Memory Monday: Stuff vs. Memories

My husband and me in 1975

STUFF VS. MEMORIES

            My husband and I love family history. Our home has become the repository for “all things family,” from genealogies, to pictures, to items related/owned by different people who came before us. As far as collecting things from our families’ pasts, my husband is an only child and grew up in the same town as his grandparents (so he got a lot of things). I am just collector (or as my daughter is prone to say, a hoarder).

            The center hall of our house is line with framed pictures of our families. Our children grew up knowing the faces of their grandparents (even though some of them didn’t live long to see their grandchildren). There are even picture of their great-grandparents and some of their great-great-grandparents.

            In our home, there are books from my father and crystal stemware from my grandparents, as well as from my mother-in-law. There is a chess set that was my father’s, that I used to teach my son, and one of his best friends in high school, how to place the game (although his best friend surpassed me in skill very quickly).  Family knick-knacks rest on shelves. In my living room is my grandmother’s rocker, and in my library sits a buffet that used to belong to my great-grandfather-in-law. One time, my husband’s great-aunt gave us the shirt her brother wore when he was shot (we don’t even know the story behind this) and a long black skirt her mother made (in the late 1890s or early 1900s).

         The things we have in our house almost always have memories attached to them (or to the people who gave them to us). We hold them dear because of those memories. But one thing I learned in the last few years is that memories can’t be passed down to following generations (stories can, but not memories). We have the bedroom suite that belonged to my paternal grandparents—a poster bed, high-boy chest of drawers, and a sit-down dresser with triple mirrors (the two on either side of the center one are movable). I have always treasured that furniture because of the memories it holds to me.  My grandparents' bedroom was where the family always gathered to visit–it had an outside door near to their garage and the only television set in the house, along with my grandparents’ chairs on either side of their bed (where they sat as they watched television). Besides, the front room/parlor was for guests, and we were family.

         Years of memories are wrapped up in that furniture, and I treasure all of them. The thing is my children don’t have those memories. The furniture is just that—furniture, and not even their style. As gut-retching as it if for me to say, when I’m gone, so will be that furniture. This applies to a lot of things in our house. There are still somethings my children will want—my daughter wants my grandmother’s crystal stemware and my son would like to have the chess set. But for most of the things my husband and I leave behind, it will just be stuff. And that is as it should be. My memories are mine. My children will have their own memories, as will their children after them.

           Most of my treasures will become stuff, as they are donated or sold. The things that have memories to my children will be kept, probably to be donated or sold by their children after them. But isn’t that just the way of life.

           So I will enjoy my things with their memories while I can, knowing that my children will create their own memories.