Keeping the Inanimate

This about completes my story, it may have been foolish to have written about these everyday things, but they are the threads that link us with the past and they are of interest to me because of the memories that they hold, but what will become of them I do not know or care, they have served my purpose well and I have loved them.  So keep nothing from sentiment that is not of use to you, keep them, sell them, give them away it makes no difference to me.  The one thing I do care about your keeping is the memory of my love for you and yours that goes with these few old pieces.  They are only the inanimate parts of my life, they could not tell their own story so I have told it for them, it may interest you and I have enjoyed the telling.

"With love, As Ever, Aunt Carrie  September 1946"

I discovered the above closing paragraph pulled from a letter in an open genealogy file while looking for records connected to my ggg-grandfather Josiah.   In a previous paragraph, Carrie also shares her love of nature:

My favorite spot on the farm was a large boulder down in the meadow with a swiftly running stream at its base and many happy hours were spent there, wading in the brook or stretched out on the flat surface of the rock just dreaming in the sun.   

In the full letter,  someone's Aunt Carrie describes for her nieces various pieces of furniture that have have held meaning for her: an old banjo clock, a little tip table, a chest, a desk.  Each piece in the letter is shared wrapped in a tender, descriptive memory. 

 After reading, I paused for a moment to consider the keepsakes still in my possession, pieces upon which I attach a story.

I have treasured  my grandmother Maggie's old organ.  With each move, I've wrapped it and sheltered it and prepared it well for travel.

Today, no one wants the organ.  I no longer have a wall for it. The mice have nested within the cubby.  But how can I simply sell it?  My grandmother Maggie used to sit and grin and sing for me when I was small.  I remember her thick rolled flesh stockings showing as she wildly pumped the pedals and belted out her friendly tunes.  I see her legs a-flying.  I see her smile.  I hear the melody.  I hoard this organ for Maggie's memory alone.

 Tucked in the back of the shed is an old oak dresser.  As I grew, it sat in the dark side of my grandfather's room.   The top drawer held Fred's snuff, his cracked fobs, his musty leather things.  A light dangled from a brittle cord attached to a cracked-slat wooden ceiling. When I was naughty, and I was often naughty, I'd spin the light to make beam dancers jump the widening cracks.  On the other side of the room, also in the dark, an old twin bed covered with Maggie's piece quilts butted the end of another old twin bed.  My grandparents had conceived at least twelve times.  Twin beds.  An old oak corner dresser.  A dangling brittle light. A small pot belly coal stove.  My children have  none of this recall.  The dresser with the empty drawers sits in the dark corner, forgotten.

In yet another side storage compartment stands an old oak bed.  The high old bed has carvings across its standing chest.  When I was a young bride, I placed the bed at an angle in order to fit the room.  I wanted the colors of sand and placed a soft cotton spread across the top of the frame.  I hung a bleached curtain stained with tea.  I placed a hooked rug upon the floor. A book was ready on the stand nearby.   I loved often  in that old bed.   Antique.  In storage.

In a plastic case seared with duct tape is an old mantle clock.  The time has long been forgotten.  Grandpa kept this piece on his mantle.  I was mesmerized by the rotation, the gold, the walnut, the keeping of watch. When it chimed a certain hour, Fred stretched his frame in a favorite spot.  He fingered the black dial of his radio.  He placed his hand on the side of his hoary, white head.  He listened to "This is Pappy, Swap 'n Shop."  Grandpa slept to the ticking of the clock. This clock rightfully belongs in my brother's house.  It came back to me, but needs to be returned to him.  I wish I could soon remember to complete the carry back.

My father's old tin motorcycle is wrapped in cloth and tucked in an old cigar box.  If someone looks, they'll find his last wallet, a few old snaps, discarded keys,  silver dollars, a polishing stone, and one medal.  If they hold the motorcycle close, perhaps they'll  catch a faint waft of smoke, where my grandmother Lil grasped the toy and her son as they fled a burning house. In the depression years, toys were saved as were sons.

None of these stories matter.  Their sentiment abides within, and I see no pass-through some lonely orifice.   Aunt Carrie, the young girl who discovered wisdom early while sunning atop a flat rock down in a meadow writes it best: So keep nothing from sentiment that is not of use to you, keep them, sell them, give them away it makes no difference to me.

 

Teresa Price, Jan 2011

images:

organ, personal photo
(in possession of Jessica Foster Clark)

pen: 

(This image was copied from wikipedia:en. The original description was: Fountain pen nib {{GFDL}} {| border="1" ! date/time || username || edit summary |---- | 08:33, 10 January 2005 || BenFrantzDale ||

(Fountain pen nib {{GFDL}}) |} )