The Ghosts of Moments Passed

This is my grandfather's hand. The photo is yellowed because it was taken on one of those old-fashioned cameras that had film and everything sometime in the 1980s. So foreign, no? I was thinking about this hand this morning because my sister wrote an incredibly lovely post about her Christmas present from my father. Go read it here. Be prepared, it will make you sniffle.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I have an odd emotional attachment to inanimate objects. My house is filled with little sculptures and doodads that may seem to not have any relationship to each other, but they do. I have specific memories attached to every single thing in my home. Each item has meaning. A memory. It represents a time and place in my life. In this way, I'm surrounded by my secret life. You might come into my home and see a doodad nailed to the wall, but I see the whole story--the wonderful or horrible story. My home is not for others. There is no Martha Stewart in here. There are no matching hand towels in the bathroom. Instead, there is a crystal heart jewelry holder that Kate gave me for being a bridesmaid and a lotus plant from my dear auntie. When I look at either of those items, I see love.

I admit that my home is slightly chaotic in its decoration. Nothing matches except the couches. The couches I bought with my very first enormous Christmas bonus when I worked at the big publisher. I had real furniture! And it matched! When I look at my couches, I see a young woman who has finally come into her own. Now they are worn and beaten and falling apart, but at the time, I was SO PROUD. Whenever I feel bad about giving up my career, I remember that at one time I could buy couches, but then later on after the merger, I could not. Things change. Companies change. All of these lessons are wrapped up in sofa cushions.

A small, wooden turtle reminds me of the time my mother once said, "You are like a turtle. You are slow to action, but you always get it done in your own time." A small glass elephant was a gift from Shrinkydink before I left Chicago to remind me of my strength. Some items in my house are attached to painful memories. I have decorations I bought out of loneliness to fill up my apartment after my ex dumped me. I have collages I made when I was sad to inspire myself to new action. But mostly, the items in my home give me strength. Right now, I'm cuddled under a Ranger Rick brown and tan blanket that my grandma gave me when I was a child. It's followed me everywhere I've been all of these years. It's kind of ridiculous for a 33-year-old woman to cuddle with Ranger Rick, but I do. She bought me a subscription to that magazine when I was little, and I loved it.

My sister and mother do not hold as much sentimental attachment to objects as I do. I cringe when I hear about Dorothy doing another one of her yearly yard sales or craigslist runs. I don't even want to HEAR about it when my mother ships off a chunk of her belongings to Goodwill. What precious items are being tossed away? Why don't they LOVE their things like I do?

My sister and my mother are both minimalists. They don't like to have a lot of "stuff" in their homes. I think both are quite overstimulated when they come to Farmhouse Villa. I don't entirely blame them--there's a lot to see here. My home is a hodgepodge of weirdness compared to their nice, clean, matching homes. My father is more like me in that he keeps just about everything. But I don't think he's attached to things in a sentimental way. I think he's just totally convinced that he can USE that one screw he found at some point in the future. So he keeps all of them. My father's cluttery messes drive my mother CRAZY. She's tried to keep up with him, but she just can't. So he now has his very own giant office downstairs where he can blow it up and no one will see. When I go into his office, I understand. I'm a little overwhelmed, but I do understand.

Recently, my sister and I have both been feeling like people don't understand us. We've gone through some miscommunications with friends and family lately that just plain suck. So this morning, I was touched by her blog post. I felt she was a kindred spirit. She got it. She was swooning with love over the wheat wall-hanging that my father gave to her for Christmas. I must admit, I was jealous at the handover. I thought he was making her her very own wall-hanging. I didn't realize he was going to take the one from his own house. Because see? I have an attachment to everything in my parents' house, too. But when I saw her face light up and those big ole tears start coming out, I knew we'd all made the right decision. Take it, my love. I know you will treat it right. It's an honor to have mental sculptures from a Blonderson. And you of all people deserve it.

My sister and I weren't living here when my grandfather passed away, so we have very few items from his collection. I also have a rose, a kite boy, and daisy flowers. These are some of my most prized possessions. I get jealous when I go to my other family member's houses and see the treasures they have. It makes me hold onto my own Grandpa-creations that much closer. After I lost everything in a house fire in Iowa City, what I missed most were the delicate necklaces from Gran that I had hung on the bathroom walls as decorations. They were beyond repair. I miss them. After that fire, it took me a long time to find meaning in the possessions around me. Everything was just a new replacement out of necessity. But now I'm back to my old self--loving my tchotchkes with all their meaning and power. I like living this way better. It adds life to a single person's household.

That hand. Where is that hand? I don't know who has it right now. It could be any of the Blondersons. The last time I saw it, I was taking photos at my grandparents' house after they died. With one of those old cameras that had real film. I lost all of the pictures in the house fire. I have one left, and it still smells of the flames. It's blackened and crumply, but I keep it. It's of a single copper rose sitting on my grandfather's work stool in his workshop. It's in a special folder I have of the paper items I was able to save. They stink and are hard to read, but I keep them just because. I had taken several photos of the hand, but I wasn't able to save them. I need a new photo.

So two good things came to me this morning because of my sister's post.

1.) I am happy that my sister finally understands the emotional attachment one can have to an object in an extremely powerful way. She likes her belongings, but she's never shown this much love for one. In this way, I think we are having a shared connection. We get each other. I'm so grateful for that.

2.) Wherever that hand is, I'm going to track it down. I want to take a new photograph of it to display it on my wall. (I would like to just steal it from whoever has it, but that would be wrong.) I will photograph it nicely and make something for the wall. Then I will have that part of my photo collection back from the ashes.

It's never too late to bring an old memory to life. Especially one that gives us so much joy. I want to place my hand in his for just a moment and hold on. And I want to live my life in such a way that when I pass on, my family and friends will remember me with pride and love as well. Grandpa touched so many lives with his treasures and love. I hope to touch lives in my own way, too. I'm still figuring out that part... It takes some of us longer than others to learn how to leave our mark. But I will keep trying. And in that way, I know I'm still making my grandfather proud.