I pulled the ladder down from the ceiling and climbed the shaky rungs into my attic. It had been many years since I entered that dark space in my house but an exceptionally heavy April storm had me concerned over whether there might be a leak.
Upon reaching the top of the ladder I pulled the long overhead string that hung from the ceiling and the 60 watt bulb shed light onto a number of cartons. I had no memory of ever seeing them before. I was puzzled. Surely I was the one who had placed them there, but when and why?
I peeled open the tape that neatly sealed the first box, peeked inside and instantly recalled how they ended up in my attic.
When I moved into my small home eleven years earlier, I knew I had limited storage space, so rather than throw away cherished memorabilia, as my children had suggested, I filled these cartons, hauled them to the attic and, subsequently, forgot about them.
As I sat crossed-legged on the dusty splintered floor emptying each box, I became lost in a time warp. The floor was my canvas, and the assorted articles that encircled me in varied sizes, colors, shapes and textures, were the medium used to depict my life.
I found my grandmother’s irreplaceable recipes. I clutched them to my breast, closed my eyes I could taste her mouth watering knishes, kugel and blintzes. As a youngster, in the early fifties, I followed her around her basement kitchen noting each ingredient she used to magically create her delicacies. I tried to figure out the measuring equivalent for handfuls and pinches as she skillfully tossed spices and herbs into the simmering kettles on her stove.
How could I give up my dear, late brother’s matchbooks and hotel keys collected from his many trips around the world; his journals filled with stories of presidents and beggars he’d befriended, or his spiral notebook filled with poetry that gave insight into his soul? Could I part with his pillow that I press to my face in search of his familiar scent; or his Rolodex, tightly crammed with a lifetime of relationships that contributed to the fabric of his life?
And what about my father’s collection of first edition postcards? He had been a letter carrier in our town back in the early forties, and had proudly displayed the shiny number “1″ on his cap like a badge of honor. I recall his stories about mail deliveries he’d made on foot, in snow storms, and the friendly homeowners who greeted him with coffee and hot chocolate. His ready smile, charisma and compassion had made him a legend in our small farming town of Union, New Jersey. How could I hand his prized postcards to a collector for mere monetary reward?
Could I throw away my mother’s treadle sewing machine that had been passed down from her mother? She made all our clothes on it. One year my brother and I proudly presented her with a modern Singer, with a zillion attachments. She was embarrassed that she couldn’t get the hang of it and continued using her old machine — in secret.
My mother was a beautiful, elegant woman, who delighted in dressing up. She had countless pairs of gloves, in supple leather, decorative lace and soft cotton, in every length and color. Could I sell them to a stranger at a garage sale, whose only interest was in the attached price tag she was pressing to have lowered?
How could I throw away my children’s primitive drawings and hand crafted creations, given to me with love and pride so long ago?
My home has never been simply a place to eat and sleep. It is my sanctuary. It reflects and encompasses my life. Nearly every surface is covered with tangible evidence of my family’s existence in the form of photographs, porcelain and crystal animal collections, pottery, ceramic dolls, collages and paintings. My past and my present coexist.
I have always derived great pleasure from living in the moment, but I find equal merit in preserving yesterday. I now accept the fact that I am too emotionally involved to objectively sort through those boxes with a goal of getting rid of things. It will be a job best left for my children when I’m gone. But, I hope that in their pursuit of neatness and organization they don’t miss out on experiencing the wonderful surge of emotions that come with sifting through one’s history. Hopefully they will be fortified with memories and disclosures, just as I was when I found myself sitting on the attic floor surrounded by pieces of my past, in yet another failed attempt to throw away what my home doesn’t need, but my insatiable spirit covets.
Leave A Comment