The Rich and Storied Life of Things
In the summer of ‘88, I bought a jute hammock at an open market in Managua, Nicaragua. At the time, my west side apartment back in the states offered no perfectly spaced trees from which to hang it (and the neighborhood was dicey; I wouldn’t have felt safe to recline al fresco as I watched the local youth put their cigarettes out on the hood of my new Honda Civic). I packed it carefully in my carryon bag and unpacked it when I got home, tucking it away for Later.
(Note: In addition to the hammock, I brought back two bottles of rum purchased at the duty-free shop in the Managua airport terminal. What else should a 25-year-old daughter bring back for her parents who slept not at all during the two weeks I spent documenting the war between the Contras and the Sandinistas? I can happily say those two bottles are tiny specks in the frame of my life’s rearview mirror, their contents drained shortly after I handed them over. I also bought my mom a rosary. Prayer takes many forms).
Thirty-six years Later (last week, to be precise), I added it to the growing pile of items both cherished and forgotten, all on their way to the local Goodwill up the road for the next leg of their journey. It never knew the strong and secure grasp of a tree’s trunk nor the weight of my relaxed body swaying gently in a hypnotic summer afternoon rhythm. I thought I’d wince more than I did, handing it over to whatever new owner might claim it as treasure from the crowded shelves of the thrift store. They’ll have no idea where it came from, how old it is or what I was feeling when I pulled out a fistful of cordobas for the vendor to make it mine. Since 1988, it has moved with me to four apartments and two homes, perhaps sharing my dream that someday, it would be useful as the maker intended. I have unfolded it and stretched it out, even took it on a few walks with me to find those perfectly spaced trees from which to hang it, but they never revealed themselves. It was time to honor its purpose by moving it along. I have no regrets. My time in Nicaragua was a life-changing event that no hammock could hold.
In the coming year, we’ll be moving our upstairs sleeping arrangement down a flight, swapping places with the guestroom-slash-studio that is in SERIOUS need of purging. That is my task for the months ahead and I’m pleased to say I can now see the walls in two of the room’s four corners. Out the front door went a quilt frame from the ‘40s in its original box, never opened and employed, along with a pair of retractable shower curtain rods, rolls of fusible stiffened batting and bubble wrap style insulation (I was planning to make lunch bags), several unfinished quilt tops and bags of vintage handkerchiefs (given to two dear friends whose sewing machines never get dusty), science and psychology books from the ‘70s that graced the shelves in my dad’s den, over thirty antique promotional yardsticks from various local businesses, and miscellaneous bits of craft supplies. I hung onto my mom’s portable sewing machine in its heavy black carrying case and my dad’s Smith Corona manual typewriter (robin’s egg blue). I’ll tackle the shallow totes under the bed and finally frame the abstract spatter-painted piece of thick posterboard I made in a summer school art class between 4th and 5th grades. I don’t want to live in a museum or a storage unit, buried among the detritus of the ages. If it resides in our home, it will be useful and enjoy a life of purpose until the end (and yes, works of art count as useful, soothing our news-weary souls on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis).
Driving through our agrihood over the Memorial Day weekend, we noticed there were fewer garage and yard sale signs than we’ve seen in previous years. I wonder if the pandemic motivated folks to downsize and now there’s not as much to sell. I remember in our antiquing days when the thrill of the hunt pulled us out of the truck cab to inspect a curbside pile of wood or forlorn furniture and some wire storage racks. Much of what we found we sold or put to use—the wooden platform bench that now sits beneath the stand of young mulberries off the front porch with a grand view of the meadow, the trash-picked and still sturdy pine green wicker loveseat disappearing into a brambly alcove just off the walking path near the creek and half a dozen shepherd’s hooks from which dangle the bird feeder circus on the ridge. I’m inspired right in this moment to paint the hummingbird and dragonfly that adorn one of them, adding pops of color that will make us happy on some gray and chilly February day.
I don’t need to ask how two people could accumulate so much after 30+ years together; I was there for every purchase and acquisition and the stories are part of my DNA. I think that’s what makes the inevitable letting go of our things so liberating and joyous. In my passionate and determined downsizing these past several weeks, I’ve set aside certain treasures to pass along to cherished friends and people I know will appreciate the story that brought them to us both. Given with no strings attached, these bits and pieces from my life will keep changing hands and I like the thought of that. I get to keep my memories; someone else gets to add theirs to whatever catches their eye on the thrift store’s shelf. Anything covered in a layer of dust, thick or thin, has its days with us numbered.
What remains within our walls will matter to us until it doesn’t and we’ll start the whole process over again, sifting and sorting, remembering and sitting still for a moment until it’s time to pack something into a bag and head out the door with it to its new pride of place for stranger or friend.
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