Dealing with childhood memorabilia
As I mentioned in this column last time, I took a trip "back home" two weeks ago. My sister and I have finally convinced my mother she should no longer live alone in her big old rambling ranch-style house in northern Illinois. This was not an easy task and it took about a year, but she is now resigned to a move to Ft. Morgan, Colo., where my sister and her family live. An aunt and uncle live in Denver and I am closer to Colorado than to the greater Chicago area. That just about puts us all in the same neighborhood.
My presence was required in Illinois to offer advice on "what to do with all this stuff." Since The Mister and I have an auction business which deals with "all this stuff" on a regular basis, it was assumed I would have some expertise in this area. I offered advice over the phone, but they wanted me to see it all up close and personal. A verbal description might not have done justice to the set of Funk and Wagnalls encyclopedias or the 1945 sleeper sofa that exists only because there are no longer enough family members capable of hoisting it to the curb during cleanup week.
Or consider the quart-sized cardboard freezer boxes we used back in the 1960s when, on trips to see my grandparents in Minnesota, we picked blueberries by the gazillions to bring home and freeze. There were dozens of those boxes
And the more time I spent with those two, the more I found myself thinking like them.
Being the responsible oldest child, I dutifully cleared out most of my childhood memorabilia years ago. I had no intention of bringing anything back to Kansas on this trip. However, I made the mistake of driving the pickup to Illinois, not for the purpose of hauling "all this stuff" back, but because it is the newest vehicle, thus the most reliable. Sure. I came home with the truck loaded. Before I left The Mister taught me to tie a plethora of knots capable of lashing all manner of furnishings and boxes into a truck bed. He must have thought there was something up there we needed or he would not have bothered to show me how to keep it safe, right? My thoughts exactly. But don't ask me for a list of what I brought back. I am too embarrassed to tell you.
There was just something about standing there staring at the tricycle I pedaled down the sidewalk five-plus decades ago. Haul it to the curb? Are you kidding? I brought back a couple of boxes of dishes, some from the home of each set of grandparents. None of them are collectible, most are chipped, and I will never use any of them. But put them into the Dumpster? How could I?
My mother was famous for saving nearly every paper, on which any of us ever drew, wrote, or pasted something. They are fun to look at and passing along a couple of them to my own children might be worth a chuckle. But now I have boxes of them. I just couldn't bring myself to pitch them.
Luckily, we own a warehouse. And that is exactly where I unloaded the pickup the day I got home. Good grief. After years in the auction business, I should have known better. I should have walked away from it all.
At least I didn't bring home the blueberry boxes. I put them in my brother's pile. He has not yet been back to claim any of his childhood treasures or mementos. Nor did he show up to help this time, so I figured he won them by default. I think that maybe we can make a case with him for the 900-pound sleeper sofa as well.
In the meantime, I may force myself to write about this topic from time to time as penance for being such a sap. And I have begun trying to make my truckload of treasures evaporate. I have contacted my own kids about "all this stuff." The Youngest Daughter said she might be interested in the tricycle. Know why? Because she "remembers seeing it at Grandmother's house." Sheesh, that acorn didn't fall far from the tree, did it?
— SUSAN MARSHALL
