Dig deep into my treasure chest–the plastic crate where I keep my personal memorabilia–and you’ll find a baseball. It was a gift from an older guy I had a crush on when I was 12.
The following summer when I was 13, he and my big brother played in a local baseball league. He invited me to their last game to watch him pitch. He allowed only one hit and they won the game. The next day, before leaving to join the Peace Corps, he left behind the game ball, autographed to me with a special message on it. The message is no longer visible, thanks in part to my younger brothers who once thought it would be okay if they used it for batting practice. But more than 50 years later, that ball still hides among my other treasures.
Why am I telling you this?
The main character in my work-in-progress (WIP) runs a professional cleaning and organizing business. So, last month, I interviewed a local woman, a professional organizer with a cleaning business. We spent a fascinating hour chatting about her experiences and the value we put on things that are of little worth to anyone else.
She told of a woman who held onto a chair even though she hated it, thought it was ugly, and had no place in the house where it fit with her other furnishings. She kept it because her mother had told her never to get rid of it. Her mother has since passed on, but she still feels obligated to keep it.
Another family held onto the hair braid of a great-great-ancestor. This ancestor reportedly had such beautiful hair that when she died, her braid was cut off and placed in a flat rectangular box similar to something a necklace might come in. The hair braid has been passed down from generation to generation.
I’d never considered the depth of emotional worth we place on various objects. But my interview made me realize how each item we keep is tagged with emotion. A baseball from someone who made me feel special. A chair that was loved by one’s mother. Even the braid of some long-distant relative has a familial emotion attached to it.
I recall many years ago thinking my mother was silly for buying a trinket from a favorite store when it went out of business.
“She was afraid she’d forget about the store,” my interviewee told me. “The trinket was something to help her remember because our memories aren’t always trustworthy. We forget. So, we keep things to help us remember, to remind us of times and situations and people we’ve enjoyed.” Like souvenirs from vacation trips.
As I thought about her comment, the reason why our children seldom care about the things we treasure became clear. They lack the memories associated with those items. My collection of snowman figurines holds no meaning for my kids who grew up in the South where it seldom snows. And that store that my mother wanted to remember? It wasn’t just the place where we got our camera film developed. It was primarily a gift store that sold Scandinavian-themed merchandise—an important aspect for Mom whose father was from Sweden and whose mother was first-generation Norwegian-American.
By the way, this woman’s #1 piece of advice? “The best thing you can do for your kids is get rid of your junk.”
What are you holding onto because of the memories associated with it?
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