I was visiting my parents recently, and I opened a dresser drawer in one of the bedrooms. Inside was my green Sherwood Elementary School ruler, an old compass, an arrowhead, and a pen that looks like a shovel. They have lots of drawers like this, filled with random junk.
A few days ago, I opened a dresser drawer in one of my bedrooms. Inside was a postcard from Argentina of Carlos Gardel (the tango star), half a pack of old Rolaids, and a dog-eared book titled A Morning Cup of Tai Chi. I have lots of drawers like this, filled with VERY IMPORTANT KEEPSAKES.
They’re mementos of Eric, of course. I sent him and F2 the postcard in 1998, not long after I met them (more on that here). The Rolaids are from our first date, when Eric had an upset stomach (he kept them for years, since they allowed him to go on the date, which resulted in, well, everything). The book taught him the meditative practice he did most mornings. I can’t imagine getting rid of these things.
The problem is, I can’t imagine getting rid of most of his things. The shirts, shoes, jackets, books, record albums… It took me months to throw away his half-used bottle of mouthwash. I got rid of the wheelchairs, medicines, and other “sick Eric” stuff right away. And I’ve tossed clothes that he never wore. But the remaining items hold potent memories.
I was chatting with a friend whose partner died, and she cleared out most of his stuff quickly because she was moving across the country. Before purging, she took pictures of meaningful items and wrote down their stories. She said it felt fine to have the stories, but not the object. Which is where she lost me.
Because the object is the talisman, the physical container of the story. The object holds the power! Like when I go to the Smithsonian, I’m there to commune with Abe Lincoln’s real-deal top hat, not a cardboard cutout of Abe’s hat. Some belief systems would say Abe’s hat even has its own spirit. The object is essential.
Or objects, in this case. Many, many of them. It’s a bit of a pickle. I don’t want to be stuck in an Eric Museum. But I feel like the items themselves - the Rolaids, the floppy Gilligan hat, the 20-year-old green Crocs with the “Mom” pop-on button that my mom gave him - are necessary to maintain the link. And what if his spirit really is in each item? He’ll be pissed off roaming around Chicago’s rat-infested trash. On the other hand, he was a big fan of resale shops...
I guess the moral is: I should be kinder to my parents for holding on to that 50-year-old ruler.
Another beautifully written essay and another one with eerie timing for me. After reading it, I visited Amsterdam's recently opened Holocaust Museum. I've been to many, this one is the most affecting because it tells the stories of the 102,000 Dutch Jews killed by the Germans and their Dutch collaborators through the mundane objects they left behind.
There are the Leiden-made buttons ground into the dirt at Treblinka and the tiny Amsterdam keepsakes buried in the sand in the Latvian killing fields. And there's the one that finally did me in: a little soap dish that belonged to a small boy who was hiding in the countryside until he was sold out and sent straight to a death camp. Inside were the little stickers he liked to collect.
So yes, those found items in drawers may well have stories we could never imagine.
I have found myself in similar situations with not being able to part with certain things. And all the things add up to alot of stuff. If you have the room and need to not have things staring at you day in and day, pack them lovingly away as you make room for new things in your current space. Then in time you can decide what is a must keep. There is absolutely no timeliness.