[ A corner of thrift finds. Obviously other's history appeals to me too.]
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Today I am thankful for the evidence of my family history through things.
As we approach the holidays, I'm aware of the sense of tradition I feel as I carefully wash and set out Grandma's Bavarian China, or hang her faded glass bells on the tree. An inlaid wooden box made by my grandfather holds trinkets on my dresser. A plastic bag tucked in a tiny drawer holds my Dad's old pipe. One sniff of Brindley's Mixture and I would swear he's standing in front of me. That, along with his trademark wool hats (which I sometimes wear) was part of his regimen. A copy of A Child's Garden of Verses, given to my closest aunt as a child, rests on a high shelf so small people need to ask for that title. And there are other tea-colored, brittle children's books with my uncle's crude childhood inscription. Evidence of life they are; a physical presence of my people and their influence on who I've become; who I am.
The opportunity to surround ourselves with meaningful possessions is a luxury, but it's temporary. I've been thinking about how such things contribute to our foundation. They bring forth stories. They keep us grounded; in some token way helping us define ourselves. And what of the degradation in lifestyle when we are confined to a florescent-lit, 8x10 corner in a nursing facility? When our possessions are parceled and we're stripped of our personal tactile reminders. When our surroundings are -- but for a few smiling portraits pinned to a cork board -- institutionally homogenized, what effect does it have on esteem and inner vibrancy?
That dichotomy has been heavily on my mind this week as I remember my dad, my grandparents, aunt and uncle lovingly. We go through such a quick cycle from childhood to independence and back to dependency once more. I want to appreciate these little things now, while I can. A photo/story project perhaps?
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