Does this happen to anybody else? Up in my attic, I've got two large totes of pictures that my parents took. Most of them don't have people in them but if they do, I don't know who they are. The vast majority are pictures that they took while on vacation, traveling out west. I don't know where they were taken, or what they are of. After the death of my mother, my sister and I took the pictures and divided them up between the kids and grandkids, giving them all the pictures of themselves as they grew up. We gave them each a Christmas ornament from my parents' Christmas tree, and my sister put together pictures of our family history and ancestors and put it on a disc for everyone so that they had their family history. We put them in Christmas tins and presented them as Christmas gifts.
But... after all was said and done, there were still two large totes of pictures of God knows who or what. I cannot quite bring myself to throw them away. They are happy days in my parents lives, so they sit in a corner of my attic.
We had a chance to go through my parents house after my mother died. Due to family tensions, it was just my sister and I alone. It was a special day for the two of us, moving from room to room, reminiscing. We had already been told that it was our only chance and that once we were done, that was it. We knew when we walked out the door, we would never walk in it again.
It is funny the things that I found myself unable to leave behind. I have the round cake pans that my mother baked her Easter bunny cake in. I have the stained glass blue jay I got my dad for a birthday. I found it in the bottom of a closet. The old typewriter that was my mother's graduation gift in 1956. I remembered being a small child and tapping out my ABCs on it.The old and chipped glass FireKing bowl she used to raise her bread in. (I use it still). The cuckoo clock. A musical figurine that meant a great deal to me. Their diplomas and a year book. Things like that, I wanted and I'm not sorry that I did. Those are sensible things.
But there are other things. Old quilts, tatters, really, put together by my great-great grandmother. They are not artistic. Purely functional, heavy quilts made out of old denim and old flannel shirts. They have been in a cedar chest for years now. I know that I will never use them. They are not worth having repaired, but I cannot bring myself to discard them, not yet.
I've got a rocking horse that my uncle made for us when we were small children. He's seen better days. He needs to be taken apart and put back together. My sister didn't want him. Either did I, not really, but when I saw him sitting outside in her yard, I couldn't not take him. I remembered rocking on him in my bedroom 60+ years ago. He needs a new tail. He needs new ears (his old ones were made out of pinched black rubber from an inner tube.)
My sister suggested giving him to my grandaughters, but I know for a fact that shabby thing would not be welcome in their house. So he sits in the corner of my livingroom.
There's the old high chair upstairs. I don't want that either, but there it sits.
So yes, there are those things that I saved that I love. There are those things that I feel nostalgic about. But there are also things that I have no interest in at all, but have found myself the keeper of them, for reasons that I don't really understand.
I keep thinking that the time will come when it is time to let these things go, but that time hasn't come yet. My mother died 11 years ago. My father died 10 years before that.
It puzzles me though, that I have things that I cannot quite let go, even though I do not want them. Why is that?