I have only recently begun the process of purging my home of extra stuff.  I have come to the conclusion that one person (me) cannot possibly collect and cherish every item of sentimental value that belonged to every person in Al’s family and my family from the last hundred years.  (Note to Mom: This means: I probably shouldn’t be lusting after all the heirloom stuff in Mom’s house, but of course I am.)    I need to simplify, it’s as simple as that.  I am slowly making decisions about what goes, what stays. (Note to Mom: This means MY stuff – I mean, my homecoming dress?  Really?  Nah, can’t even throw that out…I envision the beautiful blue velvet being reborn as the bridesmaids dresses in my miniature winter wedding scene – I always wanted to be a winter bride – white velvet – and ended up being June bride with the previously mentioned short sleeves.)

For a long time I didn’t get rid of my stuff because I thought the boys might be sentimental.  I’m starting to think different.  I always ask before I get rid of something that has been in the house forever, and generally they are not interested.  I like that about them mostly, that they live in the “now.”  I know that when my time is over, they might still haggle a bit over some piece of stuff that would then have meaning, but generally, they have their own stuff.  It’s a mobile society.  Less stuff to move is a good thing.

Girls today don’t seem to have the same sentimentality these days. My Mom tells me her friend’s daughters don’t want the stuff that belonged to their grandmother’s grandmother.  I know that at some point I will find myself faced with the “nobody in the family wants this” problem.   I also know if I give something away to an antique store that some sentimental gal or guy, someday, will find it and love it again.

First my own stuff is going before I get rid of Grandma’s stuff, though. (Note to Mom:  Getting rid of my stuff will take a friggin’ lifetime.) My Grandma’s hat feathers were stored in an antique tin box on my closet shelf until last year, when I took them out and made a feather arrangement, much like a flower arrangement for my piano.  The rest of the ostrich feathers I sent off to my niece, Leigha, the actress.  I figured maybe they might come in handy sometime for a production.  I warned her not to gush, as she did, over stuff like that lest she find more surprise packages on her doorstep. (Note to Mom: Leigha is a sentimental slob.)

The mink stole that belonged to Great-aunt Helen has stayed in the closet for twenty five years.  There is no thought of wearing it in San Francisco where, although it is perfect for the weather here, it would certainly end up being spat on or torn off me or having paint thrown on it by anti-fur activists, just passing by.  They don’t even have to organize, they carry paint with them just in case.  It’s not that I don’t agree with them, but there it is, the little minks already having given their lives for the stole.   I rankle at the idea that women who wore these in the last century were inherently evil.  Maybe now there is no excuse for such sacrifice for the sake of fashion, but back then it wasn’t in our collective consciousness.  So….I took it out and put it on the back of my reading chair.  And I wear it when I’m chilly.  It is beautiful and very very soft.   The way I see it, those little minkies didn’t give their lives so that they could be stuck in the back of a closet forever due to some whacked sense of guilt because my ancestors wore animal fur.   I don’t know what will happen to it when I’m gone, but for now it is not clogging up my closet.  It is keeping my tootsies warm.  I say a little thank you to the minkies whenever I wear it, and I pet them and tell them they are beautiful.

We use the glassware we have inherited from both families.  Sometimes it breaks.  Oh well.  I remember one time Jeff was small – maybe 5? – and he got up on a chair to reach one of my Grandma’s glasses to make the table nice for dinner.  I thanked him but explained they were very special glasses and not appropriate for our rambunctious family meals.  He understood, but as he went back up to replace it on the shelf, it hit the cabinet door and shattered.  I grabbed him even before he started to shake and cry and held him and told him he was more important to me than any glass, and not to worry.  Stuff is just stuff after all.

Joe came home and I was still working and I got a text saying “you got rid of a lot of stuff the house looks great.”   It’s hard for me.  I like stuff.  I have old chairs, my Grandma’s old sewing machine, a pair of antique eyeglasses.    Antique linens – I do have quilting idea for those – but also dishes that belonged to Al’s Mom, that held food for him as he was growing up, how can I throw that away?  There is love in that stuff.

So, I am purging the house. Those items that belonged to family members generally stay.  (Note to Mom:   I really meant more things like dresser scarves that have been used to the point of being threadbare, stuff like that…)  Those items that have some meaning to me but that would only be a burden of “should we throw this away?” guilt for my kids when I’m gone gets a new home at St. Vincent de Paul or wherever.   Part of this comes from working in home health.  I have seen houses with just too much stuff.  It breaks my heart when I go into an assisted living and a woman has but one cabinet with her favorite knick-knacks.  We always end up talking about them, and how I am trying to let go of stuff, and how hard it was for her to give stuff up.   Better to do it slowly now than have to decide when I am grieving leaving my home anyway.

The sentimental among us will always struggle with this.  A pair of scissors that belonged to my great-great-aunts who were seamstresses – I used them to make my wedding dress – how can I toss them?  Who would want them?   At the moment I am not sure where they are, but they will show up at some point.  Then I won’t know what to do with them.

Anyway, I started this little essay with not much in mind, just thinking about stuff.  Maybe it’s because I’m sitting in a cabin that is at least 85 years old.  How many people have stayed in this cabin in 85 years?  How much water has babbled by in the creek in 85 years?

I just love old stuff, especially if it belonged to family members.  Were they like me?  Did my great great aunts think about love and life as they cut out fabric with the scissors as I do?  Did they love the feel of the fabric and the sound of the scissors cutting the fabric? Did Aunt Helen find solace in her times of  darkness when she played on her piano as I do?  Did Al’s Mom have the same sense of satisfaction when I put mashed potatoes in the blue bowl?

It’s a wonder I get rid of anything, really…(Note to Mom: Don’t worry.  Everything will be all right.)  (Note to others: Family joke there…)