A while back, I came across a freelance piece on Swedish Death Cleaning. If you’re not familiar, it’s a process of decluttering your home and possessions to simplify your life and spare loved ones the burden of sorting through your belongings after you die. Basically, you’re taking on your perspective of your kids (or whoever has to clean out your crap) in deciding what to toss and keep after you turn toes up.
So, I, and since he is married to me, and Mike started doing this. This past week, I went through my hutch and got rid of all the glassware that we a) got for our wedding, that we b) have never used, and c) have moved three times. As a stereotypical whole, Gen Z is regarded as the minimalist generation - toss, toss, toss - so I knew that glassware would not be high on our kids’ list to keep.
But.
Among other things (e.g. the Precious Moments cake topper from our wedding), I kept the tea cups and saucers that made the perilous journey in a trunk as ancestors sailed toward a new life in a new country, Great Grandma’s silverware [in the box], and Mike’s cowboy cup.
Today, Mike and I started burning wooden crap in the shed, and as I stared at the fire, I started thinking about Fanny.
Fanny is my (I assume) first dolly. Back in the day, Fanny and I were best buds. In fact, I tattoed her by drawing all over her face and arms. I guess that means she’s mine for life? After Fanny was put away for more “big girl” aspirations, she endured long hours in a cardboard box in the attic, where she expanded and contracted according to the temperature in the attic. In short, Fanny is looking her age - she has lost hair, and she is wrinkly and shrunken in the most unattractive way.
But she is Fanny. And she currently resides in the tote labeled “Miss - personal,” along with my Calvinette scarf, original jewelry box, and 8th grade cheerleading uniform (including bloomers).
As I stared at the fire, I thought about Fanny’s fate. When I die, she most assuredly will be in the toss pile, so should I just be a responsible owner and cremate her before she suffers the indignity of a dumpster? Then, I started thinking about other important items in my life. . .embroidered dish towels, my letter jacket, Great Aunt Siena’s wedding ring (she never had kids), my baptismal outfit (as well as other important objects in the cedar chest) and. . .well, there are some places I just cannot go. It’s just too painful to think of them meeting an untimely end.
But it’s just stuff. Right?
Yes and no.
It’s no secret that Mike and I troll thrift stores and antique stores for fun. I think THE saddest things ever that I find in either store are family photos. WHO GETS RID OF FAMILY PHOTOS?!
I know. That’s judgy-sounding.
But as Mike says, there is a sunrise and a sunset for everything. So when I die, items like Fanny, my trike, my rocking chair (with the embroidered “Melissa” across the cushion. . .and [GULP - like BIG GULP] my Barbie house will mean nothing to anyone.
Except me.
And I won’t be around anymore. So no one will know who I was, how important this gift was to me and why it was so important to me. All that goes with me when I go.
So. . .the quilts that have been made for me. . .and that I make for others. . .the crocheted items. . .the doilies that were painstakingly created. . .the hardanger. . .[I literally could go all day]. . .all of that is STUFF that ultimately becomes dog blankets or dollar box items.
[Enter stab in heart here].
So what’s the point.
I pondered this as I stared at the fire.
The point is. . .NOT the item. . .NOT the innumerable number of hours [or swearing] that went into making something. . .NOT the cost of making or earning the dollars to purchase it. . .NOT the journey it endured, or the fire it survived, or the bickering involved to get it.
It’s the love.
It’s the love that went into creating it. It’s the love that went into each stitch, each nail, each hour, each dollar.
For THAT moment in time, for THAT person, another human put forth the effort, energy, time, expense, hardship, and danger to show -in a tangible, lasting way - that
I. Love. You.
You are important to me. I want you to be happy. I want you to remember me and how much I loved you.
That’s what it’s all about. It’s not the item. That’s why my mom and dad and grandma spent all the hours they did to make my Barbie house, the furniture and all the Barbie clothes.
And I have to think that throughout history - for generations and generations before me, and for generations and generations after me - that will be a truism about life.
Love is the beginning and the end.
The rest is just. . .window dressing, the vehicle, the tangible. . .to convey that all-encompassing, all-important, ever-lasting, life- giving and sustaining cornerstone of life.
[But I’m still not throwing those items away. And Fanny is still chillin’ in the tote. Sorry, not sorry.]
P.S. Today, I made an historical decision: My Barbie house will now be open to play by the grands - a privilege that was denied to my kids. First, Barbie’s house is a toy, and toys are meant to be played with, and second, if they play with it, maybe one of them will want it??
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