandmother's buttons? Who would know about the candleholders made in the garage opposite the beach house by the policeman who escorted me to the polling booth? Who's to note the scratched water color set (with some missing) was my mother's when the jungle was her back yard? Lucille writes, "The organizer I follow, Julie Morgenstern, objects to folks who tell you to clear out everything. She does not think that is necessary. You organize to retrieve stuff because you need to be able to find what you want when you need it. You also clear out things that YOU do not want, but not things other people say you shouldn't have. You have to be safe (can't leave the unused bear traps on the floor covered with old laundry--my example) and clean enough to be sanitary, but you do not have to be minimalist. She says that beautifully organized houses on the outside that have organized and kept the wrong stuff are not organized. Nor are houses where things have been where things have been stacked and stored to be out of sight but where no one can get to what they need."

City Song

He has 2 friends and me.

Incredible variety.

My son climbs dreams instead of trees

and leans to swing off rocking chairs

carefully angled to miss by inches

the farthest point

he calls, "Land Ho."

~~~~~~~~~

...may the things that you have bring you the blessings of remembrance of things past...