Now it’s no secret – I like to collect things. I have collections all over the house. Fabric, yarn, favourite books and magazines, photos, travel mementos, clothes, china, baby things, quirky objects, and bits of family history, saved as families merge together. You know the usual things collected over a lifetime of living.
I never really thought of it as a big logistical problem (even though our moving trucks have progressively gotten bigger over the last few moves) until last week. Now I know I will need to re-think my collecting strategy, as well as my record and document keeping habits. Streamlining, keeping only what I really love and will use and regular purging will have to become part of my annual rituals. Labelling and good storage areas will be key. Not only will I need to do this for myself, but for the unfortunate soul who may have to someday have to come with me or behind me and sort through all my stuff.
Last week, my siblings and I spent the week helping my mum pack up her most recent home of 35 years. Some 7 plus decades of living are contained in this home, even harbouring some up-packed boxes of our move there so long ago. This is a hard and heavy job I won’t wish on anyone, accomplished with the usual bits of family bickering. Emotions running under the surface about leaving the farm, some of us sad, some ambivalent and some just wishing it to be done and over, all things our family does not do well at expressing. We are a largely un-sympathetic bunch, each with set ideas about how things should go, and getting consensus about anything is rare and difficult, especially under trying circumstances such as this. I fear we will fall away even further from each other now the family farm is gone, and there is no longer one large place to gather the clan. It is an uncomfortable premonition of things to come.
It was both bittersweet and an exercise in complete frustration, the change from a very, very large family country home to a smaller village house. So many memories and yet, so much of it is no longer useful to mum or the family. Too good, too historical, too important, too whatever to throw out. But what to do with it all is the question? We have a wide variety of material styles in our family ranging from pack rats to those who prefer newer materials and clutter free spaces. Those who already have too much can’t take it, and those who have the space don’t want it!
The memories part of it is truly wonderful, taking time to learn more about the history and character of our family and key players that brought us where we are today, the people we know as our parents but who are also persons in and of themselves with a whole life history we have never known as their children - but it slows the whole packing process to a crawl and time is running out. And then there is the actual decision making part – agonizing over what to do with the boxes and boxes and boxes of mementos, photos, and documents that mean something only to their keeper. And at what point to they become a burden rather than a wonderful memento? They have no relevance to anyone else especially outside the family, but we are afraid to destroy them in case they have some kind of historical or sentimental value.
Sadly many large items, like the antique baby crib, which is no longer considered safe for children, will end up in the dump as there is no room in the new home and there is no practical need elsewhere for it. Yet it is sweet, the slim iron bars painted antique blue (probably lead paint, though!!), a patchwork baby quilt tucked in around the mattress. It has sat in the corner of my sister’s room for 35 years housing teddy bears and dollies adding sweet quiet charm to the room. Very sad to see it go off to the dump.
And then there are oddities like the antique organ in the family room. A monstrous and ornately carved piece in working, if not good, order, left over from when my mother was the organist for the local church and practiced at home. She doesn’t play any more. No one wants it. We can’t even seem to give it away. We’ll be calling 1–800-JUNK…. Somewhere someone is saying “Waaaait………….”, but we are out of time to source alternatives.
The obvious answer is to give away things like photos and documents to family, but then the problem is just perpetuated to the next generation like me. Some things we have sent back to family members who have a passion for family history, and hope that they have a better organizational plan than we did. Other things we have dumped and hoped not to regret it down the road. And some things that have meaning to us now we divided up and have taken with us back to our respective homes, and now it is piled on the dining room table, waiting patiently for us to decide where and how it will be used. Still much of what was left was just re-packed carefully for the move, with the understanding that it may stay packed until the next time sorting and moving on is required.
The rooms and rooms of old Quebec furniture – since we are grown children with fully furnished homes of our own, we have little room for much more and Mum not yet knowing what the new house will hold and what will look best. Well, it’s all going to be moved over, placement decisions to be made on site. It’s gonna be very squishy in the new basement for a while!!
I am happy with the mementos Mum has given me, and I am beginning to understand how it happens that our collections grow over the years as each generation passes down the objects they consider important and worthy of safe keeping. The treasures I brought home, amongst other things, include some family photos of my Great-grandparents and war medals of my Grandfather, the sign from my Grandmummy and Grandpop’s cottage on the St. Lawrence where many happy summer vacations were spent, two quilt tops made by my Grandmummy, which I hope to complete, and also her knitting yarn basket and her very old family swift in need of some minor repairs which will give me great pleasure to use.
And bags and bags of table linens in excellent condition, belonging to Grandmummy, some older than my mother, collected over a lifetime, and used every Sunday and on special occasions when good table linens were prized and precious and ironing was part of everyday life. We almost threw them all out, knowing we would never use them these days, all that ironing and starching. But at the last minute, that textile-freak and fibre-y part of me couldn’t do it, and dragged them home, to see what I could do with them. Perhaps I’ll keep some, and perhaps I’ll sell some to collectors who will appreciate the care that is required. Perhaps I’ll give a piece or two to her great-grand daughters.
Now I must go stare at the boxes in my own basement and contrive a plan to deal with them and weed them out in the least stressful manner. I am resolved not to do this to my children.
Please, knit on......
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