I recently read this:

“We die twice: once when our breath leaves us, and again when the last person who truly knew us sets down the last object that remembers our existence…. Every object we own is a poem waiting to be understood. That faded photograph, the chipped teacup from your grandmother’s kitchen, the worn leather journal – each carries the fingerprints of moments lived, breaths taken, tears shed…. Listen to these objects. They tell stories of love, of loss, of becoming. Each item you touch is a map of your heart’s journey, waiting to be decoded, honored, and sometimes, gently released.”

As someone first captivated by family history at the age of eleven, not far shy of five decades past, I developed a deep affection and appreciation for ancestral artifacts that had been passed down, many of which ultimately found their way into my possession, some being gifted to me by those who knew I would treasure and care for them. Other such items are sprinkled about in various relatives’ homes, but my house has more often than not become their repository, either due to no other family members having interest in said articles or lacking the space to accommodate them. When I built a 900-square foot addition to my home a few years back, my brother cut to the chase: “So, basically, this is more room to display stuff?” While the new wing was partially motivated by my desire for added space to host people, I had to admit his summary was mostly accurate. I’ve often given tours of my home to visitors, many of whom compare it to a museum, and I’ll never forget the one gentleman who asked rather incredulously, “And you live here?”

My interest in my family goes far beyond names and dates. For years, I have collected photographs and portraits of my ancestors, which help bring them alive, and if I am fortunate enough to possess something that actually belonged to them, well, that’s icing on the cake. I agree with the introductory quote (written in part by Margareta Magnusson in The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning: How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter). The tangible left-behinds of my forebearers tell stories, however great or small, of lives lived. 

Among my treasured family pieces – “a few of my favorite things,” as Julie Andrews might say – are Bibles (including a New Testament carried by a Confederate great, great-grandfather during his incarceration at a prisoner of war camp during the Civil War), pieces of clothing (including a great, great, great-grandmother’s calico sunbonnet), furniture (such as my great-grandmother’s chest that stored her cornmeal and flour and her nine-foot farm table which was once laden with bountiful meals for crowds of family and field hands), and handcrafts (including an almost 140-year-old dulcimer made by another great, great-grandfather and quilts pieced by another great-grandmother). 

My inventory runs the gamut: letters and wallets and watches, coins and hairpins and handkerchiefs, trunks and toys and tools, cookie jars and cake plates, bowls and butter molds, doilies and doodads, spectacles and pocket knives, cigarettes and snuff and tobacco pipes, shaving mugs and cast iron skillets, the American flag that draped the casket of my World War II veteran great-uncle, who fought at the Battle of the Bulge, my mother’s prom and wedding dresses, my father’s desk chair from his school teaching career, and even his paddle, a remnant of the days when backsides could still be busted as needed. The list goes on, but you get the idea. Suffice it to say, mine is no small collection.

So, what will become of these objects? I’ve read more than a few articles bearing titles like “Your Children Don’t Want Your Old Stuff.” Younger generations do, as a whole, seem to be minimalist, anti-materialistic streamliners who would rather be unencumbered than weighted down with “things,” especially when those things include antique sofas, now politically incorrect furs, and sets of china. And that’s not meant to be a criticism. I don’t necessarily find those traits disagreeable; in fact, I admire them on some level and find that it’s often easy for me to appreciate in others those things that may not come as naturally to me. On occasion, even I find it freeing to declutter. Granted, my willingness to let go is sometimes fickle and can change like the weather. Some days, I might be of the mood and mindset to chuck a large quantity of items; on others, I am at the mercy of my sentiment, which convinces me to tuck my Little League shirt and ballcap, all my birthday cards, and even high school term papers back into closets and drawers for another day’s consideration.

I’m sure every family has its own curator, and I seem to be mine. On my mother’s side, as it regards the preservation of family memorabilia, I believe myself to be my childless uncle’s heir apparent. But with no children of my own and only one niece and one nephew, who will my successors be? Sometimes interest in historical conservation skips a generation or two, and sometimes the interests of young people change as they grow older, manifested in an acquired appreciation for the “days of yore.” Maybe that will prove true among my collateral descendants. If so, wonderful; but if not, what then? Perhaps as stated by Ms. Magnusson, some of these items will have to be “gently released.” As my own grandparents passed and we cleaned out their homes, not everything could be kept, and there were some things that no one – not even me – wanted. Some objects carried no particular memory of my grandparents; other things were in quite poor condition, having lost their beauty or served their purpose and needed to be discarded. But those things that were valued by my grandparents or helped memorialize their lives were preserved.

I hope when I pass on that no one backs a truck up to my door and indiscriminately hauls everything to the landfill – particularly those items that have been passed down for generations. Even if none of my family want them, I hope they will take the time to seek out persons or institutions that will continue to preserve these heirlooms for posterity. Much better that than a portrait of my great, great-grandparents – names forgotten – occupying a thrift store booth, being sold at a yard sale (something I actually once observed), or hanging on the latticed wall of a Cracker Barrel watching diners gorge themselves on fried chicken and sawmill gravy. I recall my mother being told years ago by someone that they had seen some photos of her in a local dumpster. Apparently some relative decided to discard them rather than offer them to her…or to anyone. Convenient disposal is, unfortunately, too often the path taken by those in a hurry.

Eventually, as scripture tells us, heaven and earth (and consequently everything in them, including my great-grandpa’s old brogans and my dad’s baby shoes) will pass away. In the meantime, I am making an effort to document the history and prior possession of each piece that has been entrusted to my temporary care with the hope that someone who follows me will also care. If you feel as I do, I advise and encourage you to do the same. The worst-case scenario is for your heirs to come into possession of things they have no clue about and, consequently, no concern for. For that will be the time (as the introductory quote states) when a second death will come to those family members who once held, used, and treasured the things now being disregarded, discarded, or set down…things that may never be picked up again, “whose” lessons may never again be learned or understood and “whose” stories may never again be listened to or honored.